promise to work hard

In the winter, at a dinner celebrating some of the black belts' ascension to higher levels of black belt, they pulled out cell phone calendars and planned my black belt testing date. At the time, through my half-drunk haze, I connected that test date in early June with all sorts of mostly unrelated things, but all tangentially connected to badassery and the meaning of martial arts as a force to build confidence and stop violence.

I started taking karate when I was in the 8th grade, and continued in Yoshukai through high school. By then, I was a 2kyu, a brown belt. In college I spent a summer with a new kind of karate and jiu jitsu, then at my actual college tried yet more karate, then aikido, but by the time I took aikido, I was close to graduation. I didn't think of myself as a brown belt anymore, more like an itinerant white belt with brown-belt-like tendencies.

There's a tradition I learned, that you never wash your belt (though by all means, wash your gi, and often). Because the idea was, it began as white, and over time and training would turn darker with the dirt, proof of your time and effort. Last summer, my brown belt seemed to be going in the opposite direction, forming up white streaks which I never washed off (...salt, from sweating).

But if I had thought of myself as a brown belt since I got one, then I have been a brown belt for almost ten years. It's an interesting middle ground.. being pretty good. People have referred to me as "basically a black belt," or "like a black belt."

But I wasn't one: a distinction so fine as to be, in a different half-drunk hazed debate about who would win in a fight, slim to unimportant.

As you have probably heard, a black belt doesn't mean you've made it to the top, it means you're ready to begin.

In this case it means I crammed a ton of terminology and practiced a lot of moves an ef-ton of times. I also memorized some points (the eight key attitudes, the five elements of atemi, the four systems of training, the six distinguishing characteristics) for the supervised essay.. on the walk up to the budokan, one of the guys who had given me a ride (I tried to drive myself, but my car broke down again about 1/3 of the way there... so I pulled over, called my team and flagged down another car in the convoy shortly behind me on the road) commented that the written test had to be worrying me. I shook my head because if there's anything I can do, it's write a pretty solid essay in 40 to 60 minutes (thanks Dr. Bragg, college in general, and genetic disposition). The written test was the least of my worries -- it was the one thing I knew if I put in the time, I would get the results. Put a pencil in my hand and my thoughts will focus. Give me the name of a technique and stand there expecting me to do it, and they scatter faster than Japanese people when auld-lang-syne starts to play at closing time.

I actually did pull a total fail on something I had practiced a lot because it was one of the first things they asked us to do (luckily no one seemed to notice the extent to which my mental faculties had deserted me -- for the love of pete, it was a set movement, like a two-person kata, and I was completely changing the last 1/3 of it, repeatedly). A few other things took me some time to remember or figure out what the words meant, but I could do the stuff, almost all of what was asked, I could do, and as I saw that happening, my confidence grew and the test shrank and soon enough I knew what my result would be.

I got to wear the face-protecting riot gear for the fighting bit, which was really brief even by my standard.

My partner was a capable girl with a large, ghastly bruise on her left foot. The part I had most feared, the dreaded "We say, you do," part where they were going to choose ten techniques from about a hundred, all of which you must know, only ten of which you will show... And one by one, they said words I could put together and remember their meanings. The pair to our right got read the riot act in the second set of movements. The pair to our left, in the third. I shifted from foot to foot, awaiting our turn at sensei scorn bat; it never came.

Twelve years ago, I promised to work hard. Now I suppose I am ready to begin.

Ganbaru-sugi

In Japanese, there’s a word (sugiru) you can put on the end of another word to add the meaning of “too much.” I hear it a lot in kempo, attached to “far” or “close,” meaning, “You’re too close for that kick to work properly.” But you put it in verbs, too, like “eat,” and it means “to eat too much.”

So ganbaru is the verb for “to do one’s best.” In English it always comes out sounding a little weird, because we don’t have this exact idea. Sometimes kids will translate it as “fight!” which is occasionally appropriate, but in many contexts, hilariously not so. “Do your best!” Sounds a little patronizing and stilted, but it’s close to the meaning of the word. It means to strive to accomplish, I think, most especially in the face of difficulty.

Anyway, from time to time, I’d hear people sticking them together. Saying ganbari-sugiteru. That kid is doing his best too hard. Which was difficult for me to wrap my head around, because if you’re really doing your best, how can you over-do the best? It’s a superlative. If you aren’t giving it everything you have, then it’s not really your best, I mean, not to split hairs and stuff…

Of course it would fall beyond my grasp to get the idea of overdoing it. I like to overdo things. Overdo is how I DO, not always, but enough of the time that it seems normal to me. But that’s just in my nature, so for me, overdoing it a little is just how it gets done. It makes me a little nuts sometimes, but I’m pretty used to dealing with it. It does sometimes have negative effects, mostly stress things, but sometimes for me it’s just better to push myself harder than to feel like what if I had pushed it, but I didn’t, and I wasted an opportunity maybe.

Anyway, I’d like to tell the story of my latest ganbari-sugi adventure, because it’s the first one in my memory where I knew immediately that it was a ganbari-sugi thing; no retrospect necessary.

It started with the bus, the bike, and the broken car: I had a sore throat and a bunch of bike time under my belt that I was calling ‘training.’ I had a decision to make. If you’ve ever seen me make a decision, you know that this not only was painful but also took forever. I prevaricated right up to the train ticket vending machine, which is saying something, because to get to the ticket machine I had to drive an hour all the way to Himeji, bags packed and everything. Parked, packed, eye on the train schedule, I still wasn’t sure I was going.

I mean, I wanted to go. I wanted to meet new people, and spend a weekend biking because I never had before, and I was thinking about doing the PEPY Ride, and because I had worked up the training. I knew it meant a sore butt and legs, and probably sunburn, and that the trip there was expensive. The extra factor was that damn sore throat which had not gotten better, though it had not gotten bad enough to ground me entirely. I stood up and crouched back down about eight times. Finally, picturing what I might spend my weekend doing if I did NOT go, I bought tickets. Once I bought tickets I kind of had to go. So I went.

