Author: Joelle White

I could constantly complain about just about everything in Karate.  I could even make a case for quitting altogether.  I’ve been subjected to the tender mercies of Sempai Drill Sergeant – and that was just warming up.  I’ve been clonked on the nose, dumped on the floor, and grabbed (not inappropriately, but still).  Aching muscles and bruises have been a constant part of my life for about a year now.  I’ve been hit so hard I’ve had the wind knocked out of me.  And let’s face it, I’m not exactly a spring chicken anymore.  I don’t heal in ten minutes like I did when I was a kid – more like ten days!  None of this is fun.

Assuming a good dojo the reality of Karate is training is far more gentle than a street thug or two would be.  We’re learning how to defend ourselves and that’s going to involve some hard knocks.  Could I train without all the unpleasantness mentioned above?  There’s plenty of room for opinions on this but what it all boils down to is any effective, legitimate training method is better than winding up in a shallow, hastily dug grave somewhere in the forest.  I’ve made my decision about where to train and it is the right one for me.  Otherwise I’d have long since walked out the door or never started.

Do I see the hard things about the system as opportunities for personal growth, or do I walk away to live the second half of my life sour, cynical, and maybe even fat?  How can learn to overcome adversity if there is no adversity to overcome?  I could say I’m too old for Karate or I could take the bull by the horns and learn some really awesome skills.  I could be more vulnerable to criminals or I could increase my odds of survival by training as hard as I’m expected to train, taking the lumps, and falling down seven times, standing up eight.  Yes this is tough talk.

Some of these things are what I say to myself during meditation at the end of a class if I’ve taken some lumps and am hurting physically and/or emotionally.  Then I recall the happy times.  I recall what it’s like to perform kata well.  I remember “the fierce joy” that comes on me from time to time.  I remember Gasshuku, the Christmas party and getting to watch Shodan testing right after being promoted myself.  I remember the clanking sound of medals on my chest.  I have hundreds more precious memories in my treasure box.   Yes, there are memories of hard lessons learned in that treasure box too.  After my self-talks I find I can continue, I can overcome, I can be the best that I can be.  To do otherwise would be to turn my back on a whole lot of potential that is waiting inside me.

I have a feeling the testing of my mind, body, and spirit is going to get harder as I continue in my training.  I know I have absolutely no clue about just how hard it’s going to be because, obviously, I’ve never “been there.”

Bring it.  Because the cold, hard reality is that a fight for my life could come at any time – maybe even in the parking lot after class when I’m already bruised and exhausted.  Some day I will break down and cry in the dojo,  but I will put the pieces together again and come back – as many times as necessary.  I have too many happy memories not to do so.  I am determined to bloom where I’m planted and gather many more wonderful memories.

Dog tired, I slogged into my home dojo.  I’d been training three days straight at sister dojos and my body wasn’t used to the intensity yet.  I remembered I’d promised to get equipment out of the storage closet and to grab the newly instituted attendance roster from the office.  That ate up some time.  I stretched and that got me through until the start of class.  Normally I practice kata for a bit before the start of class, but that night, I didn’t feel like it – not one bit, and I love kata.  I made it through warmups.  Then Sensei started us on a sparring drill with partners.  I confess I shlepped my way through the first rounds of that drill.

Sensei called a halt.  I wasn’t the only one dragging.  Sensei upped the ante and made some rules involving pushups for penalties.  Suddenly I remembered a drill I’d done earlier in the week that I knew would be of great help in this drill.  Between the challenge of not getting pushups and the realization of exactly how I could do better, I began to have fun.  My partner caught my energy and we really pushed each other hard.  I felt what I call, “the fierce joy.”  I even laughed as I did my pushups (and I’m not fond of pushups).

After all of us completed our pushups, Sensei said, “Now that was a lot more exciting to watch!”

Wait – didn’t I say I was dog tired?  What about the sore muscles I came in with?  All that was lost in “the fierce joy.”

I know many of my blog posts have been about the fear and anger I’ve been facing down.  But from time to time – and these times are getting more frequent – I feel “the fierce joy.”  It’s hard to describe this emotion.  It’s a wild sort of calm.  I know I perform better under the influence of “the fierce joy.”  Every successful technique brings elation, and every unsuccessful attempt at something puts a fire in my heart to do better.  I’ve felt this “fierce joy” in tournaments, while practicing kata, in seminars, during drills, and even when I sparred with, er, well, truth be told I played the role of “mouse” in a game of “cat and mouse” with someone who is vastly better at Karate than I am and has the rank and trophies to prove it.  I’d love to feel “the fierce joy” every time I set foot in a dojo.

