How Young is Too Young?

[Video description: YouTube video of very young children in China dribbling basketballs]

Some students at our dojo start at age 3. Instructors work through non-verbal and minimally verbal communication, tantrums, freshly emerging physical development, shyness, hyperactivity, nervous parents, rogue bodily fluids, and more. Instructors receive ongoing training to understand childhood development and the role of martial arts in that process for our students, through adolescence, all the way into adulthood, and beyond. Because they started early we now have a bunch of junior black belts of exceptional ability, and they'll be waiting for several years for their adult Shodan (1st degree black belt) test.

Meanwhile, they continue to develop the maturity and awareness that it takes to have the character of a black belt. Their classmates look up to them as role models for technique and character. Their Senpai (senior karate practitioners) depend on their energy and generational commonality to motivate the adults and to connect with the younger students, respectively. In my humble opinion, too young is not an issue with the trainee, but with the trainer.

Even the Bible tells us that youth is not a barrier (I Tim 4:12*). As the youngest of three I was often excluded from activities because I was too young. It has forever isolated me from my cousins, who are all at least ten years older than I am, which I deeply regret. I missed out on a lot, and I never quite managed to pick up the pace and catch up to wherever I suppose I could have been by now. I've had to learn to let that go, and to manage my pace, because Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome does not allow for controlled burns of energy without at least double the recovery time of an average person. Any less recovery time bears consequences, like depleted energy stores, internal organ dysfunction, or increased dislocations due to fatigue and physical stress on the connective tissues.

It will surprise me if I ever see myself able to pace myself--my body's abilities and limits are moving targets. All I can do is push for early opportunities and early interventions. This does not mean that one should place a child under tremendous pressure to perform a task, whether it's karate, piano, maths, or anything they don't want to do. Encouraging and giving support are okay. Force is not okay. I don't know that "too young" is a thing. Too old isn't a thing in our school. Too disabled isn't a thing in our school. We work with what God gives us.

Thank you for joining me here in my blog today.

 Be well. 

 *1 Timothy 4:12 King James Version (KJV) 12 Let no man despise thy youth; but be thou an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity.

On the Balance of Kata, Bunkai, Kumite, and Iri Kumi

The first iri kumi of a martial artist with disabilities is the battle to seek and find a school and instructor who will take them on, without preoccupation for their disability, their ability, and any perceived potential liability.

At the bottom of this post is a list of people of all sorts of cool abilities. I thought about them during this post and think it will enrich this post if you check out the links.

[Image: a river bank in Japan with trees in the foreground and a stone lantern in the background. Colours are different shades of green under a mid-day overcast sun. Text in picture:
"Karate becomes a sport when those who are teaching it forget that it is an art."
-Karate Viewpoints]

A facebook thread of friendly  "chest thumping" got unexpectedly philosophical with questions about who is practicing something martial and who is practicing art.

Loosely defined, here is what the words mean from the title of this blog post:

• Kata - a series of movements commonly referred to as the textbooks of karate
• Bunkai - ways to use movements from the kata in fighting
• Kumite - "grappling hands" 
• Iri kumi - free, controlled exchange of technique, often continuous hard contact

It was said, paraphrased, that those who do not practice iri kumi are not learning to fight, they are learning an art.

For a second, it hurt to think that, if I didn't practice iri kumi I was not practicing the martial part of the art that preoccupies my life. I am used to being told that I am some one way or another, as are most people with disabilities. But the more I thought of other martial artists with disabilities who motivate and challenge me, I became anxious about our inherent right to learn to protect ourselves by any means possible. 

Probably I will spend the rest of my life contemplating the following four questions, on and off again.

1. Where is there room in how martial arts is defined for different people--from within and from without?
2. Are people with disabilities who can't regularly practice iri kumi, then, only practicing an art? Is there room (and there may not seem to be) that it may also give them a fighting chance?
3. Everyone is fighting a battle, and people with disabilities are at constant iri kumi vs. life. But so is everyone else, so how is our existence framed when viewed from the non-martial arts lens?
4. If I didn't have so many projects already I would take time to to look through my materials and see what Higaonna-Sensei has to say directly about kata, bunkai, kumite, and iri kumi. Beliefs grow and develop over time, like it or lump it, but it will be helpful for me to keep looking both back and forward. Any particular points of interest?

