What baking bread can teach us about martial arts

 

Like many people, baking bread was one of the hobbies I picked up during COVID. I’ve written about cooking before, especially the fact that recipes are more like guidelines than rules and that they need to be adjusted based on the circumstances.

As I started my baking journey, I began with a vision of how I wanted to be - happily enjoying my home-baked bread with a sense of satisfaction, gifting my bread to envious friends and colleagues.

Along the way, my vision changed. I practiced weekly, and it became more about learning every aspect and variable rather than showing off the results. I read dozens of recipes and watched dozens of videos. I took classes and listened to experts, gathering tips and best practices. Over time, the movements became second nature - deliberate but relaxed and easy. No stress. No shortcuts. Honest. I spent about 2 years working just on baguettes - I’m sure I baked more than a hundred loaves. After I got more confident, I stopped looking up the recipe beforehand because I knew it by heart. Eventually, I tried a few other shapes and loaves. Each one gave me new insights and perspectives. 

In the end, the journey was wonderful. I discovered joy in the routine and looked forward to each weekend’s tests. I never worried much about the mistakes. There were many but I ate them anyway and tried to learn from them.

I’m the baker I was meant to be. Not a master but comfortable and confident in what I make. It won’t win any gold medals, but my bread is just right for we who eat it. My family and friends think it’s some amazing talent but I know the truth - it was consistent focused practice that developed this skill. I wasn’t born with it. I learned it. Anyone else could, too.

Hopefully this story reminds of you of life in the martial arts. The joy of discovery and accomplishment. The personalization and ownership. The value of good, honest practice and repetition in your training. The importance of good instruction and using lots of different training tools. The satisfaction of progress. The comfort of going at your own pace and setting your own expectations. 

I think I’ll always be a baker. Just like I’ll always be a martial artist. They are no longer things I do. They’re part of who I am.

See you at class. 

Accidentally on Purpose

 

We have a few WhatsApp groups dedicated to sharing among the Kali Majapahit group leaders, black belt instructors and students worldwide. Recently, our group called "Beyond Martial Arts - The Health Journey" began a new twist courtesy of Guro David in Finland (he is the source of many good ideas). Various instructors would each own the group and provide content for 1-2 weeks after which they would then nominate the next leader and pass the baton. As expected, eventually my turn came around.

I was nervous since the prior instructors were able to deliver very insightful, impactful content including mind, body and spiritual alignment. I was struck (and still am) by the depth and breadth of knowledge among Kali Majapahit instructors. Their insights are amazing and they are truly an elite martial arts organization. Often, I have to pinch myself and wonder whether or not I am truly worthy to be part of the team. Imposter syndrome is real.

For my 7 days I presented some fundamentals of zen, which has been a cornerstone of my practice and my life since my first introduction to it in my original dojo at 14 years old. After a few years of study in my original school,  I began attending the weekly Zazen (seated meditations) classes at the Japan Cultural Center on Belmont in downtown Chicago. An hour lecture followed by an hour sitting practice, usually followed by breakfast nearby at Ann Sather, (I highly recommend you to get the Swedish pancakes with lingonberries - you're welcome). Later on, I continued my research and study led by PG Fred Evrard, whose knowledge of the esoterism in general and Tibetan Buddhism in particular was exceptional.

I wanted to focus on core zen teachings, which are truly non-sectarian. You can incorporate the essence of zen into any religious or spiritual practice to enhance it and develop a richer and deeper appreciation and feeling of gratitude. Used properly, zen allows us to truly examine our lives in a state of mindfulness, discovering more meaning and purpose in how we live every day. The practice is difficult, but I think the insight is worth it.

My sessions have a short explanation of an aspect of Zen together with a meditation exercise to try at home. I really hope it was able to help participants sharpen their meditation skills and reconnect with the important practice of seeking stillness in the hectic modern world.  It was a pleasure to record the videos with my son Ray and they were basically all done on the first take. I'm happy with them even though there may be a few mistakes (done is better than perfect).

Recording these sessions had me consider very deeply the idea of "purposefulness" which is a very important foundation of zen practice. By examining our thoughts and actions closely, we seek to align them to have a greater sense of deliberation in how we live every day. This sense of purposefulness empowers us and helps us feel that our actions are more meaningful, since if we choose what we do our actions are more connected to our missions and goals rather than just being occurrences of random happenstance or coincidence.