Sometimes I find “the fierce joy” when I’m exhausted.  The other day, a senior student at another dojo said, “When you reach that place – when you’re so tired that you’re at the point of ‘fight or flight,’ it’s a bestial thing but there’s a kind of purity there.”

Bestial – I suppose scientists could put electrodes all over my skull and tell me exactly which parts of the brain are activated when I feel “the fierce joy.”  They’d probably tell me the more “primitive” areas are lighting up like Christmas trees.  Purity – yes, there’s nothing duplicitous about the fierce joy.  It comes straight from the heart and spirit (and maybe a cocktail of hormones too).  The fierce joy lives in the moment and therefore is undiluted by the baggage of our past or the worries about our future.

“The fierce joy” is the opposite of panic.  “The fierce joy” takes the bull by the horns, pushes through fear and doubt, and exults in triumph.  This is a gift for us fighters – I know I learn better when I’m in that place.  Yes, “the fierce joy” can be quenched. Pain, a reprimand, an injured comrade, or a fire alarm can end it very quickly – and that is a good thing because sometimes it is vitally important to switch modes of operation!  But on the whole, “the fierce joy” is a fantastic emotion that helps me push beyond where I once thought my limits were.

How often do you experience “the fierce joy?”

Today is the 35th anniversary of the eruption of Mt. St. Helens.  I always remember on this day that sometimes not getting what I want is a good thing.

My father had camped near the mountain sometime in the month prior to its eruption.  He came back with some pretty amazing photographs.   I was ten years old and didn’t think about the hazards.  I begged and begged and begged to go camping there so I could see the gentle little puffs of ash for myself.  We set the date but then something came up and we couldn’t go.

I was crushed and spent a good bit of Friday and Saturday sulking.  I remember Sunday I was sitting in the back seat of our asthmatic old station wagon with a little black raincloud over my head on the way to some stupid boring errand.  Because we were driving on the freeway we didn’t hear the noise of the eruption like others in the region did.  One of my parents noticed a smudge on the horizon and turned on the radio.

Some people made it out of the campground we’d planned on – there’s a very famous series of photos from Strawberry Ridge taken by a guy with a motor drive on his camera.  Obviously he made it out.  But some people didn’t make it.  Our station wagon wouldn’t have gotten us out in time.

Am I prepared for not getting what I want?  I want to earn Shodan – and learn and grow even more after that.  I want to teach Karate.  These are big dreams, but let’s face it – any number of things could happen to bring that dream to a screeching halt.  Does that mean I should just give up?  Absolutely not.  Yes, I’ll be crushed if something happens and I can’t continue with Karate.  But I need to believe that I will adapt and even thrive if the worst should happen.

I have a number of things in my life that are worth pursuing.  I still enjoy beach combing, photography, and digital art.  I am a substitute water fitness instructor, so I’ve seen roughly twenty five brave people exercising in spite of a wide variety of medical conditions.   I have my dog and my family.  And who knows, if ever I can’t do Karate, maybe I’ll go back to playing flute!  All this will still be there for me if the worst happens.

I know – I could bounce back.  There are some great stories out there.  I met a man who had a terrible motorcycle accident years ago – he’s still an awesome Karate instructor.  If something happens I will make every effort to bounce back.  But still – there’s always the possibility that I won’t get what I want.  Am I prepared for that?  Yes – because of that lesson I learned on Volcano Day, I am prepared.

Are you prepared?

“Eight highest ranked people – line up at the front of the room.  The rest of you – choose one of them for your sparring partner.”

I’ve done this before, but always in my home dojo.  Everyone runs to the teenage girls and away from the two tall young men – the two highest ranked students.   Twice now when class was smaller than usual I was up front.   But this time I wasn’t in my home dojo among familiar people.  This was a sister dojo with somewhat unfamiliar people.  The class included people who outrank me by more than three belts (as does the most senior student in my home dojo).  Only one of these potential sparring partners was someone who I’ve fought against enough to know a little about.   Someone snatched him up almost immediately.  I was not in a position to be picky so I gravitated in the opposite direction from the mad scramble.