I’m not a cyclist, and I didn’t know much about the Oita Ride’s chosen charity before they mentioned it. I seem to get into a lot of bike charities, but it’s similar to my ski trips: I go because shit is worth doing. (That was the motto of the first Himeji Ride, actually: Shit is Worth Doin.) And if you don’t do it, you may never know HOW worth doin’ it is.

Our host for the night was a really nice volunteer, upon whose floor I fairly promptly passed out. She ended up hosting five people that night, and even gave us breakfast in the morning. On the train to the ride start area there were a lot of bikes in bags (apparently you have to take the wheel off for it to really be luggage. If you don’t, it’s just a bike in a bag) belonging to people with the t-shirts (or cycling jerseys) and stories to prove that they were far more serious cyclists than I.

Yeah!

We occupied the MaxValu parking lot in Sakanoichi, and although I was offered a road bike that would probably have made good time, I picked a mountain bike instead because I just liked it better. We weren’t going to be off-roading, but I prefer the solidity of the fatter tires and shocks to the nimble speed of a road bike.. I didn’t need speed, I was taking the slow scenic route. I never so much as considered anything else.

After orientation and information, route maps and optional detours were explained, and we were finally on our way. I fell in with another who didn’t really know anyone there who planned to take the slow route and we were joyfully off, glad to be on bikes moving down the sidewalk, hearing the sounds of several elementary sports day festivals as we went by.

At a road-station along the sea, where we encountered our first bike casualty.  I didn't have my camera (sand repairs post-Korea), so I took a couple shots with the phone.

It was like a cycling picnic for me. There were support cars that would park here and there along the route to provide directions, refill water bottles, pass out healthy (and not so healthy) snacks, and generally just give the sense that you were not on your own out there even if you were the very last of the riders (which we were not quite). Someone had made the most delicious cookies in the world (or so they did seem at the time) with imported ingredients from Costco, and there was fruit in abundance, along with Clif bars, and a bunch of other stuff I haven’t seen, much less eaten, in years. Spotting a support car was usually cause to hit the brakes. Woo! Snacktime!

This is them loading up in the morning.

We didn’t get lost and we didn’t feel beat that first day. The air smelled like blooming flowers and like the sea, the vistas were great, and the sky was overcast by turns, making it just cool enough to enjoy. I was riding with some cool people from different parts of Kyushu. Joanna and I made a detour to see the Stone Buddhas of Usuki, where it was nice to get off the bike and walk around a little.

With Joanna on the road. This is early in the ride because I'm still actually wearing the backpack.

There was one major hill on the route, which I wouldn’t call steep, because it was certainly bike-able, but it was a hell of a grind. I’m proud of myself in that I did the whole thing. I think I heard it was 12km altogether, 6 up and 6 down, which is grueling and seemingly endless upward, steep enough to put you in 1^st gear and make you hate it. I did stop twice to drink some water, but I biked the whole hill at my own pace.

At the top of the hill was the hill tunnel. Now, we were informed that the second day would not contain the hill because we would take a tunnel instead. A very scary tunnel nicknamed TOD (tunnel of death) because it was a narrow thing 2km long with no sidewalks and peopled by drivers that didn’t give much heed to bikers. So we had a healthy fear of TOD, but since TOD has such a reputation, it was incredibly well-handled by our support cars this year. The hill tunnel was therefore the scariest thing ever.

On the way up the hill, I was loath to stop unless I really had to, because I just couldn’t let go of my momentum. There were cars on the hill but I skipped them. There was a car at the hill tunnel entrance, and I didn’t realize that the tunnel was the top or I might have paused in my relentless pursuit of the summit for a second to receive more information from them than “Wait! Well, just be really careful in the tunnel.”

It was dark. Most tunnels have some lighting, you see, dim orange glowing things set in the ceiling. Not so this almost makeshift looking hill tunnel. It was short, or fairly short, but very narrow. It wasn’t heavily traveled, but there were these trucks that would pass us on the hill going up or down, maybe coming from the cement factory on the other side. I went into the tunnel and I turned on my light. By its illumination I saw that some of the gutter covers on the far left were missing, which means the gaijin trap was set and open. I didn’t want to fall into THAT; it also made me realize that there might be pits anywhere in the road that I wouldn’t see. I moved more toward the middle (insofar as I could tell where the middle was), and then a truck entered the tunnel coming toward me from the far end. I swallowed and for the first time since I’d started the hill, a thought made its way into my mind. That thought was, I might die.

Luckily, the rest of me didn’t care much for this thought and just did what it had been doing for the last 6km, which was keep your head down, find the right path, go fast enough to get the ef out of there asap, but not so fast that you risk shit. And soon it was over, and I was back out in the sunlight, and more than that, the road was curving down. Sat on the side of the road to get my senses back, and until Joanna appeared out of the tunnel too.

The rest was kind of a blur. After the hill I felt more ‘done,’ and I could no longer take a deep breath without inviting a small coughing fit. I knew that didn’t bode well, but I also knew that if I needed it, there was a kei-truck into which my bike could be thrown, so we just kept on. Eventually after what seemed like (and was) a long way, we made it to camp, which was a collection of cabins on a rough beach. Stretched, showered, ate, tried to stay up socializing and avoiding mosquitoes, failed, and passed out on the small pile of blankets I’d folded up in my bunk.

Day one, complete.

Day two, staato!

Sunday though, Sunday. I didn’t feel fresh and hot to trot, but I knew that no one must really feel that way. Everyone had a sore ass already, who wants to mount up then? I did let someone know that my cold had kept up with me (I could take deep breaths again after I got warmed up that morning though) and I might not finish the ride. Then we rolled out! That day’s potential detour was the Marriage Rocks (Futamigaura), for which we missed the turn and I actually voted to backtrack to them because they were the only thing on my menu for that day other than just go back to the starting point.

They were nice.