I began to realize that for most people, there is no great, overarching plan to their lives. Apart from the big milestones of graduating from school, getting a job and finding a partner, most of us give surprisingly little thought to how we spend our time. Very often, our routines are dictated by others (boss/family/friends) and are managed on a daily/weekly granularity that makes it difficult to plan years and decades in advance for who we want to be and how we want to live. Humans are creatures of habit and inertia, and as such we repeat the patterns as days and weeks become years. As the clock ticks and the calendar turns, it becomes increasingly difficult to have the will to change. In latter life, change is inevitably thrust upon us as those around us begin to age and die, and ultimately, so do we. Caught up in the lives of our children, we may forget to drive change and develop purposefulness in our own lives, too.

Zen offered me a way to organize my thinking about how I wanted to live and what was important to me. I know Guro Fred would remind me that those things were meant to happen anyway (Karma), but I think being aware of them and trying to choose how I use my time and my life has made a big difference in making sure I find time for the things that really matter to me. As such, at 58, I have little regret and I think I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, in accordance with my beliefs and needs.

I hope you will not live your life by accident, but rather take the time and do the work required to develop the awareness or your journey as it is happening day by day. I hope your life will become "accidentally on purpose" and you are able to enjoy both the spontaneous and the planned, moment by moment, so that at the end you will feel that the effort and struggle was really worth it, grateful for the memories of a life well-lived. Zen can be a good tool to help you appreciate each moment, and to find a much deeper sense of purpose and value in the divine gift your life is. Savor the moments.

See you at class.

Endings and Beginnings

 

4 years ago at the old dojo. Good times. Good people. I remember this night like it was yesterday. We had just finished a cycle and after the testing the mood was high and everyone was happy. They had worked hard for the past 3 months, showed their skills and were graded and validated. They passed. They progressed. It was wonderful.

4 years later I'm the only one in the picture still training. What happened?? Life happened. People change. They move, get married, switch careers, have children. Priorities change. There are lots of distractions on the Path. I understand. Really, I do. Perhaps better than most after 44 years on this journey. I think the real difference is whether or not a person finds their way back to the Path. If it is (or was) important enough to remain a priority. Some find their way back. Some don't. When they don't, we usually don't get to know the reason. It remains a mystery. They just...disappear. Sometimes even kasamas and black belts disappear. It happens.

At the beginning of their journey maybe it was a passing curiosity; a desire to feel safe or to be better or to challenge something a bit out of the ordinary gym/yoga/pilates/crossfit cocktail that many people are into nowadays. Then, hopefully it became a fascination. It became a thing to look forward to every week, an escape from the mundane eat/work/sleep pattern that we knew was better than just binge-watching shows on streaming. The culture, the movement was intriguing and the community was welcoming. A bunch of people discovering together.

Maybe it got to the point where they understood that the habit of going to the dojo yields benefits other types of training do not. Maybe they discovered that this was the key to creating the version of success they really wanted. The dojo became an obsession - a need to link effort and outcome to build a future where we can be truly, authentically, fearlessly ourselves. The dojo, the community became central to our lives as a place to grow and improve, a habit as cemented as brushing our teeth. This is what happened to me. In the end, there was really no place I would rather be than the dojo.

Or maybe not.

Maybe somewhere along the way the message simply didn't land. 

As a teacher this is what I think about all the time. Did I fail them? Did they fail themselves? Is it even a failure at all? Did their training serve its purpose even if they didn't continue? Could I have done more/done differently to help them understand the value of consistent training and of honoring the commitment to self improvement that lies at the heart of martial arts and the Path? 

I'm grateful for the opportunity to do what I do and for the trust placed in me by my students to be a worthy guide on the Path and to faithfully give my very best every single lesson for them - to make sure it is always about them and never about me. That said, I always feel a bit sad when students stop training, despite the reason. I worry that maybe I failed them.

If this is you, dear student, remember that I will always be here for you and ready to accept you back when you are ready. I promise to remain open to your feedback and not to let ego get in the way of helping you get what you need from your training. I hope your experience will have been a positive one and that it will leave you a better person than you were when you started. That is all.

No student "owes" their teacher anything except to do their best when they come to class. We are lucky to be here and to have this time together for as long as it lasts. For my part, I hope the day I die I will have taught a class - that I am doing this thing I love until my very last breath. I hope that I can be of service and be useful to others along this journey.  I hope I can inspire them to invest effort in themselves to become who they want to be and to build their version of success because they are not afraid to live life on their own terms. If I can do that, even for just one person, then it was all worth it.

