An Unlikely Master

One year ago was the point at which I’d planned to retire from teaching taekwondo. Earlier that year some students and I had begun discussing a transition of some sort to take place in our program beginning in June 2020. June 2020 would be the month in which I would turn 60 years old. Of course, the COVID-19 pandemic hit a few months before that and there was no such thing as smooth left for any transition.

I wasn’t planning to retire because of age. During the holidays of 2019 I l had looked back and looked ahead. I had started taekwondo training twenty-six years prior to then. I’d tested for and achieved my fifth dan rank at age 50. I’d never expected to stick around taekwondo in the first place back in 1993 when I’d started; I had imagined that once my four-year-old son had gotten oriented to class I might stop, since the only reason I’d signed up is because I HAD to join class with him so HE could start, him being so young.

Additionally, earlier that year, in April of that 2019 year, I had started a full time day job that took unique time, energy, and attention. Finally, and perhaps most so, my wife and I had a first grandchild coming in January 2020 and were expecting regular travel in our future in order to be in his life. It was time to start a different phase of life, a different era, a different mode. Grandpa mode?

Throughout most of this past year I’ve been in taekwondo-retirement mode, full program manager mode at work, and most joyously, have definitely been in grandpa mode.

When I was in my mid to late forties and teaching taekwondo, I would raise to people I knew the possibility of starting classes as middle-aged adults. Men, moreso than women, would comment that their days for something active like that were over. More than one noted that they were going to be a grandpa soon (at perhaps age 50). They were ready to slip into grandpa mode, and that didn’t mean the kind where you can run around after the little one and maybe climb the occasional tree. It meant, “Done with that kind of stuff.”

Well, if I’ve been in grandpa mode this past year, it has mostly been to continue to move and train in ways that respect my older body and physical status (mostly respect; it’s a day to day learning experience, for sure! Ask my family about an injury or two . . . ) yet still help me keep — or ever further develop — the strength, mobility, balance, endurance and overall vitality to chase after Christian, to crawl on the floor with him, to hold him in my arms and stand up with no assistance, to jump from rock to rock and climb a tree. Heck, I didn’t do that stuff when I was a kid, and now I have a chance to share it with my grandson! More so, I want to be a grandpa who CAN do stuff, who doesn’t squander any potential I yet have. To me, it’s a gift to be accepted, more so than a challenge to be met; treat the gift well!

So, I have retired from teaching taekwondo. I have also chosen to retire from keeping up this blog with its particular perspective. Just as I’ve entered a new phase of physical life I’m also entering a new phase of blogging life. I have started a new blog, just launched this very day, sharing this very post.

That new blog is called . . . Grandpa Mode! I will share my experience of physical activity, focusing on what I discover while I train and play as a 60-plus year old, adapting to aging the best I can figure out. Most important, in Grandpa Mode I hope that it becomes a community of sharing, learning, support and inspiration for people who read and participate. I hope readers comment and discuss. I plan to offer guest posts from other guys past age 50, 55, 60 and beyond to share their own experience, lessons and motivations in their aging physical activity. A blog might not end up being the ideal forum for such interaction; I will adapt to that in time as necessary. Until then, here we go!

Please, if you are inclined, click over to GrandpaMode.com and subscribe. Share it with others for whom it might be relevant.

Thanks for being a reader. See you in the treehouse!

For the first time, I’m going to essentially simply reblog someone else’s post. This post by Gaelynn Lea, titled An Open Letter to the Mayor of Duluth (and Mayors Everywhere) About COVID-19,  publicly brings forth many of the sentiments I’ve expressed to those around me these past few weeks, save for the recommendation to require masks; I see her sentiments as coherent with the beliefs I committed to writing in my two most recent posts in this blog.

I may elaborate and explain another time. For now, I’ll let Ms. Lea’s letter speak for itself, and for me in good measure. Good on ya, Gaelynn. You are a Warrior.

I started my Taekwondo training at age 33 (along with my not-quite five year old son, Robert). I was overweight, previously inactive, and had no real fitness, never mind athletic or competitive, background. Just a cream-puff dad starting martial arts so his son could start.

Part of Taekwondo’s tradition is sparring. Sparring was not my thing, and I avoided it whenever possible, both as a color belt and then as a black belt. I had to learn to judge it, referee it, and coach it, but I avoided doing it. And, I didn’t really train for it. I fought a handful of times, mostly when the corps of color belts or black belts were asked to shore up numbers at a tournament or help to highlight competition in some way.

In local and regional tournaments, then and now, it’s hard to get sufficient divisions to accommodate rank, size and age. So, if you want to spar, you never know whom you’re going to get placed with. Maybe by the time I hit age 45 there were sometimes “senior” or “executive” divisions, which usually meant age 30 & older. (Insert giant-sized rolling-eyes emoji here.)

