To Live Local Theatre

               You'll find them in cities and towns across the country:  a repurposed grocery store, an old train depot, a church fellowship hall, a high school gymnasium.  These venues and innumerable others house theatres throughout the United States, and the communities they service are as diverse as the country itself.  Participants come from all walks of life for a single, timeless purpose:  to tell stories to each other.    We've been doing this since early humans gathered around fires with tales of the thrill of the hunt.  Now, we tell stories of today's challenges, time gone by, and the future hopes we share together.  Our theatres live and thrive within our embattled political world, the town square where strangers do not exist, and everywhere in between.  In the American local theatre, our audiences join together, if only for two or three hours, to enjoy these stories as one appreciative voice.

                The companies which bring us our local theatre may be fledgling community troupes, or they can be institutions spanning decades.  They are little theatres, community theatres, repertory theatres, youth theatres, school theatres, church theatres, and every other kind of theatre imaginable.  You're likely to find them in your local high school, and even in school districts where belt-tightening requires the arts to live on a barely-subsistence level, the theatre faithful bring us our stories.

                If you're fortunate enough to live in college towns or perhaps major cities, you've likely seen thriving artistic scenes supporting many theatres providing venues for amateurs, professionals, and special groups dedicated to bringing specific theatrical visions to the people.

                Local theatre is American theatre, and it is as vital and necessary as it ever was.

                No matter where you are, you can find live local theatre if you look.  What you find may well astonish you.  I am continually astounded by them, and I have been involved with theatre in some way or other since I was a seven-year-old in a cheesy church pageant.

                I am constantly awed by the wide variety of people that attract theatre as participants, and the cause certainly requires all kinds.  The most obvious participants are the singers, dancers, and actors.  These folk are front and center, and without local theatre, you might never know that your accountant is an accomplished classical singer.  In fact, you might not know how talented you are, but the theatre is patient, and it nurtures all aspirants from the very young to retirees looking for a new adventure.  However, for every bright and beaming star of the stage, there are others who devote just as much or more for the great project.  They are carpenters, electricians, costumers, and many other types of skilled hands.  They are also those whose main talent is a willingness to be present and follow any necessary instructions to get the show moving.  These are some of my favorite people in the world.  They would tell you they are "just stage hands," "just ushers," "just, just, just."  In the theatre no one is "just" something.  There are no nameless cogs just down the way from Dilbert's cubicle.  They are your fathers, mothers, siblings, cousins, neighbors:  they are your community.  There are also volunteers and professionals who bring their very creative spirit to the project of the local theatre.  They direct, choreograph, design, plan, teach, worry, and well with pride when seeing the project they sweat blood for grow and begin to move on its own. 

                The truth of the theatre is this:  without one of these people, the spirit of the ensemble is different.  I've seen local theatres mourn the loss of one of their own with the respect, dignity, and circumstance that other organizations only reserve for their best and brightest.  I've seen scholarships, philanthropies, and countless awards named for ordinary people who devote their extraordinary lives to a local theatre.  I'm blessed to have known them, and I honor them in my own participation.

                In our local theatres, the audience is just as special as the members of the theatre itself.  They come together from almost everywhere, and for one night, they are a single body.  They represent a cross-section of the very economy of the town or city where their theatre resides.  Businesses understand the value of this.  Simply thumb through your playbill to see those local businesses who know the value of theatre in their communities and also that their investment in their own community is good for their well-being as well.  It is a human need.  William S. Burroughs famously wrote "This is a war universe.  War all the time.  That is its nature.  There may be other universes based on all sorts of other principles, but our seems to be based on war and games."  I would argue that our stories and communities keep our war universe from annihilating itself.

                To those of you who have not explored your local theatre, I don't know what more I can tell you!  But, I challenge you with this thought:  how many nights filled with rerun sitcoms after the evening news make one American life complete?  If you can spare just one night, then maybe, maybe there is a story out there that will touch your heart.  I believe there is.  I know there is.  I'll see you there.

The Worst Four-letter Word

Language has been on my mind quite a bit lately.  In today's society, what we say and how we say it are at the forefront of everything we experience.  This surrounding brings a lot of important questions with it:  Are we too thin-skinned?  Maybe so.  Are we too politically correct?  Maybe so, but there's bitter irony in one person telling another not to find something hurtful or demeaning.  Do you ever recall being worked up as a child or teenager and being told to "calm down?"  Drove you crazy, didn't it?

Here's something that drives me crazy.

Let me first be clear; I don't have many issues with language, foul or otherwise.  Like the philosophical musing that defined George Carlin's career, there are words that others find troubling, so it is important to respect and honor other people's reasons.  But, in the end, words won't hurt you.