The rest was just riding back, in a little more pain with a little less juice than the day before. While waiting for TOD, we met an old man with about four teeth who was digging up take-no-ko (“bamboo’s children” .. it’s a food) on the slope below our car pulloff area. He gave us a whole bag of them, and added he would give us the second bag, but he had to give it to his girlfriend or she wouldn’t let him do naughty things. Laughing, he drove away.

After TOD, I began to lag more and more behind our small group which was still one of the last one or two. I couldn’t imagine where they were getting the energy to keep up the pace they were going. At some point, I might have pulled over and given my bike back to the truck, rode along in one of the cars that stuck with us slower riders, cheering us on.. but I never did because I’m stubborn or stupid or tough or all three. By the very end, I was the second to last person to arrive back at MaxValu. I promptly began to cry, which is embarrassing but motivated entirely by exhaustion. I heard it being discussed that maybe they were tears of joy at having finished the ride, but I didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t really joy, nor was it pain or sadness or any kind of negative thing.

 I didn’t feel negatively, nor positively.. didn’t feel hungry or much of anything else either, just tired. I had completed 140km over two days with a cold and during a bad time of month. It’s something to be proud of, I’m sure, but at the moment I didn’t feel that either. Normally after adventures I arrive home wanting three things: a shower, some dinner, and to go to bed. None of them can be done simultaneously, unfortunately. At that moment, though, I was almost too tired to sleep. It’s a really strange feeling that I’ve only had a few times in my life. I feel like there’s something special about giving it so much of your everything that by the end you really are just emptied.

All in all, I really am glad I went, and I would do it again (preferably in a better state, and maaaybe with more training under this belt), because that shit was definitely worth doing. Even over-doing.

I don't quite remember this..

When I got home to Shiso, I discovered a bunch of mosquito bites on my feet that I must have gotten while sleeping. For the rest of the week I looked like I had the pox!

The Long Hiatus Known as Winter (in review)

It's Friday, it's raining again, but at least a bit warmer than the last time. Or at least I think so.

We get the first day of spring off in this country, maybe because you are supposed to visit your ancestors on the first day of spring (I just learned). Whatever the reason, I think having the equinox off is an excellent practice. The better to celebrate.

Winter is all about the holding pattern, post Cambodia, it was a fairly happy or at least nonchalant cycle of work, reading, writing, various exercise, and housekeeping. It was like an endless ongoing movement of maintenance. Keep on trucking. Every week was not the same, but the entire season seemed to fall into a pattern of total sameness. Maybe you'll go swimming today or tomorrow, maybe you'll feel too puny. Maybe you'll buy more kerosene, maybe you'll cook something. Maybe there will be a get-together this weekend, maybe you'll be social by hanging out with one or two people, maybe you won't see anyone and will just indulge yourself in reading/the internet/pretending to do chores. Maybe you'll make coffee, maybe you'll avoid it because it's bad for circulation and your toes are freezing off. Maybe you'll go to kempo and rock it, maybe you'll go and suck, maybe you won't go.

If anything changed this winter, it was a change that felt built-in right away, and was in many cases a resumption of something old. I took up working on that novel again. I moved up a little on the coffee snob scale, because I started hanging out at Rocky just like I always thought it would be nice to hang out in a coffeeshop and 'write.' (Then I started buying coffee [at Rocky] and making it at home. I had a coffeepot for two years and used it twice [then sold it], and now I can't stop pressing myself cups of the stuff -- luckily I just got ahold of decaf, so now it's on day and night, and guilt-free for the circulation issues). I started swimming more frequently. I didn't exactly feel like I had all kinds of time to waste because I was spending all my time doing all these maintenance or resumption things.

Lately, I swim less often, partly because I wrenched out my shoulder on the only ski trip we took this year. I still go occasionally, and rent a kickboard so I can gimp along. I've also stalled on the writing, as I will now confide. The irony is that it happened because of something I did to help myself along in that department sadly backfiring. I had some comments on the first part of the thing, and someone referred to the George R. Martin series A Song of Ice and Fire to sort of compare how I used a bunch of different POV throughout the story. I had heard about the series before, and had seen one episode of it on HBO at Sagramore's (the episode with ALL the spoilers), so I kindled up a four volume set and stared in on it, telling myself it would be instructive and help my writing.

The first few chapters were okay, but once I was sunk into it, it built a nice ice wall between me and my ability to write or even edit my story. It was good. And that was a problem, not because I was so absorbed I no longer had time to do any writing (that is always and never true of life, rather than any book), but because as I read on I get the distinct impression that my story is nothing like this story.

I could never have written this story.

But I like this story, and that's a problem because suddenly all I can see is everything that this story has that my story lacks, everything I like about this book I'm reading that is glaringly absent from the one I'm writing.

An' lemme tell you, that shit'll stop your pen. Writer's block is and has always been a failure of confidence, maybe.

I'm sweet-talking myself back into it, of course. I've begun to find things I don't like about it, as a sort of salve. And I've also tried to explain to the little kid version of myself currently throwing an I-don't-wanna-play-anymore tantrum that, well of course you could never have written this story, it's not yours, you weren't supposed to, it's about a totally different thing, has a totally different appeal.

At first I was confused, because this is not by far the first good book I've read since I began working again on the writing. I've read a bunch of really good things, strong works, classics, award-winners. But I realized, they were all of some other genre, they were all something else. So I'm working my way back to a place where I can like this one and still make that one, different.

We recently set the date of my black belt (!) test, for early June, which set me off into a mental tangent about Shannon (while the June connection is obvious, if you can't see why Shannon and getting my black belt are related, I can't really explain it.. they aren't, and yet for some reason they are), which caused me to have a Shannon dream, which made me decide to resume my pilgrimage on March 20th after its long hiatus known as Winter.

The first temple of the season was Ichijo-ji, stop number 26 on the original route, and the second-closest temple to where I live.

I think I'll post that as a separate entry, because I don't have the photos ready yet anyway!

Em writes things...

I have decided to try to do a little more networking between all the different things I write in different places. So, I'ma share this too!