I am especially grateful for every person, group, school, and organization that welcomes students of all ability levels.

-=-=-

People I've thought about during this post:

1. My Sensei, who took me on and we made a plan to be safe; who requires that I (we) understand the techniques as they were written for able-bodied majority, and that I (we) find adaptive ways to perform techniques effectively at any functional level: http://www.warriorsofgracekarate.com
2. Higaonna-Sensei, who remarked that it looked like I was having fun; who took time to make suggestions about how he would like to see kata and techniques performed. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morio_Higaonna
3. The ever-growing number of karateka with disabilities in my dojo, which we all celebrate with joy that we can be such a place where all are welcome.
4. John Marrable-Sensei who paved the way as a Goju Ryu karateka with a visible disability and looks to be absolutely lethal: http://johnmarrable.com/self-defence/
5. Ikkaido Federation http://ikkaido.com/
6. Olando Rivera's Warriors for Autism: http://olandoskickboxing.com/
7. SuperCelu, my hero: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8cygU1x6RM
8. Andrea Harkins, The Martial Arts Woman, who featured my narrative in her first anthology: http://www.themartialartswoman.com/
9. Chris De Wet-Sensei, who helps me face the reality that not all experts will have the answers I need, and that I have a responsibility to find those answers for myself, which will empower me to help others grow: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nSNDxjADH1E
10. Michael Downs-Sensei who helps me focus on helping others grow by acknowledging both my disabilities and capabilities: http://defensiveartsdojo.com/
11. Me (here I am! Hi! I did think of myself.)

Teach Their Children Well

On Saturdays, when I am able, I work with the children at our dojo. Someday they will inherit the earth. I have an opportunity to do a small part in helping them grow to be their best. As Senpai, senior karate students, make ourselves ready to support the children with whatever they need. We support each other and work together when things come up. Sometimes it's a seamless transition. Other days it's a little grittier to get through. We never complain or show disappointment because we respect the children as we do ourselves and one another.

We don't learn about our students by their challenges, or even by their strengths. We learn about our students by who they are as people. We learn about our students by their names, by their interests, by the activities they like doing, by the things they're working on. Students of all ages have needs of all kinds. Some are the Autism Spectrum. Some pronate, others supinate, meaning their feet turn inward or outward. Students with ADD or ADHD move constantly. Other students with anxiety hardly move at all. Students with physical disabilities move a little more slowly or rush to get through. Students with intellectual disabilities may slide by undetected because they have excellent behaviour.

Someday I will be knowledgeable enough to be the Lead Senpai. Sensei is trusting us with the development of children in his charge. He is also trusting us with the majority of his income, his business, his livelihood. I am trusting myself to lead the children with a sense of healthy detachment, but constant presence. I well up with tears when they do well and I tell them so. Of course I do, I love them. I have so much love to give and this is an outlet for it, but it's not enough to fill the void.

Working with the children is the most mentally challenging way for me to participate in karate. Not only do I have to be on my game, but I also have to stow away the overwhelming grief that comes with helping other people's children, knowing at some point they will go home to their parents and families, but I've no child of my own. If I carry children it's a 50-50 shot that they'll inherit Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. I have ethical concerns about both carrying and not carrying, and I'm on the fence. Sometimes the pain of this truth hits me so hard that I have to excuse myself to go and cry in my car. The emotional wave usually hits when I am also sick. At some point with running around I get sick and start blacking out from cyclic episodes of Dysautonomia/POTS and erratic blood pressure. As the nausea creeps up and my visual field goes in and out I remember that I'm sick, my heart sinking as I bow and walk away from the kids on the floor to recover out of sight. If I can't see straight I have to stop because I also can't hear at all in the dojo. It's a heavy thing.

How does it get so heavy on my heart? It would be better to focus on the children, on their needs, and on their strengths. My personal issues do not belong in the dojo, they should be checked at the door, tucked into the cubby with my shoes and car keys. Every Saturday, though, I come home with an ache like my heart is trying to hold up a dead piece of itself, trying not to miss a beat as I move on to the next activity. Every Saturday afternoon I spend a period of time in tearful prayer for those kids, in grief over the children I haven't got. I give thanks to God that I was well enough to help the kids and I pray to St. Jude for the children I can't help. I pray to St. Anthony to help me find the hope that I'll move through whatever lies ahead for me, children or no children. I pray for the resilience to accept my lot and move forward. But man, is it heavy: it is a brick I cannot seem to lift and assimilate into the wall of life experiences.