See you in January 

The Lesson of the Snake

 

The lesson of the snake is an important one. This snake somehow managed to wrap itself around a common saw, which began to dig into its skin. As it felt pain, the snake fought back. It squeezed harder, desperate to hurt the thing that was hurting it. Desperate to win the fight. The harder the snake squeezed, the more the saw blade dug in and cut its flesh. Eventually, the snake succumbed to its wounds and died. The saw won.

This picture really got me thinking. How often am I fighting back when I should be letting go? How many times have I been so desperate to inflict pain on the people and things that hurt me that I end up suffering far worse? In the end, the desire for revenge, the need to win no matter what, cost the snake its life. It would cost me my life, too. If I let it.

Sometimes in life, the smartest thing to do is let go. To walk (or crawl) away.

Zen practice is really about seeing the truth. In ourselves and in others as well. In seeing this truth, moment by moment, we are free to act naturally in order to minimize the suffering of our own preconceptions and illusions. I hope to have the openness to accept the truth in my life and not let myself be hurt trying to win impossible fights. I hope I can see clearly that revenge can often cause more suffering than just leaving. If I am going to fight for my life, I hope it will be for something important and not just out of spite.

Thank you to the snake for this valuable lesson. I won't forget it.

See you at class.

80s Dance Party

 

It was a great night. Class parents organized an event for those of us with children graduating in the class of 2025. The theme was 80s Dance party. Being born in 1966, the 80s were a magical time for me. I was coming of age into adulthood, going from my teens into my 20s, graduating high school (1984), working my first jobs, starting college (1987) and so on. My favorite 80s music is tied directly to my experiences at that stage of my life. It brings back so many beautiful memories. It was a glorious time at the full-on pace one can only have when they are young and full of energy. Reliving those days and nights was such a treat.

I decided to go as a rapper, JON DMC (see photo). It was super fun to get out the Adidas track suit and fake chains, my Kangol cap and so on. I forgot how much fun a good costume party can be.

For the first hour or so, everyone was at the bar with drinks and chatting. This did not do for my wife, who LOVES dancing. She grew up a gymnast and dancer so as a lifelong athlete she really wanted to hit the floor. Finally the good music came on and we got to it. I’m not a great dancer by any means, but I used to go a lot, especially in the 80s.

I found an immediate difference between the parents who are active into their 40s and 50s and those who are not. Many of the wives had a sports background which continued into their parenting years via yoga, pilates, running and other sports. They were comfortable getting onto the dance floor and had a wonderful time. For some of the guys, although they looked slim, you could tell there was apprehension when it came to moving the body. They looked nervous and worried, that maybe their hip or back or knees wouldn't hold up to a song or two. Maybe they were shy and needed a few more drinks first.

Of course, for people with injuries I fully understand. Many of us have been in car accidents (I've been in 10!) or had other events that leave lasting damage to the body that is hard to recover. However, for many of them, the only injury is that of neglect. For some, being consumed by career meant not going to the gym, walking, or pursuing other hobbies that allow you to move and sweat. Over 10 or 20 years, the body adjusts to NOT MOVING, and that becomes the norm.

I’m not going to do an Ironman triathlon anytime soon, but I was grateful that I could still go out dancing for a few hours and then get up and be active (over 10k steps) the following day despite being 58. I think this is normal. I am again grateful for the habits of martial arts training which keep me stretching and moving a few times a week and make me feel younger than I am.

It was a reminder to stay active. Always. The alternative is early onset disability.

The saddest part of this is that it would occur (presumably) after becoming successful and having the time and money to pursue the passions and hobbies we have spent a lifetime saving for. This may explain why many people pass away so soon into their retirement years - the body simply can't provide the mobility for more activity.

Death is an inevitability for us all, but personally I'd like to be as active as I can until then. O-Sensei (Morihei Ueshiba), founder of Aikido, was actively teaching until the day he died. I hope to follow his example.

See you at class!

I'm Butch

 

(thanks for the inspiration Porl)

"You could stop, you know...you could just quit...", he said. "You have enough money, you don't need the stress." I had a big week ahead of long, long days and nights with the global team arriving that morning. I kept looking at my phone nervously. He noticed. This was the part of the lunch with my friend I always dreaded...the part when he tells me all the mistakes I make. It can take a long time.

