Wandered into the Czech Republik again today.
The little country that could has rebounded since the lifting of the Soviet bootheel from its neck.

The tiny town of Loket, known as Elbogen in German, has a tiny stronghold on a deep bend in the Elbe, or Ohre in Czech. I'm sorry, I'm not getting the diacritical marks right on my American keyboard.

Here is an official link:
http://www.loket.cz/english/index.php
All good fortresses have a devoted guardian, and this one had a little black girl-kitty who followed us around, amused by Chuck's four-legged gait, I suppose. Maybe she just knew suckers for kitties when she saw them.
I think she would have liked petting, but had some history to preclude easy contact. I got a brush of her damp, silky coat as she wove through a stair railing next to me.


We didn't have time to go into the fortress itself. The time it took to check out the town and grab some lunch precluded a real savory experience of poking through a nice artifact. I was not, however, kept from window shopping. I wonder if flies are free with all overpriced porcelain?

Starving by the time we made our way through soggy little towns and border crossings, we stopped at the Goethe Restaurant. By this time a dry tent would have been warm and inviting, so we paused for beer and sustenance. I had a fabulously fresh trout (pstruh) and CG had his usual fried chicken/Cordon Bleu variation with fried potato substances. We had the obligatory cold Becherovka and split some Pilsener Urquell. The food was lovely, the girl looked like a tall version of a pouty 30s beauty, and spoke very good German. We savored the hoppy beer, the spicy liqueur, and the fresh, carefully prepared food. The entire meal cost about $25 American. Ask yourself, could you get this, with the scenery, for this price, in the states? The drinks alone would cost that much. Oh, and we each had a Viennese coffee (Vdanska kava) hot coffee with loads of whipped cream on top.

By this time, the castle was closing in 30 minutes (at 4:30pm) and we decided to come back another time.

We did take the time to meander the walls of the fortress, enjoying the forested walks and views of the castle walls from outside.

The rain took a break for our tour, and got right back to pissing when we got back on the road back to our home in Bavaria.

Driving along between imaginary country lines, I think of Bill Bryson and his book "Neither Here nor There" which is pretty much where I'm living these days.

I'm contemplating an unknown path, with a high wall on one side, and a muddy river on the other. I'm afraid of heights, and hate water I can't see the bottom of, though I swim like a fish and climb rather well. I just dislike the inconvenience.

In these days when we realize that our time may be short, for everyone, the travel goals become a little frenetic. We have realized that we have yet to visit the open, egalitarian paradise that is Amsterdam.
Or, if you like, the sinfest that is Amsterdam.It all depends on your definition of sin. Our impression will probably be based on how much time we spend dealing with the petty crime, from pickpockets to waiters with creative surcharges, which goes with any large city, anywhere.

In US morality, if no one in current power makes money from it, it must be sinful. If not, it's perfectly legal...

Personally, I don't have a good reaction to or enjoy cannabis products. I like a beer or glass of wine, if it's good quality and won't bust my head in the morning (most of them do) but I was an asthmatic kid and breathing smoke of any kind (my mom was a smoker) I've just had enough of that.

For me, just entering a new culture is enough of a trip.
Despite sharing a name and some initials, I am not the biggest Emily Dickinson fan. Meanwhile, something she said stays with me as a very real truth: "To live is so startling, it leaves little time for anything else".

I live the same life as everyone else. I go to bed (often too late) and wake up (also often too late) I go to work, I get home and cook dinner and clean up. I go to the dojo and the gym, we shop and go out to eat.

We just happen to do it all in Germany or on an Army post.
We drive a car, we flush toilets, we mow lawns and run dishwashers. We recycle (mandatory, fortunately the bins are literally 4 steps from our driveway) we shop (on and off post, and at the duty-free where we get coffee a Euro cheaper per packet!) we go for walks and bike rides, and we travel.

So far, we've been to the Alsace, London (bleah, never again! too crime-ridden and expensive), Prague (v. cool) Berlin, Munich (my second home in Bavaria due to so much time there training with the European Rolfing Association) Scotland, Ireland (can't wait to go again!) Frankfurt, Freiburg, and beautiful Greece.

The pic is from our friend Geoff at Paleoartisans.

It's one of those gorgeous sunny cool German summer afternoons when all is well and truly well with the world.

The apples are ripening on the trees, and the leaves are hinting at a turn.

Got KGSR on the intraweb radio-thingy, got some marinated BBQ chickie on the grill with homegrown corn on the cob in its own husk, soaked in the sink and wrapped in foil. Got yellow squash with giant Chinese garlic from the Christian Turk veg shop down the way (they speak Aramaic with each other). I drizzled a generous amount of our precious Greek olive oil in the foil before I set the squash, pepper, rock salt and fresh basil in.

We're going to miss our September trip to Greece like crazy, but maybe we can go somewhere else and play in the water and bask in the sun. It's sad, but he's on crutches until he reaches full weight bearing, and that's 10 kilos a week to 95 kilos. He's not past 20 until this Wednesday. Not good for air travel or mountainous Greece. Bummer. Meanwhile we take walks on sunny days, and hit the local Greek place for retsina, mezediki, ouzo and coffee frappe.

My sunflowers are over 10 feet tall, the corn is producing several ears per stalk, and the yellow squash is pumping out squishies at a tremendous rate. I've been nibbling the sugar peas as they come out, so poor CG hasn't had a chance to stir fry a one. ;-(

The great stone fountain gurgles soothingly, our tiny city makes its evening noises and the neighbors wave and beckon and bring beer. Scooters buzz down the alley at odd, startling intervals. Not so loud as in Greece.

I got to reconnect with an old friend/mentor back in Austin.. I had some "esplaining" to do about our last few connections before I went into dysfunctional obscurity and left Austin. I had become really difficult to be around, due to my personal difficulties, and I'm not sure how many broken branches I left in the wake of my escape.

I'm truly sorry for each one.. some were due to standing in what I saw as my way, and while I ducked as much as I could, please try to understand that I was chewing off my own limbs to get out of a trap very much of my own making.

In my own life, this experience has given me deep compassion for difficult people. Often they are simply a symptom of their own difficult times. Well, yes, sometimes they are just assholes, but time proves or disproves that theory pretty quickly. I'm not entirely sure I've disproved that theory about myself, but I am trying to live a life which brings me joy and lets me be productive, and supportive of everyone around me.

Those who really could have stood in my way (dojo and blood family, mostly), let me go.

It's a hard gift to give, but they gave it. Wonderingly, bewildered... no one in my family had left Texas or even the US since my great-aunt Alice Shaw, who was married to Charles Major up in Indiana. They travelled extensively together, and my father still has the postcards from her to her grand-nephews.

Clara Shaw married a damned Irishman (John Dolan) went to Texas and got forgotten. Except that the Irish gene for social activism, writing, and banging on things until you get something done, didn't go away.

I'm trying to give up the "banging on" part, and learn to step back, gain some perspective, and let go when I need to.

We got to play with an MMA guy the other day. Very young fellow, reminds me of a particularly aggressive hobbit.
This guy could wind darn near anybody up who decided to play his game his way. I appreciate his trust, his generosity, his good manners and enthusiasm. I have enjoyed watching him play on the same mat while we were playing, and said so. I just love seeing joy in training in action.

I'm not a fighter, my motivations for training have nothing to do with competition, or even so much to do with kicking ass. I'm pretty sure this guy could knock me over and wind me up, but I'm also pretty sure I'd be grabbing a piece of re-bar while he was going for the shoot... yeah I keep one in my office, thicker than my thumb, just in case.

What I've been learning has been about antiquated systems, weapons and principles. We wear weird pajamas, freaky culottes, and carry weapons not much used since the early 20th century. Not a long time by Asian or European standards, but by US standards it's too long to think about or find relevant.

The kid came over to instruct me several times (I don't mind this, he's so motivated and I'm curious) even though he was born when I was in high school. I've been doing budo of some kind or other since he was in kindergarten.

Still, he came over and taught me how to do this, that, and the other thing if this guy does this and then you do that and... I broke in on the monologue and said, "Dude, I am going to kick the guy in the head, smash his windpipe and run, not stick around and cuddle!" which seemed to be a new concept to a kid focussed on winning BJJ-centred, closely controlled grappling contests. I don't want to stay in contact with a stranger who wants to hurt me. I want to make them stop and break contact.