Compared to me, my potential opponents were generally younger, taller (I’m five-foot-five), and likely better practiced for sparring. Also, I simply was afraid of getting the snot knocked out of me! I was a husband and a dad, with a very-dad bod. Oh, and I also was blind in one eye with whatever limitations or risks came along with that (*WHACK* Didn’t see THAT one coming . . . “Huh? How many fingers?”)

Then, one year our Korean Great Grand Master introduced Kumdo/Kumbup training to us. Sword arts. Kumbup, wooden-someday-sharp sword technique practice, and also Kumdo, armor & bamboo sword training for sparring competition. We drove five hours one-way across the state once a month for a few hours of training; we did that for two years or so, maybe three, before head instructors could supervise local training.

Our big, annual August black belt camp, an outdoor camp taking over part of a state park, began including a Kumdo tournament. With this being a newer art for our organization and seeking to build a following, it was pretty much mandatory that we competed. We weren’t legally obligated to compete, of course, but we definitely were in a tradition of “there is no answer other than yes sir/ma’am.” Whether we preferred it or not, we prepared for a battle each August. And, like a Taekwondo tournament, you never knew who would show up as your opponents, how easy or tough a battle it would be.

I felt better about Kumdo sparring than I did about Taekwondo sparring, even if only seeing out of one eye while wearing a vision-obscuring, breath-inhibiting helmet was its own challenge. I might pass out but I wouldn’t get knocked out! I might get purple welts but I won’t get any cracked ribs. Still, coming from my non-competitive background, I had trepidation. I realize now how much a fragile ego came into play; I didn’t want to look bad, or feel bad about not showing well. Still, over those first few years I gained confidence.

Things changed one year. I decided I was going to get ready and I was going to win, or die trying. Even though I had always trained regularly and worked hard, I buckled down and got more serious. I trained harder yet. I also took on a greater mental intensity, a singularity of focus, a commitment. Even if the next tournament was nearly a year away, I did what I believed was necessary to prepare to win. I prepared in a way that was harder than would be the actual event, more challenging than any opponent, more arduous than would be the mid-August-sun-beating-down-on-us-armor-wearing-warriors conditions. I was ready for battle.

August arrived. Three matches. Three opponents. Three wins. First place. Even if I hadn’t won, I think I would have felt satisfied knowing that I gave it my best. I wouldn’t have lost for lack of preparation.

Right now, we as a community and a nation are preparing for a battle and we don’t know how challenging it will be. Actually our preparation is in support of the people and institutions (aka medical establishment) who will be in the battle, as they prepare to face the challenge. We are all preparing in an extraordinary way to make the fight as easy as possible. To fail to prepare is to prepare to fail.

We don’t know how long the battle will last. We don’t know how tough the opponents will be. We don’t know what the conditions will be. We don’t know how many matches or rounds there will be. We might be oddly disappointed that it turns out to be a pretty flat event. We should find peace of mind in knowing that we have prepared and sacrificed the best we can to win even the most challenging battle. Better that than to get the snot knocked out of us.

What does the  concept of Warrior conjure up for you? Any of the following?

Bravery. Courage. Strength. Action. Being willing to step up and fight. Volunteer to do the hard  thing. Lead in challenging times. Sacrifice for the greater good. Drop ego and selflessly serve others.

What else?

I’ve been told that the meaning of a Black Belt is “Impervious to fear and darkness.” Taking that at face value, many might argue that a Warrior:

Is the one who still ventures out in public, work, church, Taekwondo class (taking responsible precautions, of course) and continue business as usual.
Helps to continue to maintain the economy and carry on with work because it still has to get done.
Chooses to be there for classes for those that are committed.
Models positive, courageous action in the midst of fear.
Is an active light in the midst of darkness.
Takes action! Don’t just sit there!

I’ve also been told that a Taekwondo practitioner, or Warrior, stands up for the weak and vulnerable. Well, if that’s the case, then a Warrior might:

Be brave by showing restraint (staying home).
Show strength by resisting the urge to do business as usual.
Show courage by moving against the tide of denial.
Take action by choosing inaction.
Step up and volunteer to do the hard thing (stay home).
Stand up to the fear of being criticized for overreacting or being scared.
Speak out against the criticism of public closures.
Lead in this confusing time.
Sacrifice for the greater good.
Act to protect the weak and vulnerable.

Social distancing isn’t about us getting sick or not. It’s about reducing transmission of the virus so that those who are weak and vulnerable don’t get sick. It’s about protecting others. It’s not about protecting ourselves or our egos.

“A Warrior is willing to courageously step up, volunteer and sacrifice to protect others, particularly the weak and vulnerable, for the greater good.” I like that.