He was right. I could stop. I could just quit. I have enough money. I don't need the stress. He was right. He's usually right.  So why didn't I??

He described the life he imagined I would have if I quit...idyllic days and nights filled with warm and comforting family times. Good conversations, good food.  Good times. Hearing him tell it it sounded great.

I wish it was always like that but frankly it isn't. Relationships are hard work sometimes, even relationships with your kids. Life at home is not always peaceful and comforting. Sometimes, to be honest, it is easier and more comforting to be in the office. He conceded that. He rarely concedes anything.

I told him what I missed most. What comforted me most. What was always glad to see me, welcomed me at the door, never judged me or criticized me. What loved me unconditionally. Not what...WHO.

My Butch.

Butch is what I miss most, what I was always looking to come home to. I miss sitting on the couch with him nestled in my lap, or lying down with him snuggled next to me, his little nose breathing softly. It's not the same since he has gone. It never will be. Nothing and no one could ever replace him. I told my friend with tears in my eyes. I held Butch at the exact moment when he died, right there in my arms. When he went I wanted to go with him...I didn't want to be left behind...it hurt too much.

That's when my friend dropped the bomb." Now you are Butch", he said. My jaw dropped. I tried to process it.

"You really are", he continued. "Now it's your turn to be there to love and comfort others. Now it's your job to welcome everyone home and to give them the same unconditional love Butch gave you." By this point the tears were rolling down my cheeks. I was starting to have trouble breathing. My chest felt heavy, tight.

"The best way to honor and remember him is to take the best parts of what he meant to you and live them for others. If you do this, Butch will always live on. Not just in your heart and in your thoughts but in your actions as well."

He was right of course. He's usually right. I hate when he's right. It is a blessing to have really smart and wise friends to advise me, but sometimes it's also a pain in the ass.

No, I'm not quite done grieving for Butch. However, the love, support and advice from my friends is helping me deal with it and learn to move forward.

I'll try to be Butch.

It Hurts

 

(I managed to find a picture showing exactly where it hurts - haha)

痛いです。(it hurts). Last week Wednesday I found out I have a pinched nerve in me neck/shoulder. What happened?  Maybe it was the cheap seats on the plane ride back from Taipei. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was bad posture at the computer for long hours.  No idea.

How did I find out? It started as a dull, numbing pain, like what you get after too much exercise. By Thursday it was much more - like being stabbed in the trapezius and the knife being slowly twisted back and forth. The pain was deep and completely unbearable. It would spasm, and the pain made my eyes water. I couldn't sleep because I would roll onto that side and the pain would wake me up. I could work (yes I still had deadlines to meet and meetings to do) but only 15-20 minutes at a time and would then have to lie down until the pain subsided. I kept my camera off during meetings so they wouldn't see my face grimace when it would spasm. I went to the clinic on Saturday and the doctor gave me two weeks of pain meds (Voltaren 25mg capsule - in case Dr. Jay reads this). It hasn't helped. It still hurts as I write this.

Guro David kept talking about acceptance when we were at the Legacy Camp in September. It was such a beautiful time, with beautiful souls. Walks and talks, sharing and openness, perfect weather, nature, great music, days of intense training with world-class instructors, delicious food with the best human beings. The power, the connection, the energy was so high and so complete. I felt seen, loved, respected. I felt HOME. It was one of the best experiences of my life. When life is good it's so easy to talk about acceptance. Who wouldn't accept such perfect days and nights?? We nod our heads and smile and think "yes, I could accept this. This life...of course".

But now I am in pain constantly. The question I keep asking is "Can I accept this?" It's a much harder question. Part of me wants to run away, escape, hide, cry. "Can I accept this?" YES  As a Buddhist, and as Guro David explained, acceptance is a requirement to be in the moment. Right here, right now. Even if it hurts, it's very important to acknowledge that pain, accept it as a natural part of life, and allow it to run its course. Yes, sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it hurts a lot. However, sometimes it also feels good and I feel happy. The practice of Zen is designed to help us understand that we should not be obsessed or attached to such things because no matter what they are, they are temporary - just as we are, too.