I like the "short and sweet" version of techniques, since they are so practical for the, er, non-complex like me. In this way, I enjoyed what he shared, but I just couldn't get into the various ways of getting all so on the ground with some big sweaty smelly oaf... my usual training partner is a prince of a guy who would give the late Raoul Julia a run for his money, so it's not normally a problem. My good friend and partner helps me train. The things I have to do to get his attention, would truly mangle a normal person.

MMA guy was trying a lock I showed that works great on my partner, and getting all wound up and bent over in it, and I stopped him (it took a minute) and asked him to look again.

I sat up on my heels (kiza) and showed the lock again (for aikido/jujutsuka, the shiho-nage pin with the elbow held distal and the wrist twisted distal with kime to the wrist joint) demonstrating that I was not just involved with the pin, but that I was also in "zanshin" and tried to explain the concept to him.

I was worried about this kid, I felt like he was missing something. I had read the stories about the bars in Fort Sill and how the locals had learned that the soldiers had been trained in BJJ. Locals would send one guy to tangle the main fighter up, and then everyone would gather 'round to kick his head in while he concentrated on grappling with their "fall guy". Soldiers were ending up in the hospital.

Soldiers these days face enough dangers from IEDs and cranial trauma without getting their fool heads kicked in because they are going for points instead of paying attention to reality.

We told him the story, and I showed him better posture and the importance of 360 degree awareness and the ability to reach your cell phone while in control of an attacker, and stay in control of the situation, not just the fight.

I'm not a fighter, I'm not tough, and I'd never in my life enter any kumite, shiai, or other contest. I rely on my body to do my work, and it's a damned stupid proposition for me to do anything to damage my body, and thus my income.

I can only hope that this middle-aged budo babe's experiences, along with some instruction from an old guy recovering from hip replacement surgery sitting on a physioball overseeing the training, and a younger, talented, wrestler-judoka with joints of vulcanized rubber, had some impact on this kid's perspective.

We call them kids, but these soldiers are facing tough situations and tough choices. I know the recent trend in military newspapers is to capitalize "Soldier" but for the ink and administrivia they spent on that, couldn't they have just paid them more, protected them better, and given them better benefits?

I'll do anything to help them out, and I found myself really speaking out, taking risks and confronting ideologies to try and give this kid an edge up, as I saw it. I don't have anything on the line, so anything I give is free.

One of the military credos is: "No good deed goes unpunished".
I'll take my punishment for this one.
Gladly.

Not willingly, but gladly.
If that makes sense to you, you get me.

My training has been about coming to terms with the fight IN ME, and has not much to do with anyone else. This point in my training is a new one.

You've probably seen over at ArxHereticus
that cg has lost his teacher. It wasn't exactly unexpected, even if the guy didn't even die of what the doc said he would die of 10-20 years ago.

I just want to share some memories...

Our meeting was some 7 years ago. I was introduced to him, before I met any other family.
I met a sawed-off, genial, flat-topped bulldog with arms like an orangutan.
I got tested in a walk with the Gordon boys (lots of respect, any shady characters making scarce) in front of downtown shop windows. There was a deliberate pause by a jewelry store window.
My interest in conventional jewelry is nil, and I was much more fascinated by the fossiliferous limestone the building was made of. CG accuses me of licking the facade, but I only remember checking it with a fingernail and trying to identify the critters demortalized in dolomite there.

At this point, Papasan was highly amused, and carted us off to a geological museum, where we had a blast "geeking out" about the geological history of Joplin and generally relaxing and having a good time.

In a later visit, I got to see his collection of art, sculpture and paintings. He had a clear and poignant hand.

I wish we had had one more visit... I would have liked to ask more questions, tell more jokes, and hear more stories.

But then, we never have them long enough, and we can never appreciate them enough, these icons of our lives.

Well we've gone and thought about it, and now we're dreamin'...

If we were to stay in Germany, we'd move down to Regensburg.. Chuck would work through the years I need to set up a decent business, and train to complement what I am doing, in addition to his marketing/PA work.

I keep reminding him that we are here on serious SOFA sufferance, and our existence is extremely padded by it. German taxes are punishing, though I think they might actually get something for them.

Anyway it's a funny little dream playing around in there in the Fantasy Destination game.

Nothing more than a thought.. but a dream that surfaces, must be looked at.

Wow, talk about your weird mismatches...

But my colleagues who are physiotherapists make it work.
On the other hand, they are getting PAID to make it work.. I guess this is a test run and an education process. Many of my colleagues get their DO or whatever, and extend themselves that way.

Physiotherapy, if I understand the history from Travell and Simons, was originally developed to deal with the effects of polio. You can do the research there, and let me know what you find. I don't recall the reference, except for my Big Red Books (Travell and Simons medical reference) so let me know what you find, if you are curious.

Hubby comes home from hip replacement, and hands me a list of physiotherapy exercises. I don't mind this, and so far I've been politely hanging back until the medical folks are done with him.

He came to me with a kind of to-do list, and what I needed to do to help him get where he was going.

I was really touched.
Here's this guy who simply knows that I will not only do these things, but improve on them.
So far, I have added Pilates pulses to the end movements of his exercises, which I actually owe to my Yoga teacher. If they are good for dancers, they must be good for budoka.

The other thing I have added is correct movement, with my hand on the surgical site to check for "pulling" in the spirit of "put it where it belongs, and ask for movement".

So far I am very impressed with the things they have found to challenge him, a 30+ year veteran of budo.

I am also impressed with his embracing of the process, to get better and get on with his life.

It's the biggest job of my life.
I don't have an imaginary friend, but Whatever help me, if I ever get a bigger one.

I left a homesick and pouty man behind me today.
I hated doing it, but at the same time I knew that he wouldn't be acting that way if he wasn't feeling great and healing at the speed of light.

He's ready to come home, but I want the last days of his greatest vulnerability passed in a safe place. He's not impressed by the PT, but it's on his schedule and he does it. Physical things have always been easy for him, and he has a tendency to "take a swipe at it" and call it done, simply because that's all he has to do with most things.
The hard stuff, like consistency and habits, that takes more persistence. As it does for all of us. It's a focus problem.
In my own life, plagued with myofascial pain, physical activity kept the pain away, and has kept me from being as overweight as the rest of my family. I live in real panic of ending up anything like my family. It's a hellish motivation, and a strong one...

Our difference in approach brings conflict, of course. It's a matter of personal experience. I'm a detailed and dogged pursuer of success, and he tends to be able to finesse things rather quickly, and become disinterested and distracted after a certain time period. Naturally, he finds me impossibly stubborn, and I find him flighty. In other things, we are entirely too similar, but mostly, we complement one another in some very complex and comfortable ways.

I brought sticks and a dogi, and did my own practice until he was done with his PT. He came into the nice little room we had found (mirror, high ceiling, softish floor, wall of windows, perfect dojo!) critiqued, pointered and guided.
I accomplished my goal, which was to get a weapon in his hands before he left rehab. He was seated on a bench, making comments and demonstrating.

Honestly, the struggles of simply standing and becoming strong enough to move normally again are enough for even the most advanced of athletes, at this stage.

He's comparing his experience, and today he walked a few blocks through a German fest to my favourite (fast becoming our favourite) little Biergarten in Bad Abbach, der Zirngibl. I just liked saying it, at first, but there's more to love, like the quiet apple orchard and the weird city statue of a pair of legs with a big catfish wrapped around the top of it outside the biergarten gate.
Many talk about being completely helpless for weeks, and he stood up, walked out the door of his room, and back, the very first day after the operation.
Today he walked about 5 blocks. Slowly, carefully, but with less pain than he's had since before January.
I'm not sure if it's German cultural expectations, one of the best surgeons in the west, my CG's natural resilience or good loving care, but he's getting back into his game. At 50, he's perhaps more patient than he was half a lifetime ago... but the impatience of a strong man used to command of his body is a force only the man himself can reckon with.

For my part, I find myself more cowdog than sheepdog, as my quarry is big and impatient, and as he gets ever more on his own feet, it will be ever more easy for him to go astray.

My best hope is to just stand on the best path I can see and trot forward, because I know he wants to be with me.

The label for this post comes from a "state of the nation" email from a young friend of ours.
I don't do this out of some exhibitionistic desire to inflict my life on millions of people. Goodness knows, this stuff is going to bore the crapola out of 99.999... percent of people out there, unless they or their loved ones are dealing with a hip replacement, or do budo, or know us.