You'll get some more on PEPY in the coming months...as we prepare to take a tour with them in Cambodia (as opposed to lead one in Himeji)!

PEPY Ride Hyogo (aka, the article I write like every six months to promote my bike ride event)

Spring Break Kagoshima 2k11 (Wooo!)

Well it’s Wednesday, and we just had opening ceremony. I thought it was yesterday, but that was the send-off ceremony, basically graduation cryfest 2.0, in which we said goodbye to the leaving teachers and they all gave speeches. It was a good ceremony, not especially fun, but I’m starting to learn that life is change and you cannot keep a thing, although I am the type to keep every thing. (Sometimes it seems like my strategy never was to learn to let things go, but rather to develop the necessary musculature to just carry it all around forever.)

I jumped right into send-off ceremony after returning from Kagoshima; it was a pretty direct transition. After getting home at 10:30 rather than, like, 7, I went to bed, and had to get up early for work. How did I get so delayed, you may well ask.

The trains in Japan do run on time, and the train from Kagoshima takes a whopping 3 hours and 46 minutes with the connections I was taking. On the way down, it was 4 hours; I got on the Sakura, the Kyushu shinkansen now making trips about hourly up to Osaka and back. I wasn’t the only one with my camera out as the Sakura rolled into Himeji.

Sakura, Sakura...

From 2011_04_01

I spent the train trip wishing I had spent seven dollars less and gone without seat-reservation as the old lady next to me remained asleep and with the windowshade drawn for almost the entire trip. It was a lovely afternoon, and I actually found a seat elsewhere for part of it so I could stare out at the mountains.

When I arrived in Kagoshima, my first impression was that it’s an excellent city. The information booth ladies were helpful in extreme, and there was a cute Japanese man tap-dancing on a stage just outside the station, which area was covered in flowers. Flowers in planters, in baskets attached to poles, growing everywhere. It was warmer, of course, than Hyogo. 

Dance!

From 2011_04_01

Manderines (Wervs) came to get me, and we took the bus back to her place so I could unpack the ridiculously heavy bag I had toted along (and which she saved me from dragging up a huge hill by coming on the bus, not the tram), full of random supplies and books and things. Grabbed dinner in a nearby Chinese place and chatted until bedtime.

Saturday morning we walked down past her school and caught a tram into the city. We got lost, and then found again by a nice older guy who informed us that there were free shuttles running from the Chuo station to Yoshino park, where there was a flower festival. We decided to check it out, and discovered a whole bunch of awesome in the warm (almost hot?!) sunny gardenscapes. We walked all over the park. Wervs won’t have any money for a while (having just arrived, and not yet paid), and since I just broke the bank on tickets for 3 to Okinawa (plus the shink to Kagoshima is in fact over $400 round trip), we were in the mood for cheap entertainment. The flower festival was also excellent. The sakura were blooming, and I found real Belgian-style white beer from a booth vendor. (I realize I have not yet posted about Hokkaido, but I swear my beer obsession is because of that winter visit)…

From 2011_04_02

Wervs in spring

From 2011_04_02

Sakura, Lem, and beer. HA NA MIII!

From 2011_04_02

From 2011_04_02

Guribu (Kagoshima mascot), wervsi, and Sakurajima in the background.

From 2011_04_02

Once we were good and tired, we returned to the station to get tickets for the sightseeing bus, which we took up to Shiroyama. We looked out and took some pictures of Sakurajima, and then I proposed a little walk down the mountain to the main road where we might catch a bus or tram back toward the station. It was a beautiful day still, and the walk was really nice. We ended up walking all the way back to the station, though, which was hell on feet/calves/shins, et al.

After eating some Kagoshima style ramen near the station, we opted to just take the bus home and crash out. The following day was for Sakurajima.

Sakurajima from the flower park.

From 2011_04_02

Sakurajima is the massive volcano dominating the city of Kagoshima. I had heard about it, but I didn’t understand what a big deal this thing is until I saw it myself. It’s a big ol’ mountain, visible from all over the city, which sometimes erupts. There had been like 323 eruptions so far this year when we visited. Mostly it’s just ash, although some historic eruptions have overwhelmed villages (yeah there are actually people living on Sakurajima) and in 1914, the island ceased to be an island and became a peninsula. Wervs has to watch out for dustfall, the ash that will drift her way apparently in the summer more than other times, settling on everything from people’s skin to laundry left out… gotta make sure to carry an umbrella and a mask around I guess! It’s just something people in Kagoshima live with.

Sakurajima from Shiroyama.

From 2011_04_02

We took the ferry, a 15 minute windy ride, and walked one of the shorter trails. Our poor abused legs rejoiced when at last we stuck them into the hot water of an open footbath. I long to partake of Kagoshima’s many onsen offerings, but alas I was in no condition to go. Next time!

This important rock marks the place where an islet was before the eruption made it just part of the main Sakurajima island.

From 2011_04_03

Footbaths, YES!

From 2011_04_03

After our short jaunt to Sakurajima, we had lunch at Dolphin Port, and met up with her friend and contact Yoshi. He drove us to Sengan-en, the villa and garden site of the Shimadzu clan, long-time lords of Kagoshima. We walked around and enjoyed the scenery there, and saw a cloud of ash over Sakurajima. Basically, the Shimadzu clan was a group of badasses who by turns fought with and secretly worked with various powerful groups (England, the Shogunate, etc.). Their villa, and also their city, is excellent (and just as flowerful as the station area would have you believe). Yoshi is a cool guy and I’m glad he’s in Kagoshima, and taking care of Manderines.

We stopped by a few stores on the way home, and actually made dinner, kinda, after a bit of confusion. We watched some Miyazaki until we passed out, because Yakushima, an island off Kagoshima, is said to be the inspiration for the forest in Princess Mononoke; I want to watch the rest because that movie is better than I remember.

