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 sprit 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.

Butch (about Acceptance)

 

(thank you for the inspiration GD)

Yesterday at 09:45 my faithful companion of 15 years, Butch, died. He had a massive heart attack and slipped away in my arms. I watched the light in his eyes fade... and he was gone. Just the evening before he had gone on his walk as per usual, slower now that he was older. In the morning he was sitting next to me, sharing my morning bread as he always did. 30 minutes later he had passed away, closing a very important chapter in all of our lives. Today we cremated him and his remains took their place next to our Xie Xie, who died 11 months earlier to the day.

At the Kali Majapahit Legacy Camp in Travelers Rest, SC we started every day with a 7am walk on the beautiful campus of Furman University. It was a time for meditation and movement, filled with deep conversations that would set the tone for the rest of the busy day of training sessions. I was always glad to spend that time with my brother, Guro David from Espoo, Finland. Like me, he has a background that is anchored in the Japanese traditional arts and it is part of his personal philosophy. He is a keen observer and able to break apart complex ideas into simple things that everyone, including me, can easily understand. I always learn so much from him.

On one morning, as the sun was rising, Guro David was talking about acceptance. This became one of the most important themes of the camp. We were engrossed in the conversation, relating this topic to every aspect of the Budo and our lives.

In Kali Majapahit, we train people to be changemakers. We prepare them to take responsibility for who and how they are, challenging them to accept a life of balance and health - mental/physical/emotional. Rather than complain, we teach them to activate and get engaged in making the changes that result in personal growth, in becoming the best version of themselves. We learn to make and keep promises both to ourselves and to others, proving again and again that we are achievers. By performing successfully in class consistently, we show that we can perform consistently in every other aspect of our lives. We learn that focused effort yields powerful outcomes and we become willing to invest the sweat it takes to make our dreams into reality. It was amazing to spend a week together with black belts from all over the world who had this in common. The positive energy was incredible, like being plugged into a giant battery. It was truly a room full of superheroes.

So what about acceptance then? Doesn't that mean sitting by passively and letting the world unfold without lifting a finger trying to change it??

Actually, NO.

There are two sides to change, which together create the whole. Just as Yin/Yang (陰陽）exist as two equal sides in Taoist philosophy. On one hand, we need to learn that many/most of what happens in life is outside our control or influence. Simply, the events cannot be changed. We are born, we grow old, we die. This process can be influenced to some degree but cannot be changed. Most importantly, we cannot change the karmic journey of others and cannot take their journey onto ourselves.  Depending on what flavor of Buddhism you believe, our own destinies are also pre-ordained and cannot be changed (Guro Fred deeply believed this). We must become who we are meant to become.

However, although we cannot change the events in our lives, we can control how we react to them. We can interpret these events in positive or negative ways and this in turn influences the tone of how we live. Some people have a tone that is decidedly negative and sad.  Every event that transpires is viewed through a lens that interprets it in the most negative and sorrowful way. Such people are usually sad and miserable. In a perverse way, maybe they feel validated by the misery they create for themselves, as if feeling sorry for themselves somehow absolves them of the need to take responsibility for their own lives and circumstance. They maintain that they are unlucky, cursed or that God hates them. This is the victim mindset.

By contrast, some people feel blessed by every event. Even difficult or sad occurrences are perceived as opportunities for learning, maturity and growth. Hardship is seen as a pathway to wisdom and a source of empathy and compassion for others. They feel that God grants the toughest challenges to those most able to bear the burden. They seem unbreakable and resilient even in the face of catastrophe. The events didn't change, but their interpretation of them did. This is the mindset of survivors and victors.

In the end, acceptance is about allowing every moment, every event, to happen without trying to alter them. It means not allowing lies to cloud the truth of what has been. It means not turning away from hardship or running from it. It means facing every challenge with eyes wide open, experiencing the moment fully and completely. It means being right here, right now. Always. Likewise, acceptance means not dwelling too much on the good events either. We know that these, too, will fade in time and we do not seek to hold onto them too tightly. We enjoy the moments, and allow ourselves to feel accomplishment without becoming drunk on pride or ego. Reality grounds us. Acceptance is the antithesis of attachment. Letting Go is a process of acceptance.  This is easy to talk about and hard to do in practice.

Yesterday I had to accept the loss of my beloved pet. This could not be changed. I had to let go. His spirit left yesterday morning as I looked into his eyes. Today, his body was burned and his remains returned to us for safekeeping. I will not dwell in the past but I will never, ever forget him. I will not cry for the future, but I will always wish I could have spent more of it with him. I will always wish for one more day, one more moment to share together. Mostly, I am grateful for the gift of his love and companionship during these 15 years. I was so incredibly lucky to be the human of such a perfect dog. He taught me so much and even in his dying breath showed me how to accept and to let go of this life with dignity and grace. I have understood the assignment. I will be ready when it is my turn.

Thank you Butch, my furry little Zen master. Please wait for me, I will see you again before too long.

Until then, RUN FREE 

What we Learn By Being Tested

 

(Thanks for the inspiration JP)

Testing is an important part of the KM rotating curriculum. Every three months we introduce, learn, practice and drill new material. At the end of the cycle, we test to see how well we have mastered it.

Testing is an opportunity to show growth and progress not just in our technique, but in our character. We show our intensity, our focus and our concentration. Sometimes the tests can be an hour or more, requiring continuous focus to perform. This is no small feat.

When we pass the test, we are recognized for our efforts, but are also allowed to feel a strong sense of accomplishment. We are building good habits, showing up for ourselves and fulfilling the promises we made to become a better version of who we were. Again and again we repeat this process of goal-setting and goal achievement, proving to ourselves that we are continuous learners and constantly improving. Doing this in the dojo shows we can do it outside the dojo. In our lives at home, at work/school and with our friends, we are able to evolve to become more authentic and more genuine - we learn to be present and to respect both ourselves and others. We become part of the Positive Light that brightens the world.

So what do we really want students to take away from a test??  It is a physical challenge, of course. In every cycle we introduce a lot of complex material that can be hard to remember. At the beginning of the cycle all of it is unfamiliar and gradually we commit it to muscle memory. We are continuously reviewing our basics and strengthening our foundation so that new movements and techniques are strong, too.

However, more than this we develop RESILIENCE. This is the ability to persevere in the face of difficulty. We learn to refocus/reset and recover when we are under stress and not to simply give in to pressure and fold. Sometimes a test just doesn't go as planned. The techniques and flow don't come easily. We get stuck. We feel frustration. There is high anxiety because we want to do our very best. Our mind races and we regret every training session we missed or that we did not review enough outside of class. We feel nervous and afraid of failure...

It is in these moments that we find the depth of our character. Under pressure, we rise. Unbroken, we breathe deeply and reframe ourselves. We focus on being right here/right now. We feel the connection to our practice and to our partner. We let go. We accept. WE FLOW.

As a teacher, I am always so proud to see students correctly execute the techniques of Kali Majapahit. They move with power and grace and seem able to handle every new challenge I give them. More than this, I am impressed by their courage and fortitude when the going gets tough. This gives me comfort that I am helping them develop skills that will bring them success outside the dojo, too.

Not every fight is in a dark alley and not every confrontation is physical. If we learn properly, we can use our martial arts training every single day. The Kali Majapahit experience helps us learn to manage stress and pressure, essential in many areas of our lives.

Thank you to all the students for reminding me of this and for showing me why what I do is so important.

Pugay Po