So, as I will put it to our Lighthouse students: now that you’ve listened to that, what’s it mean to you?

Yes, you! 🙂 What’s it mean to you?

I’ve been known to occasionally say,
“He needs a punch in the face.”
It’s usually just a general observation,
perhaps regarding a General (once, I think)
or a senator or a president or
maybe just that guy who is always “that way.”

Whomever I’m with at the time looks aghast,
aware of my Tae Kwon Do,
my Courtesy and Integrity and Self-Control,
and says something like,
“I’m sure you could do that well,”
unsure what else to say.

I’ve never been punched in the face, nor punched anyone there,
nor anywhere, for real, at least, as opposed to play.
There have been a few errant fists in training:
“Ooops, I’m sorry, “ I hear, or I say,
and the shiner exclaims, “At least they’ll be a story to tell someday!”

I have been kicked, too,
ten thousand times, I imagine,
and have kicked others:
the breath gone, or ribs bruised,
or a Weeble to the head
that made me Wobble but not fall down.

And the sword . . .
A bamboo whack above the protective shell,
the purple welt under the arm,
or the wooden hornet-sting on the wrist,
or the “thank god for armor” thrust to the throat,
that stops you in your tracks, head snapped back.

Fists of stone can break your bones, but words?
They are much safer to throw, you know;
at least a far as the law is concerned.
Sling what you will but don’t throw a kick!

Have you felt the word that left a bruise,
or broke a bone, not for real, but the other kind?
Have you thrown a phrase that stopped a heart or crushed a soul?
Deliberate or stray, there’s always a story to tell.

What about a kick to the gut,
when what happened took the wind right out of you,
or made your head spin, or dropped you cold?
And, you know, an attack to the back is against the rules,
yet people get away with it all the time. Have you?

The ninja might be the most deadly of all.
Invisible, absent,
silent and still,
yet day by day, nick by nick,
their dagger brings death by seventy-times-seven cuts.
Even a cowardly ninja can simply suppress sustenance
for body and soul,
since it’s always easier to defeat a weakened enemy,
or just kill them through attrition.

Was it Bruce Lee, or maybe Gandhi, who asked,
“When is a punch not a punch,
a kick not a kick,
a cut not a cut?”

Maybe when it’s from the true Warrior,
open hearted,
who stands in front,
hands at sides,
exposed.

Some things just go together, right? Baked potatoes and sour cream. Valentine’s Day and flowers. Politicians and lobbyists. L and bow (movie reference, Robb? Leave it in the comments!). Eggs, avocado and kimchi (take my word for it, they do.). And then there is dogs and play.

After saying goodbye to our old Labrador mix last June, in October we came across Chester, a pure-bred Golden Retriever. All six-months-&-thirteen-days of Chester got into the rear seat of our Nissan on October 23, 2018. We originally planned to adopt-a-mutt; opportunity said otherwise and we re-homed Chester from an 81-year-old woman who realized that Chester was more dog than she could handle. Uh: yeah.

Right from the get-go we had 50 pounds of puppy jumping and grabbing, grabbing and jumping. Fun and tiring. Frustrating and enlivening. Go go go. Play play play. Lots of walks, runs and chews.

Chester got to meet his cousin Lincoln and play (aka wrestle and chase) for the first time. Chester ran free on the golf course, fetched frisbees and balls and, when snow came, swam through snow and jumped up snowbanks.

As I’ve seen Chester grow and develop, gain size and strength and coordination and skills, add muscle and visibly change shape, get smarter, be in the moment and enjoy whatever-it-is-that’s-happening, it occurred to me one day, “Hey, look at all of that amazing development, and all he does is play.” No weights, no program, no structure, no gym. Just play.

Chester doesn’t seem to be terribly concerned with exactly how fast he’s running, or how often he runs. He runs when he feels like it, as hard as he feels like it, and stops when he feels like it. Sometimes he jumps onto something, just because it’s there. He enjoys it doing it. And he gets faster.

Chester doesn’t seem to be concerned with how far or how fast he can drag the whatever, or how many times he tries, or exactly how heavy it is. He just pulls and struggles, gets it or not, tries and tries and maybe tries again. He has fun (according to the wagging tail). And he gets stronger.

Chester doesn’t seem to be terribly concerned with the outcome of his wrestling play with Lincoln. He gets in there and tries. He works. He experiments. He is excited by it. And he gets better. Strength. Endurance. Timing, Coordination. Understanding. No classes. No program.

Chester plays and he improves. He isn’t following a structure or schedule; he’s not concerned about balancing competing plans and priorities. He doesn’t seemed concerned accomplishment or image. He just plays.

He not only enjoys, he seems to be in joy. That’s a nice place to be.