Saturday is a time of personal development for me, but I'm spinning my wheels because I had been expecting a family by the end of 2013. My first-born would have been 2 by now--walking, wiping snot on things, learning phonics, learning social skills. Instead I grieve like we had actually gotten to the point of conception and we'd lost it. (We were a little over a month from starting the process when my wife left). I grieve like there was a baby, not just a plan for a baby. I grieve at the memory of all the videos we'd made for the baby about how we really wanted it, how we looked forward to it, what our life was like before the baby. I just grieve. It's a deep ache. I've been able to let go of my marriage, but the baby is a cold and frozen feeling that won't be shaken or even soothed. The personal development is in learning to accept that pain, learning to not let it knock me over, learning to not let it influence my work with the children at the dojo.

It would be much easier and far less painful to work with the adults, but the dojo needs more help with the children, and avoiding the problem does not solve it. So, I try to see Saturday as an opportunity to grow and find peace with it. I don't think there's anything harder I do in life than try to get through Saturday.

If I had children I'd struggle to hear them or they'd need to sign. I'd be tired and they'd have to play with each other. They'd have to care for each other when I'm sick. They could be or get sick themselves. But they'd have so much love. They'd have support, education, hope, faith, strength, and integrity. They'd be creative. They'd be loved, and they'd love themselves. They'd work hard at everything they do, including karate. They'd be just like the children at the dojo.

Saturdays are the hardest days of the week for my emotions to navigate.

Swimming In Zanshin

Higaonna-Sensei says in an interview, "when I get a knee injury, one would normally think, what to do? [...] One should learn to live with it. [...] Stress is a person's biggest enemy."

This is a very hard lesson to get behind, though I understand his point. Learning to live with it is easier when the injury doesn't change and is localized. I suppose if I had one bad knee, with pain that didn't change much in severity, or didn't require an immediate and improvised adaptation to my day, I probably wouldn't get choked up.  This is something to work on.

But Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome does change, and it changes from moment to moment. A lesson that speaks to me more is the concept of Zanshin. This is not a word we shout for a stronger punch. It is not a kata, a level, or a formality at the beginning and end of class. It is not a part of our uniform, or a move, or an application. Zanshin is integral to our very way of being, and translates to the concept of residual awareness. That is, after a match has ended, or after a kata has finished, one still does not let one's guard down. Zanshin is the concept of always being ready for more, never being unready when the next adventure begins.

Zanshin can be overwhelming for me to follow because I get tired. I get physically, intellectually, and emotionally tired, of always having to take care of my body. If it's possible to have clinical compassion fatigue for one's own body, I've waxed and waned through that state of mind like ocean waves change with the weather and tide. Those waves range from gentle, rippling nonchalance to thrashing, wild swells that can even drown me in their whitecaps. My world becomes very small as I dive into managing my needs. Luckily, at some point I always manage to come up for air. It is in those moments when I break through to the surface that, even with all the air I need, I am forever preparing myself for the next time I will go under. All people experience certain aspects of their lives in waves. With EDS it can be rapid-cycling, or lingering, or stormy for a long time, so it is best to be ready.

What can we do? We can practice the best habits as often as possible: eating well (or managing our tube feeds/TPN), staying hydrated, managing our energy levels, keeping in contact with a healthy support system, and so on. We can educate ourselves: read an anatomy and physiology 101 book, learn basic medical terminology so we can communicate with our doctors, get proper testing to establish baselines for our most vulnerable body parts and systems.

No enemy is going to worry about whether I am ready for the next blow. No ocean concerns itself with the swimmer. The more I learn, the less effort it takes to be ready. Knowledge is power. Zanshin is the practice of being ever ready to use that power when necessary. Zanshin is how one learns to swim through the waves.

How Can I Do Karate?

