A kerfuffle has emerged, on my father's side of the family, yes, America's worst nightmare, rednecks with a little bit of money..  anyway someone wants to move things around and get buried in the family plot, and my dear old dad, just wants them to ask him for permission. 

You know, for those of us NOT concerned with our earthly remains, I can't think of anything worse, anything stupider and more useless, to get filled with wax and formaldehyde, and made up in some kind of hideous "lifelike" Lovecraftian simulacron, nothing would horrify my existential self more. 

Take this hard-working, startlingly functional carcass, and first of all, take what other people need. Take my beautiful menisci, which in my late 30s, were described as the menisci of a teenager, despite a lifetime of crazy budo. 

Take the corneas and retina of my incredibly well-functioning eyes. Take my taxed liver, give my kidneys to my friend Brad Wye, if it's a match. If it's not, find some kid who needs a second chance. 

One of my dad's disappointments, was that, when he reached a certain age (76 this September) he couldn't be an organ donor any more. 

I don't have a lot of patience with people who get hung up on useless remains. 

Make them useful. Fish, or cut bait. 

"Believing in this living, is a hard row to hoe.." (Angel from Montgomery)

I run into these obstinate vendettas, and just shake my head, while understanding my own obstinance within it.

I do believe in living. I believe in contributing to living. 

"I'm not ready to make nice, I'm not ready to back down".. (Dixie Chicks)

My mother and I have driven around with this amazing CD in the car, both of us in tears, both of us understanding each other, and both of us wanting to somehow reach beyond the vendettas. 

"They say, time heals everything, but I'm still waiting".  (Dixie Chicks)

At some point, someone, usually the same 20 percent, who has been giving more all along, has to create a controlling interest. 

That said, those in the position to give, are usually the ones who have kept better track of their resources all along. This creates resentment in those, who have not. 

I have been there, and I have felt that. 

I have also learned, that it was my own fault. 

Of course it's hard, when things don't come easy, but little worth having, does. 

If you are afraid of work, you are afraid of life. 

My teachers taught me that knowledge is transmitted via sweat, and I took it to heart. I have no fear of work, perseverance (shugyo) and even blind exhaustion. 

I am older, my endurance is shorter, but I will never stop trying to extend it through simple cardiovascular and weight training. I don't want simple physical limitations to stop my inquiry. 

My profession is geared to erasing physical limitations, and I rely on it myself. Granted, since I left Germany, the work I get is not as amazing, but it does still help.. oh, who am I kidding. One hour on my teacher PS's table made me Superwoman, until I fell down a hill six weeks later, and disorganized my pelvis again. 

Since then, I just feel like I need to get back to Europe, to get my groove back. Last time I returned to the EU, I just felt like I woke from a bad dream in which I was stuck in the USA..  

Bury me not on the high prairie, but take my parts and pieces, give them away. Burn the rest, and bury it under a wild rose-bush. 

In my waking hours, my willing time, let me go back to an orderly society, where health care, pension, and security has something like a guarantee, where manual therapy is not a gutter idea, rarely recompensed, looked down on, and shunned.. 

I'd like to live in a more rational world. 

Just sayin'. 

in my private, claustrophobic world, I am in the Bavarian woods, I am open and venturing under the sheltering skies of pines and spruces. I am finding Pfifferlinge, blueberries, cranberries, and stashing them in the freezer for future use..

I am the beloved daughter of Bavaria, making use of her wares, I am protected and secure.
The grandmothers and fathers of Bavaria, love me and protect me, I am doing their work.

Then, I hit the epic fail that is the American public land use not-a-system.

Part of the reason I have not been out in the Appalachians, has been lack of a mentor, lack of time, lack of.. just lack of initiative.

I know it's a rich environment, I know it's all there.. and I know that I have clients who literally cry when I can't see them.

This is why I need retreats like our dear Young's place up in the 'Dacks'.
I can do a few sessions on that beautiful deck on Canada Lake, just for the sheer joy of the place. But I need to rest, sketch, sail, canoe, kayak and have a life, too.

I love to hear the loons in the morning, I grew up knowing there were loons, and always wanted to hear them. I always wanted to wear a sweater in the evening. It's the fantasy of every native Texan, and part of the reason I approach any part of Bush citizenship in TX as total fiction: they could always retreat to Martha's Vineyard in the heat of summer.
The rest of us were stuck in three-digit hell, from late May through October.

No Texan worth their salt, balls, or bones, dodged each and every Texas summer. I only dodged a week or so of my last few, and weathered many of them without aircon.

At some point, I would just go mad, and refuse to spend the weekend in Bastrop County.
I went into town and hit the swimming holes Deep Eddy and Barton Springs, swimming laps until I cooled down, or go with family and friends to whatever was fun and cool.