If you want to know why I do this, it's for love of the word. I love words, I love playing with them, and the greatest motivation I have is to talk about my life. I've gotten a lot of negative feedback about my writing, and some positive. As with my artistic endeavours, I write to please and challenge myself. I need a place where I'm not writing for anyone else. I need a place to just PLAY. I explained this in detail in my very first posts.

This is that place.
I do it for the love of the word.

I told our young friend Z "Don't ever apologize for what you have to say. Just keep sayin' it."

My mate got a very special get-well card today... from my dad.
That was really special to me.

Another dear friend told us that we were "better than the sum of our parts" and I made some joke about the "parts" now including titanium, cobalt steel and high-impact plastic... thank goodness there's two of us with different approaches and varying blind spots. Sure, these things make us crazy from time to time, but mostly we have a lot of fun, and we really do dedicate ourselves to making each other better people.

One of the the things he's done is have me teach our martial arts group.
My methods, in the right circumstances, are very collaborative and responsive.
Our main student, my kohei, is one of those "fast movers" physically, and pretty damn sharp between the (one cauliflowered) ears to boot. We are a great complement: He studied judo and wrestling at a very young age and was very good. I had a 10-year alley cat's pedigree in aikido before I came to jujutsu. I also studied wing tsun, kenjutsu, judo, Yanagi Ryu jujutsu and a handful of aikido styles. I'm not good at it, I just enjoy it.

Part of this is to help bring M into teaching, so when he's on a roll and has a good idea, I wave him up and give it a try for myself. He's very logical and patient, as a devoted parent and, in former times, a senior enlisted guy, so his ability to give instruction clearly is well developed.

I don't mind a bit taking instruction from him, I don't work in such a hierarchical way, and he never hesitates to listen if I have a point as well. It's a beautiful sempai-kohei relationship, we keep each other on track, challenge each other to the best of our ability, and rely on each other's strengths.

Our "senior newbie" has bonded beautifully with M, they both speak the same native language and M has adopted this kid as his own project. It really shows in the the kid's development
I stand in an interesting place as a kind of fine-tuner. Not having grown up physically graceful or adept (quite the contrary, apart from native strength and cunning) I can really break things down for new folks. I also still suffer from fear of falling, and every hip throw can be an act of bravery for me. One of the things Rolfing did for me was to take away the pain of falling on my left side, so the experience is so much less traumatic now. I can be quite phlegmatic about ukemi now, unless CG is throwing me...

Our other newbie is a beautifully focussed young lady who is still in the willowiness of her teenage years, but has such a hard edge behind her soft and slender beauty, that I can only hope to lend to her the soft owl feathers of my teacher's style. Owls, to me, are icons of budo. They are unassuming, round, soft and maybe a little funny looking, but if you're a rat, rabbit or skunk, the story is a different one. Whooo, Meeee? ;-}

So I step on the mat, and I know it's my show.
It's not CG's show.
I can't do his show.

Just last night I curled up with the cat, bad microwave popcorn, and an excellent German beer (gift from our redneck freak trucker Bavarian neighbor), and watched Snake in the Eagle's Shadow. I feel a lot like Jackie Chan's moron character, taking in (and taken in) by a kindly stranger.

I, too, have kind of bumbled along, and just happened to bump into someone who could help me help them.
It's the best thing, for lucky fools like me.

I'm so proud I can't stand it. My CG is 3 days ahead of his PT schedule and headed for the end of the hospitalization phase and the start of real rehabilitation at the end of next week.

There's that space between the beats, where we can Really Rest. I'm there right now. I trust the hospital staff, I trust CG's dedication and discipline (it kicks in when he really needs it.. if only he'd realize that he needs it All the Time!) all that man needs is a focus and he can stand the world on its end.

Meanwhile, I'm in a kind of pause, a place where I can look around in the midst of deep feeling. This is a place like where I was in 2000, when I ripped up the roots of my life. It's a much less agonizing place now, because all actions are consensual. Ripping one's life apart from another's is one of the most unpleasant things anyone could ever hope to do, especially with someone you think you love.

What has happened in the past week, with the fear and acknowledgment that, in surgery, you sometimes lose someone, has been a tremendous bonding process, beyond our other hardships.

The conversation of touch saved us both, the night before the procedure. Despite his sleeping pills, he thrashed around in his hospital bed, until I left mine and curled up by his side. Then, he settled and slept peacefully. The experience for me was, to lend my entire Self as support for his healing process. I knew that he was looking for comfort, and when I was there to offer it, he could rest.

Rest, he did. I offered myself as hot water bottle, stuffed animal, "Kuscheltiere", whatever he needed. It didn't matter what, only the meaning of touch. We didn't talk, we just held. And he calmed, and he slept.

He woke up, and they gave him more drugs, and they took him away. I was beside myself, but I controlled it.
Then Joy showed up (she's aptly named isn't she!) and then Tre, (the most important things in my life are joy and trees, but I never figured it would be so damn literal) and these two heroines kept the rest of my day out of the dark.

I let them take him away, joking and laughing as we do, in the face of the awful bloody reality that he underwent, fortunately at the mercy of modern memory and pain avoidance.

We played Scrabble, which we all love, and Tre beat us all, especially after they told me he was awake and I could come down. I got pretty freaked out and couldn't parse the directions in German, but a rough-faced redhead put her arm around me (sensing my deep distress, I still have to hold tears back here) and led me to where CG was being cared for after the procedure. He was pale and seemed like a flat tire to me, but I was grateful for the intercedance of the anesthetics, and kissed him and held my forehead to his. He was completely sentient, if a rather fuzzy around the margins. He knew me instantly, and sought to console me instantly.

How is that, that I, who have scarcely been cut on in my scant four decades, am supposed to comfort one too well used to it?

Touch is the most powerful language, and I have used it in the past week in ways which help me to understand my training in some very deep and powerful ways.
I am humbled, touched, and illuminated.

The biggest lesson for me, which keeps being driven home here in this US Army environs and other factors... step back and have respect and perspective. Appreciate where the suffering comes from, Validate them.

To take another step, is to survive.
To take another breath, is to survive.

These are things we must hold close every day we wake, breathe, and walk.
There are so many things which can stop us. Every day we wake up, and do it again, is a gift to be treasured, maintained and enjoyed.

This is just some information about my mate's recent hip replacement surgery and recovery.

The surgery took place in beautiful Bad Abbach, at one of the premier orthopedic hospitals in Europe.
http://www.asklepios.com/badabbach/en/default.asp

A little south of our favorite town of Regensburg (a very Austin place with a wonderful jazz fest every year) and only an hour away when the traffic isn't bad. I stayed with him for the first three days in the other hospital bed in the room. Tonight is his first night alone, but they are good about taking care of him. He got a cooling rubdown on a hot day, and the student nurses made him some peppermint tea this morning. The doctor is an elegant, affable genius.

Some of the staff are better than others, but that's life.
Just this afternoon he had a nurse (males are "Pfleger" and females are "Schwester" who just wasn't doing her job. The little stuff I was doing, like emptying the pee jar and regulating the temp in the room with the sliding glass door and the fan, she just wouldn't do. Never mind that he wanted some more pain meds and didn't get those either, and she didn't help him get back in the bed, which he needs right now! He managed it, but he shouldn't have. Let's hope she's a rare exception, otherwise I'll be rehearsing my German complaints and growling, snapping and snarling in the admin office.

Even so, it's a beautiful place, surrounded by a wooded park with streams, ducks, and the cutest bunny rabbits hopping around just wild!

They don't do general anasthesia here, they do a spinal block and heavy duty sleeping pills. No after-effects.
CG didn't remember at thing, and the day of the surgery was actually the worst. They were incredibly good at managing his pain, and fussed at him for not telling them right when it began to hurt.

He had the surgery on Wednesday, and Thursday the physical therapist helped him stand up and walk to the door and back on crutches.
Today, he walked down the hall. It's exhausting, of course, but he can take care of going to the toilet himself, if someone just helps him in and out of bed. That's nice for a man's dignity ;-) .

He'll be in the hospital until about the 30th, and then they will probably move him to the rehabilitation quarters, which are more like vacation apartments. He'll be there about two weeks.
They are wonderful about letting me stay with him, in fact they seem to like me there (I did all of those little things- heck, I think they shoulda paid me!). I'll be with him on weekends, and as many days in the week as I can get away with.

It's not easy, and it's not painless, but CG is a strong, motivated person, and right now I am just admiring his resilience.

There's a new kid on the mat, and I am having a kind of voyeuristic experience in helping him learn. He's one of those bright guys who lives mostly in his head. He's so bright, that anything he wants to do is easy.