Last Tuesday I made it to the dojo for the first time in two long, miserable months! I was excited and terrified. No one around me seemed particularly surprised to see me there, and no one seemed to notice (until I opened my trap about it) that I was on hyper-alert. I was afraid of dislocating, passing out, or having my blood pressure plummet. For the start of the class I had fluids running and was parked on the bench until I could no longer sit up. Then I sat on the floor, propped up in the corner. Eventually the spasms got to be too hard to stifle, and I lay down on the floor, continuing to work in the air. For the end of the class, while we practiced kata in small groups, because I was able to take care of myself, I finished the class on my feet, leading Seiyunchin kata. I felt like a million bucks, and if anyone was fighting that day like H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks, it was this guy. Nobody hassled me, nobody even looked, except to see that I was okay whenever I cried out in pain. Nobody thought it was unusual, or was distracted. After class was over, I got a couple of "Nice to see you"s and that was that.

EDS makes a person self-conscious. EDS does not have to make a person self-conscious. EDS does not deserve to make me self-conscious, because I am a Titan. Better still, I am a karateka. One is fictional, and one is not.

My blood pressure has been crashing to scary-low numbers, so I have been eating bouillon cubes to keep my blood pressure up. Chicken bouillon cubes. Normally I just drink the broth, delicious and sensible. But broth means volume, and volume means vomit. So, while my guts aren't Barfatron Central, I don't want to do anything to rock the boat and start the gastric spin cycle over again. My aid has been working with me to organize small meals that are what the medical field calls "nutrient-dense," but foods that are low-volume and easy to keep down. The easy solution seems like one would write a list of foods that stay down, and work from that. While that's a sound start, gastroparesis doesn't work that way; at times it doesn't matter what your intake, your output will always come out in the wrong direction, and you'll just have to have a little mercy for the fact that biology still has many mysteries.

My friend asked me, "How can you do karate with your health?" First I came up with a very fancy, clinical answer, then I came to my senses:

It's quite incredible, really. I have strict rules with my Sensei about every little thing: where is the best place to keep water and medical supplies, where to stand in front so I can lipread, how long to bow out for care and recovery. I only work with black belts, as they have the best control over their flying limbs. I keep my promise to take a break when I honestly need to. If I need to drop to my knees and finish a drill that way, or on my back, I can. As long as I keep doing whatever I can do, I get to play the reindeer games. :) When my legs don't work and everyone's kicking, I do punches that are similar to the kicks. Usually I'll do a few rounds of each drill as best I can, and then adapt when I know I'd peter out if I were to continue. Certain things are off limits, like being dragged around by my head, or certain conditioning that is deliberately intended to damage nerves. If it's not something I can adapt I just politely bow out and people reshuffle. I have a hiking backpack that I can secure well to my back while I'm exercising if need be, as well. Sometimes I'll do that, sometimes I'll just crawl to the floor next to the bench, put my feet up to push blood back to my brain, and work with my arms.

You know what? The real answer to your question isn't what I just wrote. The real answer to your question is that everybody supports me and adapts with me. Not even once have I been given a hard time for not being able to keep up. I have asked myself a thousand times whether I really deserve the belt I have. The answer is that I do, and I don't know anybody who would be able to perform like I do if they had my challenges. It's because of my dojo, that's how I am able to do karate.

His response:

I love both your answers to my question - particularly the second. "Everybody supports me and adapts with me" pretty much sums up the ideal society, whether it's a dojo or a nation. In a culture that reifies "individualism", it's great to know the community still has a place. And frankly, I think this is good advice for anyone: "Nobody drags me around by my head".

I also love your blog. More precisely, I love your love. It makes your life rich and full, and makes people like me want to be your friend.

That's a pal.


This morning I missed karate because of exhaustion and pain. But sleeping until 2pm seems to have given me a little energy to care for myself, and to refresh my brain. I'm not going to miss karate forever, and I'm starting to forgive myself for the absence, because every move I make is aimed at getting me back there, while doing good works in the meantime. I'm working on projects and learning new skills, which is working for me. Additionally, although I'm not ready to do drills, I still do juunbi undo (warm-ups), read Higaonna-Sensei's books, and study my kata. Today the class was not to be. Tuesday I'll try again. Twice a week is the target, but once a week may have to do for now.