For the most part, I agree, but there is one word in life, and in karate, that will hurt you as sure as any physical barrier.

That four letter word is C-A-N-T.

I hate that word.  It has defined stages of my life when accomplishments seemed impossible, and I feel strongly that any successes I have been fortunate to experience have been in direct opposition to that detestable concept of "can't."

The big problem with the word is that it implies permanence.  "I can't keep my guard up."  "I can't get that form right."  "I can't fight as well as he does."  None of this is useful.  These sentiments are defeatist, and they run counter to the defining principles of karate.

As practitioners and teachers (and, to me, everyone who advances can be a teacher, if even just by example), we must avoid the negative in our language because as quickly as we form them, our words become the thoughts of those that hear them.  "Can't" spreads faster than smallpox.

Of course, as instructors we must be very cognizant of students' real limitations.  Failing to do so can be just plan cruel.  But, for the most part, the kinds of limitations that I'm referring to are clear if we pay close enough attention.  As for the rest, we must expect excellence, and we have to squash "can't."  "Can" lies at the very center of our ethos, and when our students inevitably face the "can't wall" and feel that there isn't hope for them in the art, that it when the lesson of "can" is most empowering.

The WYKKO's motto is "Rikki Hitatsu," "make effort and you will achieve."  It's not a conditional.  It isn't "make effort and you might achieve."  WILL achieve.  WILL triumph.  WILL be fulfilled in this great discipline.  To define OSU again:  "PUSH ahead; NEVER give up."

I don't have take much stock in absolutes, but I am all about "never give up."

We live in a time where quitting is seen almost as a human right.  What I mean is this:  someone who doesn't feel like achieving can simply quit and shut away from scrutiny.  This isn't new.  Ever since the acquisition of skills became recreation rather than avocation, we've been bombarded with the idea that something must be fun all the time.  Karate is not fun all of the time.  I find there are days when the last thing I want to do is suit-up and come to class.  I do, however, because if I don't, then I deprive my students of the choice to come to class and achieve.  Without exception, after about ten minutes in class, I'm pumped up and enjoying myself just like practically every other class I've attended.

Before the Glory comes the Grunge.  And "can't" has no place in our Association of Continued Improvement.

OSU!

Winning Well, and Losing Better: Thoughts on Sportsmanship

I hear again and again that respect is something that must be earned.  "You don't just give it...blah, blah, blah...otherwise you're going to be a doormat your entire life."  I'm hearing it more and more in the social/cultural zeitgeist, and I just don't agree.

 Those worthy of real respect give it freely to all.  The only respect I have to truly earn is self-respect, and that is a process I have to learn every day.

Lately, I've been to several competitions and watched even more streamed online or on television.  I'm struck by the characters on display when it comes to the act of winning and losing.  I saw it a few months ago when Cam Newton, a local hero was praised weekly for marquis theatrics on winning, and then flayed by the same audience when he couldn't bring that same smile to the loss of the big, big game.

It's a simple matter of sportsmanship.  Both public responses were his fault...and ours, too.

We seem to live in a society now that insists that "winners win and losers lose."  Again, I absolutely disagree.  In  any zero-sum competition, there will be a winner and there will be a loser of the contest.  Whether those players are "winners" or "losers" is entirely up to them, irrespective of how we respond.

I've seen overwhelmingly good sportsmanship in my martial arts life, but even that sanctum is now falling to more and more of our culture's sense of "winning" and "losing."  Especially in competition fighting, there will always be a winner and a loser of the individual contest.  Most of the time, especially in the two organizations of which I am a member, the contest ends in a hug and congratulations on a good fight, good form, and good competition.

When the tone of the competition moves in the other direction, it absolutely breaks my heart.  Seeing semi-taunting victory, bitter loss, arguing with judges--this is all in dissonance with everything I believe about karate.  I used to see these responses very seldom, but now I'm seeing them a good bit more.  Fortunately, in the martial arts organizations I love so much, corrective action follows those behaviors, and it is clear that they are not okay.  In many cases, these are formative lessons for younger practitioners who are, although responsible for their actions as young adults, still at an age where an emotional response to loss or a perceived injustice such as a judge's call still makes sense.

It's hard to lose.  I've lost a lot in my life, and I've won a lot, too.  Funnily enough, the losses shaped my skill set more than the victories.  After taking a very hard jumping back-spin side kick to the solar plexus (which I felt for days), I spent a lot of time thinking about ways to neutralize that position.  I haven't been hit cleanly by that technique since that important lesson.  Of course, now that I've mentioned it, I'm sure that one of my esteemed colleagues will find a way to get one of them past me, but that's part of the learning experience, too!