Wervs pours herself a drink. On the floor by the fridge. <3

From 2011_04_03

Monday we took it easy, walked around, bought a bookshelf for Manderines’ apartment, and then I went on my way toward the station. Overall, it was a pretty nice spring break trip. It was weird to be reminded so vividly of what it was like to be where Wervs is, knowing and having so little, yet. I actually found myself toying with the notion of trying to live in Kagoshima for a little while.. maybe I can make an extended stay at some point… It’s not that I want to leave Hyogo, no, I want to stay in Hyogo forever too. The longer I live, the more lives I want.

Which brings us back to the trip home, and the way our high-speed train slowed to a crawl, then a stop, then sat in Hiroshima station for two hours while somewhere further up the line someone took care of “an accident with casualties” or something like that. At first I thought they were saying jishin, which is earthquake, and I was like, no way, an earthquake damaged the train line?! But then I realized they were saying jinshin. I suspect somebody jumped a train, which is a harrowing and saddening thought. And a weird note on which to end spring break.

The Trifecta of Sore

"Wait'll you see my ass bruise!" I enthused. I like the sound of "ass-bruise." It sounds kind of like "ass groove," which is a Simpsons quote.

But after my weekend, I'm covered in bruises and my muscles are sore.

I'm baaack!

I went to Shorinji Kempo Thursday night to give it my all one last time before the test Friday night. Then I went skiing Saturday afternoon. Yes, but I like to think my insanity is the good kind!

In the same way that I forget who I am if I haven't sweated through a t-shirt in recent memory, I also feel a little more badass with a small collection of bruises to prove it.

Thursday, actually, was the hardest on me. I really did everything at 100%. I also "fought" with Sensei, and the thing about that is.. I don't have bruises from where he got through my (HAH) guard and hit me.. I have bruises where I tried to, for example, kick him, and he blocked it.

I used to think that things like him happening to hit my funnybone when blocking my attacks was.. like, maybe a coincidence. Now I think, he's just really effing good.

But the one I got for trying to front kick him turned into a slightly swollen little knot on my right shin, and looks a bit like an eye in coloration.

The testing itself was not so bad. Not when you're recalling six nerve-wracking hours and you only get one. But the lead-in to the test, now that was something straight out of a dream.

The test was in Himeji, which means an hour drive. This is an hour if you know exactly where you are going and traffic is decent. A sane person would leave an extra fifteen minutes. I intended to leave forty extra minutes. That, of course, ended up not working out so well... I left at 5:41 for a 7pm test (my shirt wasn't dry, etc). But then I got 15 minutes down the road and realized I'd forgotten my white belt in my apartment, so I turned around and went to get it. I was sweating it out all the way down 29, trying to breathe slowly because we could all only go as fast as that truck up ahead. Miraculously, all the lights were green. Seriously, all of them.

Once I got on the bypass I could pass the beast (whew) but I was still cutting it close even if I knew exactly where to go, which I did not. Although when the Shorinji people asked me if I knew where to go, I said I did. I mean, I had been to the Himeji Budokan once. A year and a half ago. In daylight. Oh and we were late that time, because we got lost. Ding! But I was planning to have a lot of extra time to find it. Good good.

I miraculously (see this post about my Shishi-imitatin' protector) parked in budokan parking, then ran across the street to a building I thought might be the budokan and it was not the budokan. It was 6:54. I called the only person in Kempo who speaks English, the only person whose number I even have. I realized that even if the building I had run to had been the budokan, my uniform was still in the car.

I ran back to the car. Tore off my outer clothes and pulled the uniform on. I looked up the hill and the large mysterious building looming over me and knew that IT was the BUDOKAN. 6:58. I ran up the hill on the street, veering right. I went farther up the hill. No door. God, where was the front door?!


View Flight to the Budokan in a larger map

Finally I found it just as my contact was calling me back. Sensei was waiting in the lobby. "So, you didn't know where it was?" he asked. I wanted to plant my face in the wooden flooring. I went into the test and everyone was meditating, so I sat down with them and then we did all the preliminary stuff, state your name, get your pencil--

Get your pencil?? Of course. For the WRITTEN part of the test. Yes you can write in English. But the questions are all in Japanese. Ready go.

I have no idea why I felt okay about all of this. But I did. The actual physical part of the test was so short I almost felt like I didn't get to show how hard I'd worked to get there.

I drove home feeling really really good about life (God only knows why that was!).

So that's why I felt like it would be fun to go skiing the next day. And it was! I rented short skis this time, which I rather enjoyed.

I'd been skiing (for the second time in my life) two weeks before. There is a decent ski park about an hour from my house. I was happy because falling while skiing is okay, it's just snow! On the first run down the mountain, I fell hard right on my ski pole grip. Have you ever bruised your ass so bad it formed a knot?

I enjoyed my public bathing experiences with my friends these last couple weekends (one at the hotel in Osaka, one after skiing this week) because I'll admit it.. the only upside to having such a bruise is showing it to people, and you don't get much opportunity for that. I felt wrong taking photos of it, and so did not.. it's way past its scariest coloring by now anyway and no longer hurts at all.

Skiing made me sore two weeks ago because I only knew how to move forward by pulling myself along with the poles. This week I did not have poles so I had to skate along the snow.

But overall, upper body, lower, everything is pretty much just sore as fuck.

And now you know why!

To Nurture the Badass

When I woke up Wednesday morning, I felt like my body had been flung into a hardwood floor, perhaps more than once, on the evening before. Later in the day I discovered the bruises to prove it.

Because I had got to thinking again, and you know how dangerous that can be.. and I thought, you know, I’ve sweated through a shirt while outdoors in the afternoon climbing a mountain, but what I haven’t done in a while is sweat through a shirt indoors while punching at invisible targets. Basically, I hadn’t been to a karate class in an un-air-conditioned space in August in Japan.

Whyever not?!

Seeking to remedy this issue, I stopped in at the nearby sports center to inquire as to whether there were an available class. I did not perfectly understand the guy behind the counter, but he ended up writing down a bunch of stuff for me, all in kanji (really, I appreciate the implication assuming my literacy), the gist of which was, there are karate people, they get here at 7pm, they use that room right over there. Come on Tuesday and meet them.