Karate is not something you study on your own, you need a community. My Sensei has given me a worldwide community to learn with and connect with, including some people like me! My dojo is right here in my neighbourhood, and my community at large is just a few keystrokes away. This is good for me, and I'll keep at it, looking forward to returning as soon as possible.

Be well.

Some Nightmares Come True, So Do Some Dreams

Five years ago I was facing cervical fusion, going into shock every other day from venous access, stuck to an IV pole for nine hours a day in a nursing station. I couldn't turn my head without passing out and the diagnostic process for Dysautonomia was cloudy. I underwent testing for Chiari-I Malformation, lived in my cervical collar, and suffered overwhelming amounts of physical and psychological pain 24 hours a day.

I didn't know how much time I had left to go on like this or who could help me, but it tanked my life. It bled my savings and retirement dry.

My (ex-)wife was miserable, I was miserable, I was just a few months away from graduating from college which had taken me ten years to complete. My family was furious and "disgusted" with my IV fluids, not convinced that drinking more water was not working. My work was very compassionate but worried about my ability to perform. My friends were scared. I was scared, and fed up. I could not continue pre-med studies.

Three years ago began refusing treatment and my doctor stood up for me (again) to tell my insurance that this was not working. I got my port 28 June 2012 and things got immediately better. By August I could get my port accessed once a week at the nursing station and run my IV fluids at home, during which time I rested, worked, and did physical therapy to rehabilitate myself. I still could not regulate my body temperature or stay conscious over 65°F.

I started practicing karate on 9 October 2012. That was the day my real life began. I could stay conscious if I ran fluids. By November 2012 I was able to access my port by myself (which saved a lot of money!) and I got an IV pump which allowed me to run IV fluids on the go with a backpack. I still follow sterile procedure like my life depends on it--because it does.

My physiotherapist told me, "While you have time, go live. Because when you're lying in that bed, you're going to want those memories."  I had wanted to practice martial arts all my life. No dojo would work with me because they were afraid of liability. Finally I met my Sensei, who let me try, and we were very careful. The rules were (and are) strict, to ensure my safety and success. Everybody was worried about whether I could do it, and I didn't care. I was on death's door with blood pressure collapses and had lost a hold of my dreams. What if this port thing was my last chance at living?

I wanted martial arts. I wanted EDSers to be able to protect themselves. A martial arts seminar showed me there were things I could learn to do; once I knew there was a dream within my reach I wanted it. I told myself that if I died after that, I would conclude that I had been a useful person in this world. I asked God to just give me this one dream, give me one merciful gift before I fell to ruins. I begged for strength, and my port was just enough to bring strength back to me.

I proved to myself I could do it, and set out to inspire others with EDS to learn what they CAN do. Today my dream came true, thanks to my Sensei, my doctors, and my friends.

Today, on 14 August 2015, I co-taught, beside my Sensei, a session on Self-Defense and Martial Arts with EDS and Dysautonomia. We showed people that everybody could do /something/. 

At first people were nervous about what they couldn't do without dislocating. Sensei dispelled their fear using the same basic techniques that I found so grounding: he started with curling the toes. So small a thing, but so simple. I watched a room full of antsy people wiggling little tiny toes, watching those toes intently, and succeeding. The tiny toes curled down into the floor, curled up, and down. The corners of mouths curled up and stayed up.  If only for a moment, a room full of people with EDS found a physical thing that they /could/ do.

It was like we'd unlocked a treasure chest, and the doubtsstarted coming: what about my ankles? What about my balance? What if I can't stand? What if I can't take my shoes off?

Within minutes, those doubts became wonderings: "How can I do this if my ankles are loose?" "Can I do it this way?" "Will it work if I do this instead?"

I understood for a brief moment that what I had done in pursuing martial arts was larger than just overcoming my Dysautonomia and chronic dehydration. Today I changed the way at least one person perceived their body.

Die when I may, I finally feel like I've made at least one satisfying change in this world, one real act of gratitude for all the kindness that has cushioned me along the ridges of a very, very hard life.

Thank you all for your help along the way, and for helping make my dream a reality. I think I  finally feel brave enough to dream again. Yes, I'm ready now.  Onegaishimasu.

Be well.