End of August, I was half-mad or more and grumpy, my hair was falling out, and I was just a little further on my way to psychotic.

This acting-out found its way into, fortunately, many constructive activities, which led me into my escape from the clay oven, which is the Texas major season.

I escaped from many other things, at the same time.

I also became beholden, to things I am still trying to understand.

I have to take it back to the beginning, an American in a spare room in Munich.

I was there on a skinny slip of fate, my terrified Texan self adrift in a Schwabing penthouse.
A little kid was yelling at me one evening as I dragged my bike into the back parking area, about cats getting in, pissing and stinking up the place. He was about 7-8 years old, and incredibly articulate. I knew exactly what he was saying, but had neither the skill nor the vocabulary to reply.
I developed that later.
He had no idea that I was a stupid American, and while I understood about the cats, I had no idea about how the doors or anything else worked, other than getting in, locking up my recalcitrant bike, and getting up a thousand flights of stairs to study in my rented room.
This kid was the son of my future Rolfing teacher, Peter Schwind.

Of course I had no idea, and the kid had no idea, that anyone didn't speak German.

The fates laugh at me now, but I was occupying a spare room in the same building as my eventual, most influential teacher.

I met the ambassador from Brazil to Germany, in my very best pajamas.
I was studying, and my hostess insisted that I come out and meet the fellow. He suffered from hirsutism, and was one of the most elegant humans I have ever had the honor to meet. He made me feel like royalty, in my PJs, whilst on a visit to his cultural teacher, in another country. Seriously, that's chops.

That's what I miss, here.. that kind of elegance.
That, and the grainy practicality I grew up with.

I am literally between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Life is suspended animation here.. some kind of halfway point.

Who knows, what the resolution will be. Not me.
I can guess.. I may well seek asylum, eventually. 

So the adventure continues, and the doors and windows open down the road.

Friends are continuing their lives together, and I am searching my heart, to find things to share with them.

You already know, that you must risk everything for love.

No one can tell you who to love, when, how, what or why.
Love finds its own way, and it is up to us, to plumb its mysteries.

Just because we love one person, does not mean that we can't love anyone else.
In fact, the best love is commutative, it links up, and joins people together.

I love so many people, sometimes it just boggles my mind.
I am not sure, how I can make room in my heart for all of them.. and then, I realize, that my love, makes more room in my heart.

My heart can always expand, it can make room for more loved ones.
This is a bigger heart, it is a better heart, and more love, and more to love, just makes my life better, bigger, and gives me more ways to grow.

So I choose, to live by love. 

So we had a jujutsu class yesterday.

There was some kind of mutual respect, some kind of understanding, and eventually, a real meeting of mind and intention.

Someone with the compassion, skills, intellect and depth, to grasp what my teacher is trying to do.

It was one of the most fun training sessions I have ever had the privilege to participate in.

Honestly, I am pretty verklempt about just getting back into jujutsu at all, but with this particular person, I am really having to reach into my roots, to keep my center as anything like a sempai. Fortunately, my motto has always been "don't do as I do, do better than me" and everyone always has.

It's not my main talent, my gift and leaning is with weapons.
However, with my understanding of the body, my interest in jujutsu is persistent. I just need people to train with, who understand that years of indiscriminate training has damaged me, and I can only participate in a very specific, discriminate way.

The class left me unharmed, invigorated, and very, very happy.
I am happy to say, it did the same for our new student, who is also our teacher, in another paradigm.

I am not sure how it all ended up here, but I am just so grateful for a chance to get back to some real basics, and this exploration of the principles of martial movement, in this particular paradigm, that I don't even care that we get up before the sun does, to do it.

I'm a bit lost in space, in terms of my martial arts career.
I'm unhappy about not pursuing Kokoro Ryu, but am really enjoying SMR and the people we train with.

Neither of us know how much of it we can still do, but neither of us has really ever asked the question, physically, either. I have continually worked to improve.

I can't remember enough Kokoro Ryu, to do it justice. Other students have better memories, and more talent. I mentored them, but I can't do it by myself.

SMR is probably the more comprehensive, understood and acceptable path. Not my usual thing, but the signs are all good and easy, and I find myself leaping though steps most often hallmarked by hesitation.

When my teacher puts the research he so frequently talks about, into action, and finds out what he was taught, and does something with it, that will be interesting.

The path is hard, narrow, and without reward. But it is the path, and it will guide the seeking soul who beats and follows its way along, with curiosity.

I shall Remain Curious. 

It's been a week I would have sold my soul for, back in Texas.
Days breezy, highs in the 80s.
Nights breezy, sometimes stormy with rain, worrying about managing overflowing rain barrels.