The ability to compete is a gift.  I spent the last month preparing for sparring and forms for traditional tournament, but I sustained a minor (but painful) knee injury two days before tournament that severely limited what I was able to do.  Next year, I'm committed to bringing some real competitive spirit to the tournament.  I might win and I might lose.  I'm not particularly concerned either way.  I'll be competing with friends who I plan to know for the next thirty or forty years, and I plan to honor their effort and achievement no matter the outcome.

That's what makes tournaments great, and I'm hoping next year will be a big one.

 
OSU!

Why do you train?

I've been thinking quite a bit about my martial arts training lately.  Since the New Year, I've been in high intensity mode preparing for rank tests in Yoshukai karate (testing last month) and Kyuki-do (potentially testing around the end of the year).  When I put large amounts of effort into something, it permeates almost everything I do.  I'm walking through forms while performing mundane tasks at work, composing combinations and self-defense material in my head on a drive, and generally taking my thought processes to what I would consider "the next level."

As I mentioned in the previous paragraph, I recently tested to nidan (2nd degree black belt) in Yoshukai karate and received word yesterday that I passed.  Unlike my shodan test, the training for which was well-documented in this blog, I didn't make a massive workout plan and dedicate a whole summer simply to training.  At this point in my life, there wasn't time to be completely single-minded about my training.  But, I did turn up the volume on everything I did.  I lost the same amount of fat weight as I did for the last test, I did high-intensity forms and weapons work in preparation for non-stop testing (which ultimately didn't happen in the same way--we had too many people to run everything at once), and I focused my thoughts in preparation for my next training milestone.

For me, shodan represented a sense of overall accomplishment.  On the other side of a martial arts student's first black belt test, he/she becomes a black belt, and on some level, that distinction (if approached with any amount of reverence at all) remains with him/her for a lifetime.  The students become black belts, and their actions from that point determine what kind of black belts they will be.  Will they be the black belts that fall off of the radar after a while, celebrating their mark of achievement and then moving on to new goals and interests?  Will they focus on a single aspect of their art (fighting, forms, history, teaching) and move to excel towards that one major goal?  Or, will they surrender to the art itself, understanding that black belt is a mark of a new beginning, dedicating time to the full realization of what the arts can do?

In the last two years, a large portion of my training has been on my own.  Not alone, mind you.  I have a lot of support in my martial arts life, so the day to day training activities have been self driven since I must travel about 130 miles to the nearest practitioner.  But, when the day to day activities are solo, it tests individual drive every day.  After a long day at work, will you take an hour to hone that particular form under you iron out a few irritating issues completely, or will you veg out in front of netflix and take a rest?  On your (much too infrequent) day off, will you do something diverting or do about 500 kicks to keep the technique precise?

To me, nidan represents a much more tangible level of dedication, which moves beyond the "this is a fun activity I do" aspect of training.  From shodan, the view is mostly backward--"Hey, look how far I've come."  Starting nidan, the view I'm finding is, "I have so far yet to go."

The most important question I'm asking myself right now is, why do I train?  What specifically is it that is driving me, and how does that inform my values and my martial arts?  I believe strongly that question is one we must all ask seriously, and I am positive that my answer is always going to be evolving.

I've been training now for five years and six months, which compared to my black belt colleagues, is really very little time at all.  I initially got back into martial arts because I've always had a fascination with them, and I wanted to have something outside of my regular work to build upon and strive towards.  Martial arts gave me that in spades, and it continues to inform what I do.

One thing that has surprised me about my training is that it has reworked aspects of my personality from the inside out.  I have a temper, and sometimes it still gets the best of me.  But, that doesn't happen as much as it used to.  In fact, I'm almost never driven by my temper anymore.  Every interaction I have becomes an exercise in what I've learned in martial arts.  Deflect verbal aggression with respect, redirecting the conversation to something productive.  Approach difficult tasks like learning a complex form or technique, sometimes breaking down to one bite at a time, while sometimes taking a holistic approach, feeling my way through the entire sequence before going back and beginning again from a specifics-based approach.

History still drives a lot of my fascination.  One day, when this transitional period of my life becomes more regular with regards to work and my weekly schedule, I'll refocus my efforts on the large karate history project I have planned.  At this point, now all I really need is the time to travel and meet with those who've gone before me.  I strongly look forward to that day, and I know it's coming.

I'm older now than I was when I started, and certain physical things are creeping up on me.  I'm starting to have some issues with my knees, and at least for the short term, I've had to shorten stances a bit to keep the joints stable.  In the upcoming years, I want to build more flexibility to ameliorate that particular issue so I can enjoy the full aesthetic of the art.  I don't want to use injury as an excuse for mediocre performance, so it will take a lot of extra effort to build the surrounding muscles to take some pressure from those ligaments that are weakening.