Someone who outranks me by a fair number of ranks was standing at the end of the line in “yoi” (ready position) and like I said, the mad scramble of people finding a partner was heading in the opposite direction.  But I happen to like this man.  All my dealings with him have left me with the impression that he is a good person.  Yet in that moment when I realized who everyone was running away from, I realized I too was intimidated.  I’d never fought him before, but I’d seen him in action.  Uh oh.  Yeah – him.  YIKE!  In seconds, it was obvious who I was going to spar.

I drew a deep breath and settled into “yoi.”  I had a moment to conjure up some semblance of inner peace.

“HAJIME!”

That peace didn’t last long.  I need to work on that – among other things.  It quickly became obvious that my usual groove of standing my ground – the thing that works so very well against those of my same rank – wasn’t going to fly with this opponent.

“Oh, so you want to go toe-to-toe?”  GRAB!  My wrist was encased in an iron hand.  “Now get out!”

I twisted free and scooted back.  In that moment, I lost my cool.  Something about his tone of voice triggered a reaction I wasn’t expecting.  I was outraged he’d done something that is illegal in a tournament (hey, thugs in the street won’t be fighting fair either).  My “id” started driving.  I was angry and my lips curled in a snarl around my mouth guard.  Looking back on this moment, I really can’t fault my sparring partner.  This is how he rolls and really he wasn’t being disrespectful.  Now that I know I have this trigger, I can get to work on disabling it.

My opponent and I tested each other a bit, dodging other combatants.  He bobbed his head and rolled his fists, daring me into action.  That made me hopping mad, and again I fault myself.  A few more techniques thrown by both of us, then I realized I had him.  I deftly moved sideways and cornered him.  After I threw a kick I asked myself if I really wanted him cornered – and I released him.  As he moved out I tried to tag him with a combination of punches but made the foolish mistake of staying put.  Instantly he pinned both my arms and punched my gut.  “Get OUT!”  he urged.  Somehow I twisted out of his grip and moved back.  I breathed in, squished the inner turmoil and was just on the verge of adjusting my style of fighting when…

“Engineering to Bridge.  Cap’n, the ship canna take any more o’ this!”

“Scotty, I need more power!”

“She’s gonna blow!”

“That’s an order, Mister Scott.  We’re up against a Klingon bird of prey and…”

RrrrrrrrrrrrrRUMBLE…  KERPOW!!!

“Bridge to Engineering – Scotty, what the —- was that?!?”

“Did I no warn ya, Cap’n?  Automatic systems jettisoned the dilithium crystals before they exploded.”

Apparently I’ve reached some sort of milestone.  You know how people can get kind of silly about things babies do – even the gross things?  “Awww, she spit up – let’s just clean that up – dere, is dat bedder?  Wook at her, she’s smiling, isn’t you just the cutest widdoo ting?”  Well…  Yes, do laugh – I think it’s funny that the Senseis were saying things like, “Hey, there’s not a single one of us upper belts who haven’t done the same thing,” and, “This just shows you’re pushing yourself hard – good job!”  They were proud of me – for barfing???  So am I in some sort of club now?  I’m still chuckling over that.

The man I was sparring was worried he’d nailed me too hard – I assured him that wasn’t the case.  A Sensei said later I might still have a trace of the stomach bug I’d  had the week before.  It could’ve been, but I’m thinking the hormones from fighting while angry sure didn’t help.  I absolutely must get control of that and now I know one of my triggers.  On one level, yes, my sparring partner was my opponent.  But on another level, I was my own opponent.  It’s true – I am my worst enemy.  I have things I need to overcome.

So I as I recovered my composure the Senseis brought cleaning supplies.  I cleaned up as per the Y’s specs (and I’m a Y employee so I know exactly what to do, LOL).  I visited the drinking fountain.  I bowed back into the dojo and waited for the next round of sparring.  I chose someone who outranks me by not quite as many ranks.