Tuesday night, I toted myself and another ALT, I think I’ll call her Ze German (this is an almost totally racist application of nickname and may later be rethought; Ze German is the replacement for TheCat, and is strikingly her opposite in appearance. TheCat was short, dark, and Asian; Ze German is tall, fair, and blond/blue-eyed. But she also took German or participated in some kind of German club, so…), to the sports center, where she would have tennis and I would have “karate.”

It’s not actually karate, it’s Shorinji Kempo. They spent some time explaining the difference to me at different points during the class. On the ground, the punches are different, but the integration of self-defense and more natural stance work into the system is not foreign to my brand of karate.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

So there we were, but even just upon my arrival, the old dude behind the desk was trying to tell me he’d made a mistake (he actually just meant the I-sent-you-to-Shorinji-Kempo-when-you-asked-for-karate mistake, as well as a new revelation that the kids’ class started at 7, the adults were from like 8:30.. shoot). But then the sensei showed up and all seemed to be well. Older, with silvering hair that suggested he’d one day have the hairdo of Epic-sensei, he carried himself with that calm presence that martial arts guys sometimes have. The very self-assured, I can kick your ass if I have to, but I basically never have to kind of mien. He regarded me with a smile devoid of confusion or worry. My foreignness and potential inability to speak Japanese did not daunt him. My femaleness and potential inability to handle shit did not scare him.

True martial artists are rock stars, and beyond.

Before he’d even arrived, the kids began opening up the room, turning on the fan and opening the windows. I guess I expected there to be mats on the floor, but it was hardwood like any gym surface. Better for balance and harder on falling, I guess.

I recognized one of my elementary students in the class, the kid who plays janken like his life depends on the outcome of that rock-paper-scissors contest. I followed the class as best I could, encouraged by the presence of a girl beside me much younger and newer at all this than me. Encouraged, too, by the way the slumbering memory of how to move in a martial arts setting cocked its head and paid close attention.

All things considered, I was on fire. Of course, my arms had a tendency to resume the fighting position I’d practiced first, and my punches had a tendency to rotate. The guy assigned to work with me noted these things but was overall pretty impressed at how quickly I was picking stuff up. There was a zen meditation and I was also taught how to sit down and stand up and get into stance properly. We worked on ukemi, forward and backward rolls. All this and more I kind of remembered, and I threw myself into it all with intensity and alacrity. Maybe I’d been caged too long.

There was So. Much. Sweat. But that was okay, too. I noticed it and considered it a good sign of workin’ hard.

Another good sign of hard work is the soreness that follows. But apparently, your muscles will be mad in the morning if, after years of not doing a thing, you do it at 100% and many times. And, if you never really rolled correctly on your left side, you might end up with bruises to prove it. What cracks me up is that I have visible bruises on both my left shoulder and the back of my left hip (about where your backpack would sit.. ow), but not on the right. I did it properly, it seems, on that side. So Tuesday night felt good, even if there was so much sweat. Wednesday morning (and beyond), there was just So. Much. Pain, between my bruises and the ridiculous soreness of everything.

But that’s just the kind of thing that makes me want to try again, to see if it gets any easier.

I thought about my full schedule and how I might have to give up a little of my girliness or scholarliness if I want to pursue martial arts (and I do, whether it's this Kempo stuff, or straight up karate, to which the desk guy gave me info... they meet on Sundays). I spend a lot of time going to Japanese class, taking things like ikebana, etc. I feel like my badass side needs a little nurturing (martial arts, maybe taiko drumming) so I too can be as a Valkyrie going into battle maybe once a week-ish.

We'll see.

It doesn't have to be undiscovered

(just not-yet-seen-by-me)

So I got home early from work the other day (okay, “early” is relative and I’m starting to see 2pm as my normal quittin’ time. Just sayin’) and I said to myself, I said, self, you know what we haven’t done in a while? Sweat through a shirt. And I don’t mean like get a little damp under the arms… any stroll through the parking lot will do that. I mean disgustingly and thoroughly soak through an entire shirt, front and back. And it’s August still!

In summer, the only fresh thing is the produce. Summer is for your hair to never do what you ask, for your clothes to never quite look right and be comfortable at the same time.. summer is for dirt and sweat and gross, an abandoning of fanciness or pretense of anything like it. I think this is why south-islanders live longer. They gave up pretending it’s not hot as balls and just embraced the right to do whatever it took to be both productive and comfortable in that situation.

Anyway. In all this longing for AC and attempting to be a good studious productive desk-sittin’ individual, I think I started to pretend that I could in fact get away without abandoning that pretense.

So I suited up in shorts and a good sweatin’ shirt, and I hopped on China Downtown (my bike) and pedaled off toward the great unknown. I crossed the river and intended to find a mountain “crevice,” or a place where the valley extends behind a mountain somewhere.. basically I intended to explore something I couldn’t see from the main road of my commute every day.

I have a tendency, when I do that, to find shrines. This is mostly because shrines are to be found everywhere, as long as you don’t expect a shrine to be too much more than a tori gate, some steps, a water basin, a little building, and a bell. Mostly they are deserted and look like they were lovingly tended, but that was about four days ago. Iwa Jinja is a pretty grand example of a shrine. But I love the rustic little ones too.

So anyway, there I was, biking along. I’d just wiped down the bike because spiders build webs on anything that you leave sitting for more than three hours (seriously, there was one inside my car, spanning from the rearview mirror to the steering wheel and dash) and oiled the chain, and I had the oil can and its little red spray straw in my front basket, with my bag of important adventure material (camera, cell phone, some change, water bottle, hand towel) in the back basket. I lost the red spray straw somewhere before the end of the bridge, but went on.

Saw some steps at the bottom of a mountain and guessed (rightly) that they led to a small shrine. I did not realize the shrine would be all the way on the top of that mountain, and that the steps would take me nearly all the way there.

I hit the first landing and thought, it must be close to here...

But it wasn't even halfway.

View near the top.

Shrine.