I want to attempt some of the traditional martial arts "feats of strength" like a bat break and defensive feats like doing a break in shime, which I've seen colleagues demonstrate by having a dowel broken over their chest from a defensive posture.  I want to test my body in these ways to attempt something new.

I want to continue to experiment and build engagement in my teaching.  I want expansion within my school, and I want to impress upon them the great joy that a bit of travel can bring them by engaging with the WYKKO at large.

I want to build stronger relationships within the two major organizations with which I train.  For some, I'm sure that I'll need to be around a good bit longer before they'll see the kind of dedication that they consider "lifetime" dedication to the martial arts.

I want to take my fighting to the next level.  Or, to be frank, the next three levels.  I'm ok at it, don't get me wrong, but I want to be formidable, and it will take some serious focus to do that while training on my own because having a partner in sparring makes the experience so much broader.

Ultimately, I want to continue moving forward.  I think, given the last few years, that is a reasonable expectation, but I think it's important to write down in order to set the goals for myself, for my own personal accountability.

In short, I want to step it up.  This is why I train.

Why do you train?

Martial Arts: What are our goals?

I've been thinking a lot about goals lately.  For those of us that continually train in the martial arts, we might think about the motivating factors behind our training as continuous goal setting:  small goals, mid-range goals, long-range goals--you get the idea.  Because learning the arts is such a cyclical process, goals give us a way to benchmark our training and a checklist by which we can measure our own progress:  new techniques, new forms, new belts, new vistas of understanding.

In one of my earlier posts, I wrote about SMART criteria for goals (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic, Timely).  I think it's a wonderful way to form the kinds of goals that will make us most effective in their pursuit.  However, I'm not going to get into that again today.  Today, I'm more interested in the philosophical implications of our goals, particularly as they relate to the martial arts.

Whenever I see a martial arts school, I take a peek inside.  Partly because I'm a gigantic MA nerd, and I always want to be somewhere martial arts are being practiced, but also partly because I want to take in a quick sense of what a school's philosophy might be.  More than a few times, I have seen posters and banners with the sentence, "The (or Our) goal is black belt."

Alright, fair enough.  Black belt is a legitimate goal--of course, by itself, it doesn't meet SMART criteria, but it is still a specific enough target to work towards.  But, in looking at that approach, I'm often curious if sometimes "achieving black belt" supersedes "learning excellent martial arts," "developing our character," or many other philosophical goals that go hand in hand with the black belts I admire, and the black belt that I'm always trying to be.

It makes a lot of sense to make black belt the goal, especially early on.  I'm sure all of us have come into contact with a black belt or two (or fifty) who were just knock-your-socks-off awesome.  It is a serious motivator when we first enter class.  In fact, the impression made by a black belt (or an exceptional color-belt) can make or break the prospective student's level of faith in the school and what it represents.  So, of course we want to be that person.  Who wouldn't?

The grandmaster of Shotokan karate, Gichin Funakoshi, is famously attributed to the quotation, "The ultimate goal (sometimes translated as aim) of karate lies neither in victory or defeat, but in the perfection of the character of its participants."  Good stuff.  That is an excellent philosophical goal for a school or a style.  It's even a good goal for the individual, but saying "I want to perfect my character" is not enough, to my thinking.

So, what is it?  Great technique, serious character development, tournament victories, schools opened from coast to coast?  These are all fine philosophical goals, and I can't make a judgment call that would negate any of them.  Honestly, I would like to pursue every big martial arts goal in my power.  I probably don't want to compete in the octagon (it just doesn't seem to register well in my risk/reward analysis), but I do want to be a better fighter.  I doubt I will spearhead a national expansion of a martial art, but I'd sure like to be a part of one (or two).

But, let's step away from the big, sweeping things for a minute.  The main reason goals are so firmly planted in my mind lately is, a parent of a student said to me, "I want my son to be a black belt."  We talked briefly about that, and I told him a bit about my journey towards Shodan and Chodan (both first degree black belts), and as we spoke, I came to an answer that was nothing short of serendipity.

Before I get to it, let me describe for a moment what a black belt is, to me.  A black belt isn't something that you are, it isn't something that you have, and it isn't something you've earned.  "Black belt" is something that you DO.  It is a decision to embrace excellence on every level.  I've known (and know) white belts who are black belts to be.  Even if it's just for a day, that attitude takes hold of them, and they experience a taste of everything I love about the martial arts.  On the flip side, I've known black belts who (even for a short period of time) forget that attitude, and at that moment, the most impressively tattered old shihan black belt won't overcome that lack of spirit.  Thankfully, that veer from "the way" seems often short.  We all have bad days, and I think it's possible that, as people who are not perfect, we can't always be black belts--even if we've earned one.