Nights with fans, just out of sheer indulgence.
Sleeping under a light down comforter.. in later June.

In my old Texas life, an unaffordable luxury. My waterbed unheated, a cold shower with mint soap, going to sleep under the highest ceiling fan speed possible.

Yeah, life is different.

Shadows rise up again, and again, and many times they are just echoes I should learn to develop some kind of iron equanamity for.

They say that when the student is ready, a teacher shall appear.
This is not my exact experience.
My experience is that the avid student must scare teachers out of the woodwork, seek them out, bend their life to the teachers', and just generally make it work.

Woody Allen was right.
80% of life, is just showing up. 

I am such an unimaginably lucky girl.

At the beginning of my life, I was so hungry, so in search of something.

I was not in any position to understand my own quest.

I was Ronin, I was a starving coyote, I was raw bones, sinew, and attitude.

One man took me on, he took me in hand, and polished my raw aggression against his own compassion. Another of my teachers knew him, and handed me over, like some kind of hot brick or other liability.

Brendan took me on, took me as a student, and took it into his head to civilize me.

He took the wild live steel that was me, for a year or more, nights after practice, bounced me around the mat, Sanshiro-Sugata style, dragging my ragged self around, and off, the mat, with never an ounce of pain, harm, or damage. It was like being in a moon bounce, with a friend who helps you bounce, and get up again, except that your brain cells will never be the same. At some point, you have to let them know, that you can't play anymore.
That was the point I really had to re-evaluate my own heart.
Because, up to now, no one could break me.
Now, I am broken. It was an accident.
It was many accidents..
I can't do what I did, I can't be who I am.
I have to live in this curious half-life.
I am not here.
I am not there.
Three feet of steel, is my heart, it is my existence.

Three feet of steel, four feet of oak.
The singer sings, I am stung between bitter, nasty cultures.. one, I kill you, other, I kill you another way.
My heart is broken, that I must kill anyone, anyway. It's not my way, or my wishes.

The solution, is obscure.

There is nothing, there is no way. We like nothing.
We survive.

I am such an unimaginably lucky girl.

At the beginning of my life, I was so hungry, so in search of something.

I was not in any position to understand my own quest.

I was Ronin, I was a starving coyote, I was raw bones, sinew, and attitude.

One man took me on, he took me in hand, and polished my raw aggression against his own compassion. Another of my teachers knew him, and handed me over, like some kind of hot brick or other liability.

Brendan took me on, took me as a student, and took it into his head to civilize me.

He took the wild live steel that was me, for a year or more, nights after practice, bounced me around the mat, Sanshiro-Sugata style, dragging my ragged self around, and off, the mat, with never an ounce of pain, harm, or damage. It was like being in a moon bounce, with a friend who helps you bounce, and get up again, except that your brain cells will never be the same. At some point, you have to let them know, that you can't play anymore.
That was the point I really had to re-evaluate my own heart.
Because, up to now, no one could break me.
Now, I am broken. It was an accident.
It was many accidents..
I can't do what I did, I can't be who I am.
I have to live in this curious half-life.
I am not here.
I am not there.
Three feet of steel, is my heart, it is my existence.

Three feet of steel, four feet of oak.
The singer sings, I am stung between bitter, nasty cultures.. one, I kill you, other, I kill you another way.
My heart is broken, that I must kill anyone, anyway. It's not my way, or my wishes.

The solution, is obscure.

There is nothing, there is no way. We like nothing. 

I can't change the world.. I can change my Self..

yeah that's me.. 

I'm sitting here with a glass of ouzo and three feet of rusty, battered steel. 

I handed it over to one of the first Westerners to end up in Japan, learning budo. Mortified about the condition of the blade, and the sageo.. I got it back without a single extra shaving in the saya, and shook it out, before I cleaned it, utterly embarrassed.. I cleaned it, and bought a new sageo, just so discomfited that my little indulgence had become the instrument of a great teacher.. too late as usual. 

The bones of my hands are dented, you can feel the lumps. 

The veins are broken, where they got hit, again and again. My knuckles are deformed from trying to punch a horse, who ran into me. My body is deformed, and I need help, to not walk in circles. 

My neck is a neurological experiment, my left shoulder has been ripped up twice, and glued back together in three sessions of needle hell. The last one, they drew my own blood, spun out the fibrinogens, and shot it back into me, at the hands of a slender young man, who apologized, and told my husband I was "tough as nails" without ever understanding that the man I love understands toughness on a scale not often comprehended by the living. 

I appreciated the sentiment, and live forever in the shadow of Chuck's perspective, of a simple dumb needle in the shoulder compared to the Mumford, a hip replacement, and everything that ever happened to our military sistren &; brethren. So I got a 3-inch needle in my shoulder. I asked for it. I wanted it. That's different. 