But budo isn't easy.
I, too, came on the mat bright and strong and... totally retarded.
The other guy in class is a former wrestler/judoka, a real natural on the mat. I need someone like this in my practice, someone who makes me run faster than I can. He's got talent, he's got a terrific memory for kata and technique (I don't!) he's got this incredible Latin "panache" and a bold, wise and gentle spirit.

And I need someone I can beckon to.

The first taste of the mat is not a sweet one, not for many years.
The first year (1989) was for me one of complete innocence, and idiocy. A memorable moment was one of my second semester with J. Birdsong in Austin, walking down the hall in my old judogi (given to me by someone I wish I could meet again and talk to.. Terrell, you reading me?) and someone asked me if I was breaking bricks.
No, I said. I was learning to fall down. A lot.

The second approach (1993), at a university aikido club, was a more seasoned and intent-ful approach, though I still didn't have a clue. I did, however, make myself a small and quiet promise that I would see it through to shodan, black belt for the rest of the world. I did it, and in June of 1998 I tested for the black belt that I still tie around my waist when I wear a judogi. I will wear it until it falls apart. My ex-husband presented it to me. He washed a lot of dogi, for me to get that different colored belt. He deserves that credit.

The first days on the mat, the first year, are full of deliciousness.
Learning ukemi. Having it be easy for the first time. Learning sword. Having it be easy for the first time, after much struggle. Having a senior "make uke" for me and having the lights finally come on in my brain. Finding myself in love with the art, and having to separate that feeling from my attachment to my seniors.

The love of people who practice together successfully is incredibly purified.
We don't worry about a lot of things which people in other relationships worry about, because we have so much more at stake, and we have to keep things so clean and focussed. It's all about the art, and about our support for one another. If we don't work so closely and so deeply with one another, and yet hold enough distance to be combatants, we cannot do this work.

At this time, I have, and yet feel the yearning for, that sweet fresh feeling of something so very new. I am back in a teaching position after some time learning a new art, and savoring what I do, again, for the first time.

I am remembering Dan T taking huge breakfalls for my style of kotegaeshi. I'm remembering sitting and listening, having been told that the teacher I came for, the one I came to learn from, was 6 months dead of breast cancer. I sat there so close to tears, for me, for her friends, for everyone.

Many more times would come on the mat, that tears bided their time in my eyes.

Huge disruptions came from this choice in my lifestyle. In fact, it ruined everything I had planned, everything I had done. Renewal came from it as well, so the factors balance out and then some.

I remember the first time I met Brendan. Jim P pointed him out to me. "Go try to take that sword away from him" he said. Used to Jim's jibes, I took a look at the smooth efficiency of this throwing machine, and informed him that I was not THAT stupid. "No, go on. Go take that sword away from him" said Jim.

So I did.

A lifelong friendship/mentorship began, and I'm never sure where any of it begins or ends. Brendan took tremendous amounts of time and effort to forge this native ore into what may someday be something layered, sharp and resilient.

Jim would show up shortly after 5pm for "special practice" for those preparing for belt tests. There would be a beginners class at 6, an advanced class at 7:30, and Brendan would show up during it to bounce me off the walls after class. "Knocking the corners off" he called it, later, when we talked about it. I'd throw my cowboy boots back on under my hakama, throw on a shirt and run out the door, to keep from being locked in the gym. I still remember the smell of the halls, the feel of the elevators, the deep frightened nervousness before practice, and that exhausted elevation after practice. I also remember the black orchestra of the Texas summer night, and the stink of bats and dead crickets outside of the stadium in late summer and fall.
I remember earnest conversations, leaning on cars still hot from blazing Texas summer days, moments taken to watch bats, the ebb and flow of life on a college campus.

Now I am the sword geek, and he is still the master of kuzushi, kake and the throw you never see, or feel, coming. It's like practicing with an extroverted yogi master... except that I can stymie him now, then and again.

The change came with the move to Indiana and the "silent dare" to start training in something much closer to koryu jujutsu. Chuck has in his hands and in his heart, something truly rare and precious. Koryu is, in essence, a family art, and should be taught as such.

My first six months, every night was the one I wanted to walk off the mat, curse them all, and go back to aikido.
I hated it, I was awful at it, and Chuck constantly derided aikido. We had a couple of showdowns in which I informed him that if it weren't for aikido, he wouldn't have the quality of students that he enjoys. He's laid off a bit, and, while I don't exactly make a career of defending aikido, we still appreciate what the best of the art has to offer in terms of friends, associates, training partners and various adventures.

Now, teaching his class, I come clean. I have, approximately, 10 years aikido experience, and 5 in Chuck's sogo budo. The math is against me, to teach a "pure" version of Kokoro Ryu Sogo Budo (www.the-dojo.com). So I am honest with the students, and let them know that they are going to learn a lot of aikido in the bargain.

I can do this with a clean conscience, as I know that aikido is very good at teaching very basic concepts. I just have to know where the students have to go, and get them ready to get there.

In this time, I rediscover how wonderful it is to set foot in this Strange New World of budo.
It is such a delicious sensation, to see a person learn how to get their body and mind to working so much better together.

It is such a thrill to be with people through the experience of falling and getting up, effortlessly. Yes, you can fall and it can be fun. Yes, you can hit, be hit, be twisted, pounded, explore the limits of your personal resilience, and it can be be big, beautiful, supreme fun.

There is a moment of the outbreath, the impact, there is a moment which seemed impossible to you before, and now you are there, and it is not just OK...

It's big fun.

Ah, this is my supreme pleasure these days.

Life is hard. My body is starting to show signs of age, my teacher's body is in for repairs, mine will be.
For myself, I can stand these minor discomfits, these major challenges, replacements, refits, frights, shocks and tests of endurance, if I can get back to my work.

I help people be themselves, and find more of themselves.
Some of it I do for free, and much of it I get paid for. These adventures I take on, are always larger than I am. I am only a faithful companion, a kind of coaching Rin Tin Tin, barking when Timmy's in the well, wagging when Timmy manages to pick apples and rescue other kids.

I can't imagine a better or more meaningful existence.
And I do love bringing beginners into this new, amazing world.
It's like being a midwife for the soul.

Still, I feel the need to go stand in the entry of Gregory Gym at UT Austin, and breathe deeply the smells of my early training.. whatever they might have been.

The more we want things to change, the more they stay the same.

No matter how many times I listen to the Asylum St Spankers sing Summertime on Itunes, it won't bring back those first times on 6th St, the Hole in the Wall, and points downtown.

It won't bring back catching Guy's slide and handing it back to him. It won't beat hot sweaty wandering evenings looking for a place for them to play, or tense times at the Kizmet...

It won't replace the long dark time in my personal blues, sitting at that table in the corner, lost in the music and my own personal mysteries, joined only by a good friend or two.

It won't resuscitate Austin for me. It will only make me miss what I remember, more. I'm not past times of rich personal development, but I'm past THOSE times. There was a kind of new and desperate purity both in the music and in my own life, with a deep background note of pain and loneliness that I had accepted as my own motif.

"Until that day,
ain't nothin can harm you... "

Well, I'm lucky. I've never been harmed.

But the hurt of change, of growing older, watching things I found so precious fade away, watching everyone around me growing older, this is my new background note.

I'm out of the bubble of youth now. I'm dealing with my own aging in my own body, and supporting the aging of the battered soldier by my side. My profession being bodywork, I have received some of the best repairs on the planet, and can do pretty much any damn thing I please, far more than I could even 15 years ago (I am closer to 40 than not). My mate is spared many small hurts, and is better prepared for the big ones (his upcoming hip replacement).

I'm insanely lucky, though not in any really visible way.
These times, like the times I had in Austin, slinking alongside the blues, will someday be another set of glory days for me. I stand in this very soft place now, where I am in a kind of awe about how a strange, small fish can become interesting in a small enough bowl.

The jazz show we saw tonight just made me miss Austin all the worse. I knew the faces on stage, knew the relatives, talked the talk. But it was just too calm, too poised. The cops weren't coming, there was nothing at stake.
In a way, it was more relaxing. In a way...

It just wasn't the same.

So I'll let Guy Forsyth and Christina Marr's crystal clear, exquisite version of Gershwin's "Summertime" wind down, let it go and go to bed.