What I said to the parent that's stuck with me is this:  "I want your son to love the martial arts as much as I do.  Every other goal I can think of will follow that.  He's doing the legwork of that right now:  trying everything I ask him to try, doing more than he thinks he can, and grinning like a maniac the entire time."  Thinking over that conversation has brought me to my newest martial arts goal:  I want to always be surrounded by people who love the martial arts.  Enthusiasm is contagious--especially the enthusiasm of a new student.  It can make the experience feel like new for everyone on the mat.  OSU!

The Ethical Teacher

For the last few months, I've been actively engaged in solo training.  For most martial artists, if they train long enough, there will be a period of time where responsibilities or proximity to home schools prohibit regular in-class training.  It's definitely tough.  Of the martial artists I know who have moved away from their home schools, a large percentage end of leaving their training.  It's so easy to do so.  A week without class becomes a month, a year, and then longer.  Solo training has been my biggest test of discipline so far in the martial arts, and it has yielded some interesting thoughts with regards to our responsibilities in the arts, particularly with regards to teaching.

This is my first post in a *long* time.  My main reason for this has a lot to do with solo training.  When you talk about martial arts (or any interest) often enough, germinal thoughts become a lot easier to put into words.  I'd definitely like to write more, but for now, an occasional post will have to do.

My most interesting thoughts recently have been about ethics.  In training, we talk a lot about our individual ethical responsibilities as practitioners with regards to respect and the safety of those around us.  One idea I haven't spent a lot of time talking about is our responsibility as teachers of the arts and the effect those responsibilities have on others.

The following are a few free-form thoughts on the subject.  They are by no means definitive, and for me, they give us a starting point for future conversations on the subject!

Our first responsibility, and perhaps the most obvious one, is related to the safety of those we train with and teach.  The interesting thing about this is that it extends beyond the dojo walls.  Martial artists that are well-trained spiritually, mentally, and physically are instruments of safety and security in the world.  Injuries happen, but the way we handle them translates into how emergent situations are handled by students as well.  Are the injuries taken seriously?  Is there a plan for reporting and handling the situations?  In the schools where I have trained, the answer is yes, and that example not only gives me confidence in a safe environment, but also that my experience and the experiences of my classmates is worth enough to my instructors to take the extra steps to provide that kind of environment.

Our next responsibility is to be the example.  Again, this is an obvious choice, but it has serious implications when taken as an ethical model.  We can wax philosophical about respect, teamwork, the proportional use of force, and many other considerations for as long as we want, but if we are not actively working towards that example, students are not going to take our philosophy seriously.

Here are a few ways we can be a positive example in our teaching:

The ethical teacher is visible, attending as many classes as possible.  It may be necessary for periodic absences, especially in times of major work or personal responsibilities, but when all is tallied, the leaders need to be present.  I think students are reassured when they can count on seeing high ranks in attendance.

The ethical teacher is technical, performing to the best of his/her ability.  There are always going to be physical limitations, but it instills great confidence in students to see technical proficiency in instructors.  I've heard Sensei Hofmeister say time and again, "I'm not the best fighter, but I know how to make you a better fighter."  It's easy to believe a statement like that when instructors demonstrate excellent technique day-in and day-out, and it's easy to trust that teacher to help you improve.

The ethical teacher is inquisitive.  There are many facets to the martial arts, and not everything is going to interest everyone.  But, an excellent teacher recognizes those interests in students and improves his/her understanding in order to provide better individual instruction.  One of my favorite pulpy novel series, The Dresden Files, has many references to teaching after Harry takes on an apprentice about eight books into the series.  Later passages refers to his use of magic that used to be far out of his comfort zone because he learned more to provide his apprentice with a more personalized training regimen.

The ethical teacher in consistent.  Respect, rules, and requirements have to be observed with regularity in order to become part of a school's culture.  Once those habits start to set in, it can be gently enforced from every level of the student body.  That way, everyone know what is expected, and students can experience a truly comfortable training environment.

The ethical teacher is indomitable.  At the end of a particularly tough drill, the instructor is there, sweating with even the most physically fit students.  This is the kind of example that inspired me as a white belt.  Operation Shodan Fit would never have happened if I hadn't experienced hard workouts with my instructors in full participation from the beginning.

As promised, this list is far from exhaustive, but it does start the discussion nicely.  What do you think an ethical teacher needs?

OSU!