A Beginner's Journey

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.

Two months ago I read Andrea Harkins’ blog post “To Be Like Bruce Lee” and decided it was high time I made a trip to his grave.  I grew up in Seattle but had never made seeking the site a priority.  I never really caught on to the hype about Bruce Lee.  I have yet to see one of his movies.  After I read about how he struggled against injury and racism I thought it might be nice to leave flowers on Andrea’s behalf.  She was all for it.  Finally the perfect morning came around – I had an errand near that part of town and the weather was beautiful.  As I prepared the card for the flowers it occurred to me that I wanted to leave flowers too.  It was the first stirring of what touched my heart and spirit later that morning.

Errand accomplished, traffic fought, flowers purchased, card secured with ribbon, I drove through the gates of Lake View Cemetery.   Too late I saw the sign saying that the office is across the street.  However, I was so delighted with the place I decided to drive around and see if I could find the grave on my own.

I was thrilled to see so many old mausoleums, sculptures, and graves.  I was surprised to find so many names of city founders.  Seattle has a very quirky history featuring some interesting people, and many are buried in this cemetery.  I saw quite a few unique modern graves and many Asian style graves.  But I somehow missed Bruce Lee, and I knew what his grave looked like from Internet pictures.  Reluctantly, I admitted to myself that time was ticking away.  I found a place to park on the street outside the office.  I was very grateful they weren’t busy.

I suppose I could’ve planned the entire thing out and researched exactly where Bruce Lee’s grave is so I could’ve gone straight there.  But then I would’ve missed out on the whole experience of the treasure hunt.  I would barely have noticed the other graves.  I would’ve missed meeting the helpful lady working at the front desk of the office – she was delightful.  I’d certainly have missed signing the Bruce Lee guest book for myself and for Andrea Harkins.  I would never have seen that in one week, visitors came from all over the world – including a rugby team from the United Kingdom!  Most of all, I might not have a desire to return another day for a nice long ramble.  As I drove back through the cemetery, I realized it is possible to over-plan one’s life.

I know how I missed spotting the graves – the colors are used for many other headstones elsewhere and one cannot see the names from any road.  The stones face downhill towards Lake Washington –  to the east where the sun rises.  It is a beautiful spot bordered on two sides with hedges.  A bench encourages visitors to stay awhile.  I placed the shared bouquet and card, snapped a picture for Andrea, and sat down.

I had the place to myself, which is probably unusual, especially on a gorgeous Spring morning.   The bright warm sun was a blessed relief after a miserable, dark, rainy winter.  Birds sang sweetly and the evergreen trees sighed in the gentle breeze.  I immediately felt at ease.  I hadn’t planned on lingering but the place drew my heart into itself.  I wasn’t quite ready just yet to contemplate the life of a man who I don’t know much about, so I let the peace of the place soak into my soul.

What’s his story?I started wondering about the people buried nearby and got up briefly to see who they were.  I found this stone at Bruce Lee’s right.  It’s squeezed between flagstones and a red camellia bush – easily overlooked.  This was the oldest and, to me, the most compelling grave near the Lees.  Three years my junior when he died so far from home.  What was his story?  Had he studied boxing?  What would he think of who he’s buried next to?  Where are his descendants?  Does anyone notice his grave when they visit the Lees?  Sometimes when we find what we are looking for we discover there’s more to pursue.

I took a few more pictures, sat down on the bench again and read the inscriptions on the Lees’ graves.

I reflected on these inscriptions for awhile.  “Your inspiration continues to guide us toward our personal liberation” is especially apropos for Andrea Harkins’ tribute.  I am very glad Andrea found inspiration in Bruce Lee’s life story and had shaped that inspiration into a post that encourages people to overcome obstacles and free their potential.  As I sat on the bench across from Bruce Lee’s headstone, I realized reading about his struggles had touched me more deeply than I knew.  The longer sentiment on Brandon Lee’s grave really resonates with me.  I try to appreciate and recall life’s best moments as much as I can – including a sunny day in a quiet graveyard, where I discovered more than what I’d originally come for.

I wrapped up my musings by thinking about what Bruce Lee means to me.  I’m still trying to figure out that thing about being like water, and maybe I’ll spend my life exploring different aspects of it.  I am grateful for the words even though I am totally ignorant about if “be water, my friend” was his own words or a screenwriter’s words, or even some ancient author’s words.   I next wondered how much inspiration is infused into the lives of the Sensei(s) who teach me.   Certainly I’ve heard Bruce Lee’s name a time or two during Karate classes!  I realized I’m grateful for his life because of how he touched others.  I ended on a whimsical thought – what would Bruce Lee say to me?  Probably, “Practice,” I thought wryly as I stood up and bowed.

I came away refreshed for the quiet time of reflection in a peaceful place.  As I walked back to my car I thought about Ando Mierzwa’s blog post, “How to Meditate Without Losing Your Mind” and realized I had actually applied what I’d learned in that article.  My eyes were open the whole time, but yes, I was meditating and it had changed me.  I found an appreciation for the life of someone I barely know anything about.