For many of us, there is psychological/emotional pain as well. Sometimes together with physical pain, sometimes on its own. Like physical pain, emotional pain can be debilitating if we let it. Sometimes, the emotional pain is far worse because it can stay longer and exist unseen to the people around us. Mental health is every bit as important, if not more so, than physical health. Sadly, sometimes the emotional pain can cause us to want to run away permanently. Physical pain can do this too, and there is a real discussion to be had about dignity in death and assisted suicide for those with terminal illness, for example. I sincerely hope this is never a consideration for those with psychological/emotional pain. Good, expert mental health care is critically important. 

Over the past weeks, I have transitioned from emotional pain (grief over losing my Butch) to physical pain (pinched nerve). Not the best of times. Still, I remain positive. My training helps me remain calm even though it hurts. I take deep breaths and I focus. I know it will pass. My grief, my pain are all just steps on a path and soon I will step forward from them and leave them behind. One day I will leave it all behind, so until then I want to keep moving forward toward where I need to go - my mission. I won't let pain stop me.

They say faith is worthless until it is tested. Then testing is a good thing. Now I know. I am strong. I am unbreakable. I am a Peaceful Warrior.

See you at class.

Good Grief

 

These days, I grieve.

I lost my dog, Butch, at 15 years old a few weeks ago and I am still sad about it. The grief is not a constant flood of tears like it was in the first few days after it happened. Still, not a single day goes by that I don't think about him or miss him. I listen for his footsteps and reach over to pet him where he used to be, right next to me. Always. I feel a profound emptiness.

Everyone has tried to console me these past few weeks and I am very grateful for that. They tell me how lucky I was. How I was lucky to enjoy so many years with such a good boy (I know). They tell me how lucky I was that he went quickly, that I was there to hold him in his last moments, watching him take his final breath. They tell me how lucky I am that I wasn't at work or on a business trip or at the store or anywhere else.  They tell me how lucky I am that he didn't die alone at the vet. They tell me how lucky I am that he knew how much we loved him and treasured him.  He knew how important he was and how much his life mattered to us. All this is true. I do feel lucky. But honestly, it doesn't help much.

I grieve. And that's OK. In fact, I think grief is good.

Grief is only possible when we care; when we love. I have only ever felt grief for those very close to me. The worst were my foster parents. Then my foster brother. Losing them felt like being shot or stabbed. When my foster mom died and my foster dad called to tell me the news (in all my years in Japan he only called once) I felt real physical pain. I fell to the ground wailing and I couldn't move. My friend had to come and stay with me for a few days since I couldn't even get out of bed. It's funny when I realize I spent more time with Butch than I did with my foster mom. The pain was the same but I am 30 years older and more resilient now. I have tried not to let my heart harden and to remain compassionate. I think after everything I am more able to accept my emotions and allow them their place.

We all deal with grief in our own way, and there is no set recipe for getting through it. Likewise, there is no  timeline or timetable that can help us. It takes as long as it takes and it hurts as much as it does.

For some, the pain is unbearable and they try to escape it through drinking, taking drugs, fucking. Whatever. Any kind of love or pleasure to combat the overwhelming feelings of pain and loss. Anything to try and fill up the emptiness. I get it. I can't judge anyone else for how they deal with grief. To each their own I suppose.

I don't want to run away or look away. I don't want to escape the pain. In fact, I want it. I want to feel it all. Completely. I know that the only way is to go forward. Through the pain and emptiness to the other side. If I allow distraction in whatever form it will just take that much longer to heal. There are no shortcuts or lifehacks or tricks for this. There is only patience and time, as much as it takes.

Life in martial arts, especially when it is anchored in Zen practice, helps. We are no strangers to death since we study it intimately. The Path tells us that it can be our time anytime on any day, and Zen encourages us to be in the moment fully so as not to experience regret when that moment comes, and it will come for all of us. Certainly my Butch lived in the moment. Zen is not morbid, only accepting of death as part of the natural order of things, not to be feared but to be remembered and reflected upon in order to give this impermanent life greater meaning and purpose. In Buddhism we consider the soul as immortal and so the loss of the physical form can be thought of more as a transition back to our natural state, Light. Once Butch died I no longer thought of his physical body, which we cremated the following day. His spirit had left and that shell was empty. He was free, his mission fulfilled. I know this and it comforts me, but only a little. The pain is still great. He was such an important part of this phase of my life. So many precious memories.

I miss you, little one. I think I always will. and that's OK. Grief is good.