Hank Hill has it all wrong.
Who can have such a limited view of life that their lawn is such a huge part of their self-image?
I remember long summer evenings, the smell of fresh cut grass, gasoline and WD40 that was such a huge part of my "Dad" image that I still think WD40 should be a men's cologne.

I got my husband to cut the lawn, while I tended the veg and herb gardens. Now that he is suffering terribly from a terminally arthritic hip, I cut the lawn. Today he bravely pulled out the trimmer and had a go at the edging. I really wish he hadn't, not just because he didn't get around to the things I actually asked him to do instead (things that would have hurt him much less). He ended up in quite a lot of pain.. fortunately he got some excellent meds from the doc and managed to stump to the jazz fest with our friends K&C tonight. That was good and therapeutic: they danced and were cute, and this young couple and ourselves have more in common than we have found in a very long time.

I find myself quite against lawns.
It's a British thing, something for the aristocracy to play cricket or croquet on. We ain't aristocracy, we don't plan to be, and we ain't got servants to trim the verfugen grass blade by blade.

I got part of it last night, the rest today, and set the little annoying electric lawnmower as low as possible to shave the hell out of the manic growth portion of the lawn just below the veg garden. Next home, no fucking lawn. Paths, fruit trees, veg garden, berry patches, gravel and cactus (very Tex-Asian), sheep, goats, geese, whatever. No lawn.

The Black&Decker froggie we have is completely useless for anything with grade or relief. I have to wrestle the thing into straight lines and release the back wheels on what would be a normal easy "return cut" on a gas mower. In addition, you need four hands at least to operate an electric mower. Lacking this, I loop the first meter of the cord around my own neck so that I can control the cord on the "cutting side". Years of experience in fly-fishing and martial arts pay off in this endeavour.

I can flip the loops like fly line, sweep them away from the path of the blades with feet accustomed to sweeping human feet off course and into the line of my own intention, and curse in all of my adopted languages to maintain a faintly obscene monologue between myself and this blighted machine I have chosen to keep our home presentable with.

I can't imagine how someone without my years of training and trials could POSSIBLY manage an electric lawnmower. Therefore, I must say that no one without at least four years of judo training should even consider the purchase of an electric lawnmower of any kind.

Meanwhile, I contemplate the meaning of lawns, and I don't like what I find. It demonstrates a certain futility, a certain time span one has to waste. It's the same thing I find when I contemplate personal car ownership (as opposed to efficient public transportation).

We don't get enough out of it, to warrant what we put into it.

Think about it.

Just.. for a minute.. think about it.

As a person having to submit their mate to the hammers and saws of the orthopedic surgery profession, I have this repulsed sense of indignity and rage mixed with a sense of gratitude that they can actually take a rotten greater trochanter/acetabulum, cut it out, and replace it with titanium and stainless steel.

I'm also grateful for colleagues here who will do their level best to see that he is in top form for the surgery.

I'm facing some minor but necessary medical procedures myself, fortunately that can wait until he can drive again.

I'm reminded of something my Taiwanese massage school co-student told me, in between throwing me across the room (he is a Kung Fu/Chi Gong master and I was a student of aikido).
He failed. I passed. I hated that, hated the cultural bias and idiocy of state licensing, for him.

"Killer is healer:
You need a knife in the kitchen
and on the battlefield."

The kitchen being the place of healing, and this statement, brought me into a very different place in terms of my attitudes towards to my martial arts practice, allopathic medicine, and Maslow's theory:
"When all you know how to use is a hammer, the whole world looks like a nail."

I see one of our biggest needs as "alternative" practicioners as being communication with the allopathic profession, many of whom are grateful for a partner who has more time, and more empathy *Mitgefuhl* to give people, than what they can do, given time and insurance limitations.

I also hold in my memory, probably for all time, my conversation with the German doctor who will take care of me, when my turn comes.

"Blood is my job, ma'am".
He showed me the stains on his new white slacks, which German doctors are culturally obligated to wear.

Let us be grateful that health, and not blood, is our job.

It's almost dark and Munich music rumbles in the distance.

I've loved it here, and alternately yearned for the heat and mesquite of what I know as home.

I've come to love Germany, and Europe.

In the US, you can go from East to West, and there's no more difference than there is between Boston and Houston. Same language, different accent. Same stores, similar food, same road signs.

It's hard to explain the thrill of driving half an hour and being in a very different culture, with a different language, culture, road signs, food, drink, landscape, and cityscapes.

We can drive to the battered, recovering Czech Republik, to places like Cesky Krumlov (next pic) to Austria, Italy, the Bavarian Forest, we can fly to Greece in an hour or so, and we plan to drive to Amsterdam at the end of September.

It's hard to imagine how stimulating it is to remember the things to say in such a different environment and how much fun that can be.

I would hate to go back to just driving 12 hours to get to Colorado.

Travel in Germany is one of those legends everyone hears about, mostly concerning screaming along the autobahn at speeds which seem even faster when measured in kilometers. I've logged my share of Autobahn hours, but it's not my favorite thing. When I remember my teenage gearhead years dreaming over auto magazines and Porsches, and drive the Autobahn today, I have to sigh with disappointment. Gone are the days of "Fahrvergnugen". Now, all you get is "Joy of Trucks". Lots and lots of trucks. Double trucks, single trucks, trucks with cabs decorated like Casanova's living room. Trucks from Holland, Slovakia, trucks from England, Russia, Greece, and trucks from places I can't possibly pronounce, much less spell.

Imagine climbing into a comfortable seat in an air-conditioned space, picking up a book or plugging in headphones for music or a story or simply watching the world go by. Imagine that a fellow comes by with a cart, offers you a perfectly chilled beer and even opens it for you. I keep a little bag of nuts in my pack just to nibble with a beer, on the train.
Yes, this American (a Texan, no less) has forsaken the car. I believe that in 100 years (if we have a kind of eco-economic revolution) we will look back at these silly little vanity boxes and say "What the hell were we thinking??" There are times I think it would be more practical to keep a horse. The personal relationship would probably be more fulfilling.
So I leave my husband the car, stroll to the train, bring a good book and music and savor the sweet, soft rolling scenery of Bavaria from the comfort of a second-class seat. First class doesn't mean you'll make it on time 90 times out of a hundred anyway. On the occasions I've paid the difference, I've been disappointed.
Meanwhile, I enjoy the simplicity of just getting on the train, and getting where I want to go.

My favorite mode of travel is most definitely the German trains. It's the usual stress getting everything together and getting there on time, but once on, it's just a matter of kicking back and enjoying the ride. A couple of nice Polizei helped me get my bike on board this dusty old regional bahn. My legs always get incredibly banged up, for some reason, hauling the bike on and off the train. I try not to load the bike itself too heavily, it's a mountain bike and not exactly light. I tried to fill the panniers with bulky but light stuff (food and tea bags) that would probably get squished to death in my rucksack. The rucksack overbalances me a bit, and I have to pay attention. I'm just hoping that it's all lighter on the way back!
I have a triple set of folding bench seats to myself, and a window that opens if I want it. My bike is propped up parallel to the seats, so that if the train lurches I can catch it, and it's out of the way of the constant thread of traffic down the aisle of the train. My shoes are off, my feet up on the second seat, and I am typing on the little laptop I take to school. It's a little noisy, but the rock, whoosh and rumble of the train are familiar noises, and the seat is fairly comfy.
It's wonderful to watch the scenery go by this time of year. Germany doesn't have much summer, so when spring hits, she goes all out. Forsythia explode in bright yellow first, with the fields glowing green and cherry trees fluffing out into pink clouds. I always love lilac season. Lilacs don't grow well in Texas, and I was delighted to find them when we lived in Indiana. They grow like crazy here, and I love to cut the full rich blossom heads and stuff vases with them. The scent will just about knock you over if you overdo it, though, and lilacs are toxic, so I try to keep it to one vase per room.
This is going to be my second to last training, and I intend to enjoy it. I know I will miss these monthly adventures down to Munich. It's a vibrant place, and the training is brisk and vibrant as well. My colleagues are fun and supportive, the teachers are brilliant and fascinating, and the environment is open and adventurous. Sure, homesickness is often a factor, but I find myself thriving on the change of pace and the independence.

Knowing that we may leave Germany some time after October, I have decided to start posting the little things I have written, here and there, about Germany.

A Munich Story:

I love to go sit in the little city markets when I find them. I buy a snack, something to drink, and sit and watch. If people want to talk, I talk.