Don’t worry, it wasn’t a very tall mountain, even for Yamasaki. So this was Nakayama jinja - 中山神社 (middle-mountain shrine?). Then yesterday my VP was asking me if I had done anything lately that made me “good and tired,” or tired in a good way, like hard work, so I pulled up the googlemaps image of Nakayama and said, I climbed this by accident. On the map, though, I could see that a little valley snaked around this mountain, complete with settlement. I decided to bike through this sleepy hamlet, and so that afternoon, I did so.

View Larger Map

That 522 is a "highway" on this map is mind boggling. It's one of those roads that you swear has to be one-lane until you see someone coming the other way.

There is something in me that likes to go until I lose the road. To keep going until you don’t know where you are, and then go a bit further just to see what’s there, even though you can predict what it will be. And then, go back. I saw mountains, woods, and rice fields. Oh and a shrine gate (so I’ll go back there sometime). Houses and creeks and old people and little kids. But they smiled at me, all of them, when I said hello. (It kinda made me wonder if it was a new thing for them, too.. to have a random white chick biking up through their valley)

Trees at the end of the hamlet.

The angle of the light made the two zillion dragonflies striking, with their spun-copper wings buzzing.

I did sweat through my shirt. I did remember what it’s like to just go. There is a dynamic tension in my life between making thing happen and letting things happen. Sometimes, I try far too hard to force things to go a certain way. Sometimes, I am far luckier than needing to do that.. and should just accept things as they present themselves to me.

Oh, and on the second day, I found the red straw too, on the bridge. Win, overall.

Himeji Riiiiide

A look back at a wonderful day.

I wrote this for the Hyogo Times (of which I am becoming Junior Editor!) although I need to pare it down. I figured the full version could be for you all.

Enjoy:

When I arrived in Japan, it was like college all over again. I was entering a new world, a world in which I did not yet have a life, so I threw my e-mail address at any and every list that sounded even remotely like something I would want to do at some point during my tenure. I'd heard the stories and I was determined not to suffer the indignity of not having enough to do.

Of course, after a while, things picked up, my job became involved, and I even made friends; in short, I got a life, which was bound to happen but which also cannot be rushed. Once I had 'a life,' I was still on everyone's mailing list, though, and occasionally, if work were slow, I would spend a few minutes quickly reviewing what activities and events were on offer. No, I would think, that's the weekend of Cat's birthday… no, that's all the way out in Tokyo. No, this one happened last week… In this way I absolved myself of the guilt I would otherwise bear picturing how crushingly disappointed these groups must have been at my absence.

I came upon an e-mail with did not include a date nor a location, but which did include the words "Hyogo," "bike," and "PEPY."

PEPY is an organization about which I knew a little bit. I'd seen their displays at some JET things (like orientation-- which is probably how I got that e-mail in the first place), but I'd read more about them while trying to educate myself about Cambodia and land mines. This is a topic in the middle-school English book, of course, and as such, I (the World Citizen) was going to give a knowledgeable summary of it to the rapt audience of my 2nd grade classroom.

There were two things I really liked about PEPY. The first was what I will call their 'attention to detail.' The organization is all about educating kids in Cambodia. But instead of just building schools and training teachers (which are admittedly important and which they also do), they also look into all these other factors that affect kids' ability to go to school and learn there. I remember reading about a water filter program that they implemented in villages which, once in practice, increased kids' attendance in school. They were getting sick less and going to school more. PEPY also has a program to give bicycles to older students to encourage them to continue on to high school; with a means of transportation, they are better equipped to get there. PEPY pays attention to how things work "on the ground."

The other thing that caught my attention was the PEPY tour. There are several different tours, but the basic idea is you travel around Cambodia in such a way as to be ecologically low-impact (so, you spend some time on a bike, for example) while seeing more than just the tourist attractions offered by the area. You can even do overnight homestays in village homes. This appealed to me simply because, while I love me some touristy stuff, I also like the feeling of getting a little off the main path, exploring what is 'real' about a place. PEPY tours are reasonably priced and come with a required donation; you're going to learn something, travel, and do something good. Win, win, win.

I sent an e-mail inquiring about time and location, partly because I was interested and I like PEPY, partly because I wanted to know if this would go gentle off my events radar. And hey, I liked bikes. I had one that I used to get to the bus stop sometimes, and I'd had one as a kid. I'd even had one in Nashville, for college! So what if I didn't ride my current piece further than the post office in my little inaka town? I could dismiss the event if it turned out to be a 100-km hill climb!

I more or less expected to hear any of the details and dismiss the event, though there was some chance that it would all line up with my schedule and ability level and allow me to participate.

What I did not expect was to be offered the opportunity to organize and plan the event myself. I wanted to, really, but I didn't know anything about bikes, or routes. My first mental image was a bunch of JETs cycling around my train-stationless town. Where are we gonna rent bikes here? I wondered.

The previous year's ride had been in Himeji, though, which was comforting in one respect (I know it can be done there) and difficult in another (what do I know about Himeji?). Providence had it in for me: I had recently made the acquaintance of Illustrator JET. Illustrator knows about bikes AND teaches in Himeji.

I wanted to plan a bike ride that would suit me. I figured, if we made something I could do, then anyone could do it. I also figured, in case no one else showed up to the event, I would at least have a fun and challenging day of biking. I also wanted to follow PEPY's tour example by making it a sort of tourist trip of less-well-known Himeji attractions. He knew Himeji's roads and attractions. He'd been on the previous year's bike trip and immediately was providing recollections and suggestions. We met one afternoon and plotted a route. He showed me which of the major roads had better sidewalks, and how there is a no-motor-vehicle-access path along parts of the Yumesaki River.