Speaking for myself at least, I do feel that many of us often do a lot of violence to ourselves over plans and progress. We abuse our bodies and bash our psyches. Violence, force, discipline, shame — to self or others. Those approaches can work to help get the job done . . . as does beating an energetic, disobedient dog. Just because it works doesn’t mean it’s a good approach. I think there are better ways.

We all know the energy of play. Being in the moment, doing, producing. I’ve done it in the Taekwondo gym, on the yoga mat, on the rowing machine, at the keyboard, and in the factory at the conveyor belt and on the loading dock. I even played in a hospital room. Play as action.  Play as mindset.

We all are moved by different motivations: love, improvement, competition, achievement or profit. We can be quite serious about those ends. Yet I think play is a missing element that brings a powerful spirit to all of those things.

When Bonnie and I first moved to Minnesota we took a cross-country skiing class together. Neither of us had been on skis. In northern Minnesota it seemed like a way to get exercise during long winters. As she and I spent more time falling and getting up than actually moving forward, I was getting frustrated and saying naughty words. Bonnie, struggling to get back up yet again, began laughing uncontrollably. I blurted, “How can you be laughing?” She replied, “Don’t you think this is just hilarious? It’s so ridiculous it’s funny!” She continued to laugh and smile and shake her head the rest of the way back, which I recall involved walking. And we never skied again.

Had I approached that experience as play, I might have relished the exploration of the activity and appreciated the great core development of standing back up so often! I recently got my first-ever snow shoes and I’m looking forward to playing with those for the first time in the back yard this weekend. With Chester.

I  now take Chester for a walk and sometimes we sprint. Sometimes we walk. Sometimes we run for a fast minute or two. No particular plan or expectation. And I’m getting faster and gaining endurance.

I practice yoga. I stop before the final place in an asana and explore. I push to the final place and I accept it with a smile. “Hmmm.” or “Cool!” I push past it and I fall and laugh. I start following a video and then I might start just doing what I want to do instead at some point. I play.

During the day I might see that the time has crossed over into the new hour and decide to do some pushups, or some type of body movement or Taekwondo action. Not planned. Just play; see what happens.

Students in Taekwondo classes sometimes get frustrated as they attempt to learn a technique and berate themselves for being too slow or uncoordinated or out of shape or old or not cut out for this. More and more I respond, “Just play with it.” Play takes away the pressure, reduces the stress, puts one in the moment, frees up the mind and spirit to explore and discover. Whether learning a Taekwondo spinning kick or working with a team on a deadline at work, I think play can bring out the best in us.

Of course, teaching kids in Taekwondo can be a great opportunity to keep an element of play in one’s life, (sorry, no video!) as can working and playing with kids in any case. You can even integrate kids into your own workouts. (That’s not me, of course; thanks to a different Correia for making his little cousins’ day!)

A Taekwondo master colleague and I are preparing for our respective next rank promotion tests (5th and 6th degree black belt). I initially found myself being anxious about age, rustiness of technique and physical condition, and how that will play-out during an intense test of skill. I might look incompetent, mess up, not pass! I found myself intimidated and frustrated as I began to practice things I’d not done so aggressively in a while.

And then I changed my mindset and began to play.

I’ve begun playing my way through practice, and I’ve begun to look at the test experience as simply a different arena of play. That doesn’t mean I won’t apply my best skill to defend against attacks, my best focus and power to breaking, my best intensity to forms and sparring. It just means I’ll train and test like Chester!

The Taegeuk in the middle of the South Korean flag represents balance and harmony. More than simply balanced amounts of opposites (heat and cold, activity and rest), I see the notion of harmony as indicating an integration or a resonance together of things that aren’t the same. Rather than work then play we can have work and play or even work as play. Anyone properly oriented to FISH!® in the workplace knows that the principle of PLAY! is a whole lot more than just being silly or having fun. It’s finding the energy that’s needed to take things to new levels and open things up for people to offer their best.

How am I going to prepare for and pass a high level Taekwondo test? How am I going to push myself to reclaim a higher level of physical fitness and preparedness? How am I going to avoid stressing out over all of the challenges and all of the speed bumps along the way?

I’m going to play with my dog!

(Please, I encourage you to leave a comment, share your experience: where or how you play; how you make play in various circumstances; when you are challenged or forget to play. Maybe our collective experiences are playing together, and helping all of us better make or find play!)

Call it the summer between fourth and fifth grades. It just happened.  He called me queer eye.  (I was born blind in one eye and it looks “off.”) I called him blubber boy (ironic, coming from a fat kid, but he was fatter).  I never did know who started it.  Steve and I circled around each other amidst a gathering circle of other boys.  “Fight, fight, fight!” Lord of the Flies at (Catholic) Cathedral Camp.

I’d never been in a fight and really didn’t want to be in one; Id’ always been afraid of getting beat up. Now there I was, and Continue reading →