The benches at these things are a kaleidescope of people.
Tonight I was joined by an interesting pair. One was a pilot and flight instructor, the other an actress.
Wow. Right now the Greek restaurant I am hanging out in is playing the "Bette Davis Eyes" song, and boy did this lady have that going on. At right about 60, she is vivacious, passionate, vigorous and, yes, beautiful.

The pilot was a compulsive smoker, and seemed to have never forgotten the actress.
She didn't remember him, and sort of ran off with me in a series of strolls, cell phone calls and bathroom visits across a small part of the English Garden.

She had that sort of womanly sparkle that successful female celebrities have, and a lasting vitality shining in those big blue eyes. She reminded me of my mother's Cousin Jane, with somewhat less measured features.

It's interesting to be with celebrity. Every event, even finding a "pot to piss in" becomes something of, well, an Event! There was huge Porsche event, and we weren't allowed in, but security greeted her politely and directed us to clean toilets upstairs by statuesque columns overlooking the English Garden.
She took my hand and we strode along, Queens, Princes, Kings and Goddesses of the World.

This woman in this short time, taught me so much about the theatrical space and how to occupy it. I am so accustomed to disappearing, and not "filling my space" that the lesson is a truly needed one. Every woman should have some time with a Prima Donna, if only to learn what to do, to get a table at rush hour.

I directed her to colleagues in Koln, but I'm not sure what I can ever do to repay the theatre lessons.

There's a kind of bravery Army life takes, which has nothing to do with bombs or bullets. It's the kind of bravery it takes, to leave people, things and situations behind.
Getting there isn't the trouble. The human is designed exquisitely for new situations. We do nothing better than adapt. What we do poorly, is LET GO.
Some people withdraw and make no connections. Others become reckless. Those of us in between, seek connections with like madness. Unfortunately, it usually takes too long, and when Sympatico is realized, it's almost too late.
We live with a kind of sadness in every encounter, we become more sentimental than the average human ever has the advantage to be. Life on a military post is like life in a small town to the 10th degree. Desperation isn't quiet here. I'll never forget my first morning in the Grafenwoehr Training Area, when a young man just melted down on the wooded lawn outside the housing area. Lying in the grass, screaming obscenities at everything and everyone... he got jammed into an MP jeep, then transferred, kicking and bellowing, into a German ambulance and carried off into bizzare backwards Euro siren silence. That was desperation. I don't know who the kid was, what happened or where he is now. I just remember two obese women staring at him as he screamed, occasionally poking him with their feet like a half-dead animal.
Meanwhile the rest of us get in for our reasons and, if we are lucky, get out with our goals accomplished and all of our limbs more or less intact. Those who serve on the front, pay for the rest of their lives. My husband, barely 50, will get a new hip as a souvenir of his first stay in Germany, during his second. It's a weird peice of karma, and a wierd souvenir of our time here.
Our friends here are some of the most solid we will ever make. We are lucky, we are blessed, and we are proud to have stood through the fire with anyone and everyone who shared time with us here. We don't want to say goodbye, so we'll just say... the door is open. See you later.

I called my dad for Father's Day. Not a great fan of these Hallmarketing Holidays, but any excuse to call Dad and see what he's up to.
He was changing the oil on his truck. He's got a Dodge Diesel pick-em-up to pull his trailer home. No, seriously. I'm from Texas. It's OK. Dad actually owns land in east Texas, we've traced it back to Spanish times and it's kind of a Family Thing.
Here's the thing that makes it remarkable. My dad is almost 72. He's almost 72 and still happily changing the oil on his truck! That's something to celebrate! Especially since he ended up in the hospital for a couple weeks two years ago with kidney failure. Evidently it was a little medication bobble, not unusual when you are 70, diabetic, and your endocrinologist ups and moves to Paris (TX) with too little notice for patients to reschedule. Dr Whatsit, wherever you are, it wasn't worth my dad's life, whatever it was. Shame on you.
Anyway, Dad's still hanging in there, changing his oil, checking his land, enjoying life and bitching about politics.
Well.. you had to know where I got it.
Thanks, Dad.

We're still playing Fantasy Destination.

I've got to be honest, I just want to go home. I've loved this time abroad. I could just live out of a pack, wander the world free and easy and open, and say the hell with all expectations. Maybe I will again, someday.

Wait.. I think I said the hell with all expectations long ago. No, not going to be the way you expect. Don't know how. Don't want to. Can't either fit or understand the box. Don't want to. Why should I, when I can make my own way?

My mate is a real gypsy with no roots whatsoever. That's not me. Roots have to dig deep, in Central Texas, to live. We can't just blow around like tumbleweeds (imports from China to the SW, BTW).
Roots have to dig deep in the limestone, in the blackland prairies, in the alluvial sands of the Ouachita Mountains, the great-grandmothers of the Appalachians, roots have to dig deep to survive long dry spells and crazy rain. Don't dry up, and don't get washed away. You can reach as far as you want, travel as long and as wide as you wish, just never forget where your toe-roots find home.

It's hard for him to understand who I am to my family. I've somehow managed to be the lost hero child.
Those who know the 12-step lingo, will understand me.. that this is Abraham's lamb and the black sheep all wrapped into one. They put me there, I just try to recognise it. If they need me, and increasingly, they do, I can't just wander off. Certainly, I need room, I always do, but I don't want to not be there for my parents when they need me. It's just not something I can do and remain happy. We'll see how I do it, and remain happy!!

In any case, this sheep is no lamb, and no ovid herd animal for that matter. My father, shockingly spiritually aware redneck that he is (our Shibumi Bubba) gave me a copy of Women who Run with the Wolves.

Woodswoman, hunter, martial artist that I am, I found some message in it, but the "with" part did not apply. I learned from this book that I simply AM a wolf. Not a fighter, rather a conciler, not a killer, rather a shepherd. It's easy to see the fangs and the shaggy coat, not easy to see the complex social system, care, and strategy of wolf life.

Wolves don't play Fantasy Destination unless they are out exploring. I am in this phase. I have brought down more valuable things than I could possibly imagine. The structural integration certification is like a woolly mammoth out of season. It's something I never could have done in the States. I devoted my entire income to it, I warped the bureaucracy and swayed the community to do it. I ran constantly round the herd, finding the right buffalo to nip, to get what I needed. My focus becomes ever sharper, and I see more of what I need to do. Now I'm seeing the end of the Army tunnel and it's hard not to just explode with frustration at the system I have been whaling on and subverting all this time.

That's it. I'm a tired, ragged wolf. My pads are sore but nimble, my teeth still sharp, my tail still high. I've done things here that others thought impossible. I'd like to go somewhere welcoming, somewhere I can make a living on my own.

So would my mate.

So take me home already.

What's my story? It was asked on a Rolfing practicioner discussion list I am lucky to frequent.
It's something a fellow practicioner asks clients when they come in for sessions.
Well. What's MY story.. It's not something anyone can encompass in one go, but I'll give it an abridged effort right here.

Most people get Rolfed and then change their existence. As usual, I went backwards. I changed my existence, left a rotten marriage, changed my Self through martial arts and time and meditation in the natural world. I changed my diet, changed my approach, changed the country I lived in. All in a kind of involuntary response to my heart's desires. I never planned it, never asked for it (consciously) and certainly never really understood, beyond messages from my heart which I had, at the time, no way to answer.

There is one incident I can point to which I believe led to my "unmooring" and the beginning of my Adventures. I saw a gifted massage therapist on a far too infrequent basis in the Bastrop City Hall. There is a point in my body which I have always equated with an old spear wound, as if I had been run through centuries ago and my soul had never forgotten.

As a child, I woke stiff and arched in my bed, nightmares of demons butting or stabbing me in the back echoing. I never spoke a word of it to my parents, who were not well-to-do and made me aware of the cost of every ailment I had. I never felt comfortable being ill, I never felt comfortable being hurt or needing help. The Reichian definition of compensated oral begins to define what defined me. Rigid, never needing help, never needing anyone, never admitting pain or need, even to myself. Even telling my dear and loving husband that I've had some tiny problem or need a foot or hand rub, was at first a real effort. His loving nurturance has shrunk that wall to a shallow curb.

This massage therapist, with her 350 hours of training and her Texas license, worked manually on this spot like a champ. At some point, breathing into the pressure, I said "it feels like there is a spear in my back" and she paused.

Then, with a bloodcurdling shriek, she pulled the virtual spear out.

What kind of intuition and bravery does this take? This borders on the shamanic. This woman is probably still a massage therapist in the city hall in Bastrop County.