There was one more surprise for me that morning.   Before I reached my car I spotted a water spigot.  It occurred to me that the bouquet could’ve used more water in the vase so I turned back to get it.  As I neared the grave, I spotted the reflection of the card.  I recognized a “perfect moment” when I saw it and took this picture:

A gift left on a grave reflected back at me – a visual representation of how I gave something but ended up receiving so much more.  This more than anything else spoke to me because I value the art of photography and have been developing (pun intended) my skills for most of my life.  If I hadn’t turned back to the grave, I’d have missed this moment – missed the gift of shooting a unique picture (which is what us photographers live for).  If I hadn’t turned back to Karate after so many years away from it, I’d have missed a thousand precious moments.

Later in the evening I discovered the peace from that morning was still with me in the dojo.  I do believe my performance was better than usual as a result.  I do seek out peaceful places frequently during the week while on my daily walks with the dog, but it’s rare that a place will touch me so deeply that it spills over into my Karate hours later.

All that from what started out as a simple favor for my friend Sensei Andrea!  And thank you, friend.  If it wasn’t for your blog post, I wouldn’t have had an experience I’ll treasure for the rest of my life.  I know what’s written on Brandon Lee’s grave about such experiences, so I’m writing and sharing my experience so it can be remembered by not just me, but also by you and by my readers.  Hopefully some little piece of this experience will live and breathe in the soul of another and inspire something positive.

 

Whenever I get ready for Karate, I’m struck by how few things I have on my person.  Things from my life outside the dojo get safely tucked away in a locker.  I put on simple garments (gi jacket, belt and pants) and grab a tote bag containing only basic necessities – fist pads, mouth guard, band-aids, and Kleenex.  I leave a lot behind.  I need very little.

As I move from the locker room through the busy hallway of the rec center, there are no pretenses about who and what I am.  Nothing hides my purpose in being there.  I don’t know anything about where the other people are going, but once glance tells them about me.

Most of the time in class I don’t think about anything but what I’m doing.  I am muscle, breath, movement…  I am action and reaction.  Each moment is a chance to improve on the previous moment.  I live in the “now.”  I forget my age, my income level, and all the chores waiting for me at home.  When I’m at my best my body, mind, and soul are immersed in one thing and one thing only – learning.

 

 

I can’t hide the level of intensity I put into my Karate.  I sweat.  That salty, smelly liquid seeping out of every pore is difficult to fake.  I kiai – a war cry that comes from the gut, the heart, and the soul.  It sounds really lame if I don’t put everything I have into it.  I make mistakes – a genuinely human trait.

From time to time I have to admit to not knowing something or I need to ask for help.  If I don’t, my lack of knowledge will be agonizingly obvious.  If I think I know something but am mistaken, that too will show.  There is no faking one’s way through something.  Either I can do something or it needs work.

Simplicity can mean a paucity of material things.  I don’t need a lot with me in the dojo.  I wear a uniform.  Simplicity can mean clarity – I don’ t need to clutter up my mind by thinking about stuff that’s not related to Karate.  Simplicity can mean truth – there’s physical and audible proof of my intensity.  Simplicity can mean candor – admitting I don’t  know everything.

Karate is so incredibly complex.  Yet there are elements of simplicity as well.  It is a paradox that fascinates me.

Do you remember the old (1984) Karate Kid movie?

Daniel, the main character, slaved for four days in Mr. Miyagi’s house and yard.  Mr. Miyagi, Daniel’s Sensei, kept fussing at him to do everything in a certain way.  All the while, Daniel was building muscle memory for Karate without even knowing it.

What is it really like to work in a Sensei’s yard?

One of the black belts in our organization was moving and needed help sprucing up in preparation for selling his house.  Another black belt called for a work party.  I happened to have the Saturday free, so I packed up my tools, put on my grubbiest clothes and mud boots, and off I went.

Senseis are incredibly skilled at Karate and are usually good leaders.  But they’re also regular folks.  Sure there might be a few trophies and a pile of Black Belt Magazines in their garages, but other than that, they live just like you and me.  They have neighbors and friends, and from time to time, they need help.  Just like everyone else.  After a few hours of yard work, they ache too.  And some of them use baby talk when speaking to dogs.

But what about wax on, wax off?  Were there some secret karate moves I learned without knowing it?  I did learn two new skills that will prove valuable throughout the rest of my life.  I learned to pick up stray stones and put them onto a piece of cardboard instead of tossing each one back into the border.  I learned how to use a pressure washer to get moss and bird poo off a garage door.  I suppose one could use the pressure washer as a weapon – that would sting!

 

 

I think the best thing about the time I spent working was getting to know the Senseis as human beings.  The “normal” formalities expected in a dojo were loosened.  Conversations flowed – sometimes about karate, sometimes about fitness in general, sometimes about just whatever.  I was the lowest ranked present and one of two colored belts, but it was OK for me to take initiative and make suggestions about the work that needed doing.

Did I learn any Karate at all?  Well, after the day’s work was done, three of us did “geek out” by talking about Karate.  The discussion eventually turned to  an advanced kata which was a bit beyond me.  But that’s OK.   I had fun watching my Sensei in street clothes teaching an advanced student from another dojo.   A wild rabbit in the park across the alley watched them too.

So that’s what it’s like to spend a day working in Sensei’s yard.   I’m not more gifted in Karate as a result.  Nobody used reiki on me to ease the ache in my muscles.  But I do know this – I have friends.  That’s what I gained, and it’s priceless.