I’ve fought this other man enough to know that if I’m lucky I can  roundhouse kick his left side when he turns just a little too far to his right while doing his favorite block.  He’s tall, so I have to make quite a few adjustments – that’s OK, two of the senior students in my home dojo are tall too.  I learned something different from this opponent.  He’s heard one of the Senseis tell me to speed up my kicks.  Since then, he saw me fight in tournament.  This man has the heart of a teacher and he decided I’m ready to improve.  He caught my kicks – all save one (he’d turned just a little too far).  Catching my kicks is something he hasn’t done to me before.   I kept a level head, even chuckled inwardly a little.  Having my leg caught is a little dangerous, but if this is what it takes to get me to improve, I’d darn well better practice and improve if I don’t want it happening often.

I left the dojo marveling at how much I have to learn.  I’m grateful I have years to develop my skills.  There’s no deadline looming over my head – I just have to be a little bit better than I was yesterday.  If it’s going to take years, I might as well enjoy every step of the way and be patient with myself.  I will learn about myself and I will grow.  Even though I ran the gamut of emotions, got my tail soundly and thoroughly whipped, and even tossed my cookies, I had a ton of fun.  I wouldn’t have traded this experience for anything.

I’m elated that the ante has been upped – it means I am growing and am ready for more.  This isn’t even my home dojo but I’m being treated as one of their own and I’m grateful.  I can get away with a lot when I’m up against people my own rank, but bad habits fall apart when I’m up against people who outrank me.   I learn and grow as a result.  Still, a part of me is a little scared of the higher expectations.

I guess I’ll just have to get used to higher expectations because they will be a part of my Karate career from now until I’m dragged kicking and screaming to the nursing home.

Today is the 70th anniversary of VE Day.  The day my grandfather’s life almost ended.  My mother, uncle, myself, my daughters – if he had perished we would not have ever walked this Earth.   It’s also my birthday today.  In all the festivities and hooplah, I don’t want to forget what my Grandfather went through, and how my own existence was in jeopardy exactly 25 years before I was born.

My grandfather was born fighting for his life on a May morning in 1925.  He was premature, weighing in at one pound.  The doctor took him outside and pumped cold water on him to jump-start his system into action.  Grandpa and my great-grandmother fought Death and won.

Grandpa grew up fighting for survival selling newspapers on the street, often in bitter cold winter with inadequate shoes.  Hours of selling papers just to get a bit of bread, milk, and ground beef to share with his mother – a single mom in an age where even if the guy was a jerk it somehow was the wife’s fault.  I think I know where Grandpa’s fighting spirit came from.

Grandpa enjoyed playing baseball and football (no protective gear to speak of) even though he was a modest height – 5’4″ (1.7 meters).  His grit and athletic ability helped him survive the war.  Somehow he got through some pretty hair-raising stuff, including the Battle of the Bulge and liberating a concentration camp.  70 years ago today my grandfather was wounded.  Everyone else in his unit was dead.  He crawled back to camp not knowing if he’d make it back alive, not knowing the war was already over.

Grandpa taught me how to shoot baskets and throw a bowling ball, and although he didn’t understand my “thing” for Karate when I was a teen, he supported it because he believed in physical fitness.  Grandpa was bowling well into his 70’s.  When he could no longer bowl, Grandpa kept walking in the neighborhood until he had a mini stroke and fell.  He tenaciously kept up with physical therapy at the nursing home.  The final week and a half of his life, we watched his final fight with Death.  Two days after Grandpa passed away, one of his great-granddaughters won medals in her first Karate tournament.

Grandpa fought so that his daughter and son, myself and my daughters could grow up in freedom.  The Nazis hated autistic people – my Grandpa had no idea he was fighting for the life of one of his own great-granddaughters.  He just said that he was doing what he had to do, what anyone would do.   But it means so much more than that to me.  My daughters are free to study martial arts, free to exist, free to form their own opinions about life.

There are senseis in a sister dojo who sometimes compliment me on what they call my “fighting spirit.”  I always, always, always think of my Grandpa when I hear those words.  I feel that compliment deeply, and very much appreciate it.  My Karate daughter has a “fighting spirit” too – in her it manifests as gleeful concoctions of strategy on the fly.   I never saw my grandfather play football or baseball, but his eyes would light up as he talked about strategy.  My autistic daughter has her great-grandfather’s legacy as well – she struggles against her own disability every single day at school, and this self-awareness and determination is marvelous to see.  I think we’ve inherited something very precious indeed.

Thank you, Grandpa.  I still remember 70 years ago there was a young man not much older than my own daughters crawling back to camp in agony and fear, all his friends dead.  Thank you.