I have never felt the spear again, though the wind used to drift through the hole in me it left. The beautiful ministrations of some of the best bodyworkers on the planet have minimized it to a kind of functional echo in my body.

So, I say to my elite colleagues, especially in the US, where the prejudice seems most keen... you just don't know when the mantle of the angels will fall on you. It doesn't fall because you are ever so special and have special training, or don't. It falls where it falls. Deaf, dumb, blind, stupid, toothless, mindless -- we may all have the honor of helping another. We should never think that it's because we are special in some way, that it comes to us. It is simply our responsibility, when it does.

Mind you, I am free of (save a devotion to Marishiten) deities, but I still believe this: We are angels for one another. In this real and practical world, we must be.

So yeah, I'm backwards. I came to enlightenment, and then Rolfing. Not the other way around. It doesn't mean I'm not grateful or amazed by the furthering of personal growth, or the opportunity to do the work myself, but let's face it.

There are other means to enlightenment, and we can't specify what they are, for everyone. Nor should anyone, ever, for any reason, decide that they have in hand a tool to enlighten everyone.

This way lies, truly, the hellfire and damnation of the Taliban, the Catholic ("Spanish") Inquisition, Hamas, and yes, especially the American Fundamentalist Movement.

I'm still working on Life, the Universe and Everything.

Actually that's a big sick joke, if you know me. I don't know shit.

Now, then, if you want to go another layer, I DO know shit and I don't want anything to do with it when I see it.

Military life right now is cheap margarine over too much white bread toast. The times coming, before we depose the dreadful fascist regime that is Bush, will result in more than the deaths of many persons far more worthy than the ones who started the war.

It will result in the gutting of every motivated individual in the civilian military system.
I know more than a handful of retired Soldiers (don't just Capitalize, INK IS CHEAP!!!!! it, give them a fucking RAISE, perhaps equal to what our representatives make? especially in retirement! what a concept!) in civil service who are being used as three persons to their every one, overtasked and overextended. They suck it up, because they are old soldiers and they can't stand the troopies downrange suffering any more indignities (armor your Humvees? why? oh, wait, the media got hold of it. OK.)

Seriously, the civilian side of military affairs is so infested that a complete purge is necessary.
Especially of all senior personnel who make the decisions. There are always loopholes. Look at the loopholes, see who's exploiting it, and look at how their decisions have impacted the community.

Anyone married to a DODDS teacher can stay as long as they want, whether it benefits the community or not. They may pull the race card, the gender card, or the skeleton (s in the closet) key, but, the successful administrator will strive for truly New Blood...

Not just the same old Idiot Game. Hey, if you want a Circle Jerk for an administration, please, by all means, continue as indicated.

However, IN CASE YOU MORONS HAVEN'T NOTICED:
=
=
=
It isn't working.

So stop holding your goddamn chair down and work for a living. Not just maintain, not just build your (transient and non-beneficial to the community at large) empire, try doing your job, try fulfilling the mission, not just writing nonsensical babble for people who answer the phone for your division. What a waste.

Unless you answer the phone the exact same way.

Then, it's just an insane game about choices people aren't really free to make.

If I have to write another one of these, I'm going to print FTA cards and start handing them out.

You fought for this right, it's called Free Speech, and if you can't exercise it on an Army post, then what's the point?

I am in the process of comforting an elderly cat. Like humans, in youth and old age, we need the most care. The poor girl is getting progressively leakier, as we all do. I never fuss at her, I know thunder scares the pee out her, and she's always alarmed and ashamed about it. I talk to her and pet her when she paws my arm as I'm typing.
She's hit the age of consent for humans. If she makes it to next year, she'll be able to vote. If we have to move, we're both afraid of how it will impact her health.

For my part, it could be an improvement. I'm dealing with a medical command who does not believe in what I do, but will send kids for "fasciotomies" resulting in weeks of recovery and pain. FYI, I can deal with plantar fasciitis, IT band syndrome and other problems of tight fascia with no surgery, no recovery, and a decent success rate (undocumented unfortunately). I'm a Certified Rolfer with actual massage certification (Rolfing isn't exactly massage, but it has yet to differentiate itself so far as chiropractic has -- and Rolfing can be more effective, and results in more client independence in the long run) I kind of object to Rolfers with no bodywork credentials as they tend to be not only dismissive and condescending to other bodywork professions, they also don't understand the body and psyche nearly as well as they would if they had spent a few years in "symptomatic" treatment rather than worshipping at the altar of IPR and her 10, which was in fact only a kata to teach students. If you object to this statement, first learn about Shu Ha Ri. Then listen to IPR herself, who only ever meant to create more mavericks.

Meanwhile, I am dealing with a husband whose hip has ceased to function without pain. I have to turn him over to surgeons, and I hate to give anything of mine up to anyone. Turning him over to my teachers is another thing entirely, because I belong to them, myself, already.

My first priority is to get him through this health crisis and very much "back on his feet". Then, we find out what our future holds. Right now, it swings on his job, because that pays the rent. Sadly, mine won't. Not here, not reliably, not so far. Not to the level of his job, certainly.

Other places, maybe.
So we play the Fantasy Destination Game, and I sure as hell won't let the door hit me in the @ss on the way out.

Word is that NO ONE is getting extended in hubby's little slice of Army.
His office mates are crying because he's truly the continuity for their area. But let's face it, it's time to move on. It's high time he got a promotion. He's been playing Good Soldier and laboring in obscurity while other whiners and diners are playing the Game and getting bonuses, getting promoted, and so forth. What a waste of tax dollars and air.
We've been more busy Having a Life than Playing the Game, because it's so much more important to us to have a deep, rich personal life than anything else. However, the time comes and, sometimes, we have to play. Neither of us are good at "playing" we're both deeply "for keeps" and when the time comes, we're both razor focussed and uncompromising.

So now we are playing the Fantasy Destination game.
He applies for jobs and lets me know what got picked up and where. So far, destinations include Japan, Colorado, Washington State, Ohio and even my home state of Texas.

Wow, could I live in Texas again? I'm pretty sure that first summer would be misery, but there's always trainings I can go to, once I got my bidness under way again. I, too, am laboring in obscurity here. I can't make nearly what my colleagues make either in the big cities in Germany or anywhere that's anywhere in the US.

Japan is an exciting option. Chuck has a long, deep history with martial arts and Japanese culture, without wanting or needing to be a Japanese Gaijin (which doesn't happen). I would love a new lifestyle, and I have a curious hunger to learn Ikebana, Japanese flower arranging. I'd love to go live in the mountains, study as a student with Chuck, explore this culture I've skirted the edges of and quietly admired for so long. If you don't know me, I've studied aikido since 1989, and other budo since 2000. I enjoy Chinese arts as well, but have somehow always found my home in the Japanese arts. I can't define why, and, like a person who would rather have Rocky Road than Neopolitan, I shouldn't have to. It's just a matter of taste and, certainly, of circumstance.

In any case it would be a kind of joy to sell the car, get rid of a large amount of junk, and prepare for a much smaller, cleaner, deeply devoted to learning lifestyle.
The fact is that I could do it now, but like most lazy moderns, I'm too addicted to my addictions and too distracted to dig out and simplify. Living with another person and their addictions and problems does not make this any easier, as we are inevitably intertwined in our baggage. His socks in my hand luggage, and my jeans in his. Such is life.

I'm back from the American Women's Activities Germany meeting.
http://www.awag.us/
Nice, nice people, but I'm just socially impaired when it comes to chants and sing-alongs and so forth. Ich bin keine Gruppenmensch, that is, I'm just not that social.

Let me sit in my corner, observe and let me go away when I want. Let me go see my beloved mountains.

I did the overnight, savoured the luxury surrounds and free food and wine, and gave my all in our section. I'm supported by a brilliant rheumatologist, and we talk about PAIN.. we make pain fun, what can I say. This lady is one of those quiet gravitational forces who bring some level of sanity to the military. She's never loud, never pushy, she just gets things done and makes you like her. She's wise, even, deep, very drily funny, and appreciates humor even if it isn't her own forte'.

I love the idea of bringing structural integration to the military, but let's face it. I've been "swimming uphill" for five years now. I haven't made a single Euro in the past week, and only perhaps a hundred dollars. In a profession where experienced practicioners command $140- 200 per session in the US, I'm feeling pretty annoyed.

I'm patient, I'm strategic, I get, and have gotten, good advertising and info. The trouble is, the natives are more interested about meeting me because I was in the local newsletter than over what I DO.