The rest is, as they say, history. April 17th was the day of the ride, and the weather was perfect. The cherry blossoms were in their late phase, which meant we got to ride through pale-pink blizzards. We visited a shrine near Himeji-jo, then rode around the castle to pick up the road headed toward the river. We stopped for lunch on the riverbank where we had bento contest winners (criteria: healthy and eco-friendly). We followed the river northward to Mount Shosha, where we enjoyed Temple Engyoji for a while before heading back down. A quick stop at my eikaiwa student's taiyaki shop, and we headed back into the city to conclude our trip with a visit to Tegarayama Park and the "dark castle" contained there. The park also offers a view of the soon-to-be-wrapped Himeji-jo! A few stragglers stuck around for milk ramen closer to the station.

The group was excellent, and ranged from serious bikers to people who hadn't even hopped astride one since they were kids. Everyone was energetic without being pushy.

Each participant was required to donate at least 2000 yen, which they could procure in any way they liked (it was a kind of don't-ask/don't-tell situation, you see), and beyond that the costs of the ride were 300 for the bike rental, 500 for entrance to Engyoji, and 900 for the ropeway up to the top of Shosha; these three were each optional in their own ways. We had a total of 17 participants, although some joined us later and a few ducked out early. We covered about 25 kilometers. All in all, the day was actually rather perfect.

Long term effects include the furikomi of 40,000 yen to PEPY, and my personal decision to invest in a bike not entirely made of rust. I hope that others who enjoyed the ride were positively impacted as well.

And for all those who missed out on the ride (I mean, you might have gone to Yoshino that day, or something)… keep an ear out for future PEPY bike events! The next might be in Himeji… or maybe not. Stay tuned.

in which the cold does not hurt

I went swimming on Wednesday. I have no idea how they keep the big glass-walled pool area warm enough for me and the entire winter-swim-school to run around half-naked and not die, but they do.

There's a certain freedom in wearing less clothes, and in not having to sort of huddle or hunch to be warm. The freedom of motion available in the water is even greater than normal since you don't have to worry as much about things like gravity.

Now all I have to worry about it that I don't actually know how to swim any strokes; I'm just faking it. But I did a few laps, and when I left the place I felt warmer, even though it had gotten dark and my hair was wet. There's an inner warmth that allows you to be careless (at least for a little while) of how high your socks are pulled up or whether your scarf is wrapped around you, without which warmth it sometimes doesn't even matter how bundled you are because you won't feel warm. It's like being on the run, or playing defensive chess. Working with the negative (try not to be cold) instead of the positive (try to be.. something else?).

Mostly, I think it has to do with whether you get to move your muscles and stretch your joints. Shit gets brittle in the cold. I've seen more plastic break in the last week than since I've been here. But the sauna was pretty awesome, too. 90C is really, really hot.

So I'm going to try to get in there on a fairly regular basis, and see if I can manage a bus schedule in the mix. I was able to go easily on Wednesday because I had to bring my car to school, so the lease office guy could come get it from me and change the tires, the oil, add steering fluid, install a CD player, etc. Lots of things to make my life better.

Thursday morning, I woke up with the impression that a warm front must have moved in overnight. But actually, what had happened was, it got even colder, and snowed.

A dusting of snow on my "yard."

A dusting of snow in Ichinan.

I got sent home early that day because all the other teachers had some kind of meeting in Yamasaki, so I went out for tea with The Other Georgian.

I decided I actually do like Japan after all.

in which the cold does not help

I keep running into fits and starts.. wanting to write, not wanting to write well. Having something to say, not wanting to say it to the audience I have, or wishing someone would listen who doesn't.

Japan is cold, and that makes it a lot harder to love.

I have work to do, but meh.. it's the sort of thing that no one is making me do. And it isn't like being in school, where no one was necessarily making me do those things either, but oh God, I had to do my best so I could impress any and all teachers and staff.

The motivation is low. I watched koi swim in really, really slow motion in the pond behind Iwa Jinja yesterday. It was a sunny, fairly warm afternoon (for December).. up around 8C or something. There is plenty to do, as an English teacher, as a student of Japanese language and culture (with an emerging interest in history and geography). There is always more to learn. There is also plenty to do just as a person with an apartment.. cleaning, decorating, improving. And I don't want to blame it all on the cold, because I know the cold isn't the only problem, but the cold really, really does not help.

I should excercise. I know that I used to say, I don't excercise to look good (that's just a happy side effect); I excercise to stay sane. I've always tried to be at least a bit regular about excercise and eating healthy, because it seemed to have such direct impacts on my moods. When it was autumn here, and I was generally happy, I went jogging every couple of days.

A couple of summers ago, I was hitting the gym really hard at least every other day. I was an emotional wreck, but I was in the best physical shape of my life. Somehow, it evens out eventually and we make it through.

I think excercise would help a lot now to make me feel more energetic. If I could spend a little time with raised heart rate, I would probably be able to apply a lot more of my other time to things like writing, reading, studying, planning, and all the other stuff for which the /want/ lurks just below the surface of this slow who-cares film. Instead of just preferring sleep. It's like being a hibernating creature.

Excercise would help. But it is so. Fucking. Cold.

There's a sports complex very close to where I work, and I'm thinking of going there to start swimming. They don't have machines, they don't have an indoor track, but they do have a heated pool. I've never considered myself a swimmer. In 2003 when I "decided" to "swim laps" "several times a week" with one of the girls in my major... I went once, almost drowned myself in exhaustion, and never returned. Then again, I never considered myself a runner, either (I used to wonder why ANYONE would find ANYTHING about running or jogging 'peaceful' or nice in any way), until I just started doing it in 2007.. because I had to. Because I was totally broke, but also totally lost inside my head; and I had the Nashville sidewalks. It got me out of bed-- because the earlier you got out in August, the cooler you could hope for it to be-- and it had to be the morning, because if I didn't jog, I would be too nauseous to want breakfast.

But swimming? Really? With the drying out of the skin, and the chlorine hair and the way you look at the water and think, aw, pools are fun, right? And then you swim like ONE lap and feel like you are about to die? According to Big Bro JET, they don't use chlorine. He said he thinks they said something about cleaning the pool with "sound waves"... yeah. I have no idea. But I may go this afternoon to check it out. Maybe if I start out slowly, it'll be okay.