So let's face it. I'm swimming uphill with both the military and the Oberpfalzers.
If hubby doesn't get extended here, careerwise it's an advantage for me to beat feet out of this sluggish business environs. A German friend just closed his spa business up because he couldn't make ends meet. People here just aren't spending money on themselves.

I'm not sure what to say, or what to do. I'm working with a local orthopod, I'm getting articles out there, I'm out in the community, I'm doing my volunteer stuff, I'm prepping the avalanche like crazy.

I've been working that Wurzburg Tricare Provider thing like crazy, and the only person I'm getting to know is the operator, because no one answers the phone.

I'm just afraid it will happen, and we will have to leave.

Perhaps the fear shows up in the hesitation.
I want a practice, I want so badly to do this work, I know how I can help people and I know I'm not "just good" at what I do.

In June I will move to doing only Rolfing, which means that people only get hour sessions with me for $100. This will be a huge thing, but honestly I've been worth it the whole time. People have just been getting it for 1/3 the price because I want them to know it works, and I know insurance will pay. If I can overcome sheer bureaucratic incompetence to get myself on the list for them to make some use of me.

I know that life works in dramatic pauses, and I can only hope this is one.
Meanwhile, things that don't work, continue to make money, and I continue to labor in obscurity.

I'm beginning to wonder if I should bike around in rags, accost people with obvious difficulties and play Jesus.

The subtle approach hasn't been working, so, what the fark.

Why are there more prescriptions for surgeries and NSAIDS than there are bodyworkers getting down to business?

Why am I asking this silly question? Maybe I'm tired of treating soldiers dealing with the aftereffects of surgical "fasciotomies". What's the recovery period for a "fasciotomy"? Six weeks minimum, I suppose. I've seen it for plantar fasciitis, and I've seen it for "IT Band Syndrome". Either one of these "syndromes" indicates overtightening of the fascia in a certain pattern.

If I thought that surgery was the best answer, I would be terribly enthusiastic. My husband currently needs a hip replacement due to damage in Army service. It's not something I can do anything about, and his pain recurs after either I, or my teachers, or even brilliant German physiotherapeutic technology have anything to do with it.

None of us are happy that our treatments have failed, but we all know that the best technology in the world is right here by Regensburg... If I have to turn my mate over to someone, this is the place for us to do it. I won't leave his side until he starts flirting with the Krankenschwestern, but until then, I'm a fixture.

Meanwhile, resolutions I have literally at my fingertips, take no recovery time and have real time results. I can reduce plantar fasciitis by separating and lengthening soleus and flexor hallucis longis fascia, and I can reduce "compartment syndrome" by separating and training the anterior compartment and the posterior one. No surgery, no recovery, I'm comparatively cheap as beer, and just as friendly.

I understand why I'm not referred to or on the Tricare preferred provider list. What I do does not make anyone money. Nothing any bodyworker does makes any larger company money, unless you belong to a large school or licensing committee. I have the National Massage Therapy and Bodywork Certification, which means I crossed the right Ts and toddled the correct I's. The only stockholder, in the end, is me. And I have faith in my work, I know it works, and so do my clients.

I'm still not making any stockholders money, despite having been here for about 5 years and having helped hundreds of people. God forbid I help anyone, without making anyone money besides for me.
Heaven forbid I make money by helping people. At the rate I'm currently helping people and making money, Mother Teresa would be asking for a refund.

Now, I've been working on the Tricare Provider thing for a while. I turned in a pile of my certification paperwork to Wurzburg. Well, the personnel there appear to be perennially ill and have no idea whatsoever about cross-training. If one person is gone due to illness, the rest of the office sits around wondering what this person does.

Yeah, my clients with real and painful problems can't get any problems solved, because the TriCare provider office in Wurzburg can't get cross-training. Furthermore, the local officials don't want to soil their hands with any of this kind of paperwork, and can't talk to the officials in Wurzburg.

Meanwhile, I'm going to do demos for local (German) orthopedic offices and volunteer organizations, (AWAG) I'm going to spank some bureaucrats or at least annoy them terminally, all so that YOU can get the best solution for simple physical problems.

Surgery sucks. Manual therapy is easy, and much cheaper.
Tell your insurance company, tell your doctor, tell your orthopedist, tell your surgeon.
If they have any questions, email me and I'll try to find them a good connection where you are, to a good manual therapist.

Knives aren't neccessary.
Hands are.

Military life. Living in the belly of the beast.
I love being here but it's like living with someone who can't figure out which side of the door to go out of, but they own the house and don't charge you rent.

Furthermore, until recently, the refrigerator was locked shut on Monday and Wednesday. Oh, and sometimes some of the doors don't work. Just approximately whenever we feel like it. We call it FP (there's another meaning but for now it stands for Fucking Preposterous) so that you feel more patriotic when you are inconvenienced.

By the way, this exercise is to help officials who normally succeed only in holding their chairs down for years at a time, held in position by politics and spouse's job, make themselves appear useful.
Meanwhile, we're expecting approximately 10,000 more inDUHviduals within six months.

By the way (again) there will be personnel reductions to help deal with the extra bodies. That's right! Less people to deal with more people! How's that for strategy! Wow. Brilliant.

It's a lot like the Surge. It was going on before it got pitched to the public. People were getting deployed while everyone was arguing about it. Right. When do we install a Surge Protector, and we can talk about it before our friendsandrelations have to go dive back into the sandbox just because they wanted a way to pay for college or get ahead?
Have you taken a look at what's happened to college tuition, grants, and scholarships?
Tell me there's no draft.
Then stand still for a minute... I need a makiwara.

What a pain in the ass. I have no interest in doing business with Google, unless I am getting stock dividends, and I have to have a google account to do this.

I'm going to keep it up because I like the name of the blog, but I will do my best to see that no one (except possibly me) profits from my work out here. I also have a Myspace page:

http://www.myspace.com/edgegrrl

A lot more pix and shorter posts there.

Enjoy.

First of all, let me say a small, sweet, sad goodbye to another heroine of mine taken by breast cancer. Molly Ivins is what I've always aspired to as a writer -- piquant, wise, sharp and worldly.

Molly, sweetheart, I always wanted to meet you.
Now, if I'm lucky, I'll just have to wait until I wander into the right bar in the afterlife.
You a Scrabble fan?

I'll miss you terribly, and try to stand up to your razor standard...

http://www.texasobserver.org/

Life in Germany is marked by strange bits of chaos and order. Recycling is the law, so of course everyone does it! Little monthly calendars are distributed in German, and of course between the differences between German and American calendars (German weeks start on Monday, American weeks on Sunday) and the language, most people can't parse it. Besides, how the heck does "ungerade" mean "every other"??? Oh weyh!

Anyway, for recent expats, in this, as in other things, the best thing to do is simply observe your neighborhood. Whatever they have out on the curb in the evening, be it paper, cardboard, or yellow bags of wrapping bits and plastic meat trays (rinsed), leave some of that out too. It will make your house fit in better, and it will make the recycling fairies happy. If the recycling fairies are not happy, you will get a BIG bill, as much as (or as little as) 200 Euro. Best keep the recycling fairies happy. They can be grumpy and expensive.

I've just read a bit of a blog of a German friend of ours who writes in very nearly perfect UK-ish English. I find it quite funny that I'm blogging at the same time, but in my "muttersprache" as my written German is an absolute catastrophe.
Should we stay here much longer, perhaps I can write very basic things, but German is not a friendly language except to real artists and technicians of its vagaries. I am struggling through 4th grade grammar workbooks in Deutsch. I would be fortunate merely to be competent. I can use very basic forms, but the language is a reflection of a very old, intricate and intellectual culture, not entirely amenable to foreign use.

English, on the other hand, if current news and literature is any reflection, is headed to a level that signing gorillas would be eloquent in. I should be glad, but writers who can actually write tend to be more of a threat to this sloppy establishment than a boon, and are treated accordingly. Making my living by writing would have made me suicidal (or homicidal, which is actually more interesting). Same way with other artistic endeavours. I'll make my living another way, and do things as I please, when I please, how I please. Otherwise, what's the point of any art? I can write a bloody sonnet as an exercise, but it's more squeezing myself into something that doesn't fit, than me expressing myself. So what's the bloody point of that?

So far, I've been more writing for my American friends and family around here and back home. I haven't, honestly, though much about my German friends here and what they might find interesting about my experiences as a Texican-American in Deutschland.

It's something to contemplate.