I kill varmints without fear or regret. 

So that's my life, amongst the animals. 

There's not much I need. 

I need a garden. I need some meat.. can grow, trade or hunt. 

I need to work, I need to do my work. I need to make my way, doing this Work. It is bigger than I am, like my training. I went looking for things bigger than me, and boy howdy did I find them. 

I need to train. I need a budo, I need a Way. I need something to do with my Self and my Intention.

There is always some kind of negotiation. 

I must train, but I must also not incur any more damage. 

I cannot tell you, what the new day feels like, but it feels pretty gottamn good to a grrrl who has been looking for her kind of heaven for half a decade, since her teacher lost his groove for good. 

I am here, because I spent 20 years on things which did not suit me. and 10 on those that did, but did not survive. 

I am here, to work on something that survives.

Coming up on a weekend of intense training, I find myself in focus. 


Not so many words, many experimentations in my own attitude. 


I have been doing budo since I was 19 years old. I wanted to study when I was about 13, but my parents just laughed at me. In any case, good teachers of classical arts, were in short supply in Austin, TX when I was 13. 
I will be 43 this year (2011). The Japanese sword was, and has always been, my first love (after lightsabers of course). 


My study of SMR Jodo, is to me, like a study of the opposition. It's a fond, interested study, and I love the depth and range of the art. Like Heinlein, I believe that specialization, is for insects. 
If I had not met the people I have met, who were also interested in this art involving four feet of oak dowel, I might not have found such an interest. 
Interesting people, generate interest. 


I know that my own presence, as a native sword devotee, improves the practice of the poor sods stuck with me. 


I have spent my entire adult life, studying three-foot razor blades, and various types of physical conflict. 


In all honesty, it has made me a far more chilled-out person, than many who have not explored the concept in the depths I have. 


There is no place, like the training place. 
Three feet of razor steel, hone a person to a place of simple honesty, simply because of the difficulty of properly using the instrument. 


If you are in the right place, all movements are both bold and minimal. 
There are no gestures.. no movement means nothing. 
Everything is culturally, ryuha, family, group correct. 
There are no individual movements. 
Everything you do, every movement you make, tells people who your influences are. 
Everything else is an accident, until you make it Work. 
Shu.
Ha. 
Ri.


This is Japanese Budo. 
It is a puzzle, for the Westerner, of embodiment. 
To become so completely spacious and empty, to embody this culture so far from our own, in everything from language, to culture, to strategy, requires an effort from the practicioner, which much come from their very soul. 
This is, if I understand, true of native Japanese, as well. 


For myself, orphaned on several different continental areas at once, I shall strive for curiosity.
That is the lesson I am carrying with me, along with as much empty space as I can bring with me, to learn more. 

in the arms of the angels, fly away from here.

Wish I could.
Wish we could.

Thanks Sarah, most of what I find in comfort here, is your voice, and friends who think like you do.

The best I can do is..

bring the reality I knew..
to the reality I am now trying to overcome.

I would rather be in the arms of your angels.. but they don't come around here..

My reveries involve silence and enlightenment, few and far between.

Even my strategies in Texas, were easier to deal with.
Now, I just have to work on me.. I can't blame it on anything but me.

As a budoka, these days, most of my thoughts appear to me, to be in past tense. I live in a cultural maelstrom of past, recent past, and more recent, so it's all blurry, at best.

It's not that I am no longer doing budo.
I just feel like I am.. at some kind of halfhearted neutral right now.

This grrl used to show up for 3-6 days a week of mat pounding and abuse, and I picked on the instructors intentionally, to make it worse. If I could move after class, I was disappointed.
The instructor I mention later, used to mop the floor with me for at least 30 minutes after class twice a week, if I was lucky. I showed up at 4:30, he showed up at 8:30. I trained straight through. This is aikido and judo training, not a lot of standing around, generally.
I really thought I could get him, once or twice. I landed on his head once. He thought that was pretty funny (so did I).

Don't get me wrong, I am enjoying Shinto Muso Ryu.

It's just that..
A few weeks ago, Chuck and I did something from Kokoro Ryu, and I trained on that level, for the rest of the evening. Pat, ever alert, cranked it up for me.. and we ended up negotiating.. I don't know how to tell these guys who I am and how I roll, without making an ass of myself. After almost two years, and we have all been working so hard on trusting one another, and I do love the jodo boyz, but still there is something that needs to get kicked over, to get to the level of training we all need.

To their credit, they are figuring me out, they are testing me, ever so gently, but always asking for more, which I could not be more flattered by.
But I am guilty of hanging back, I am guilty of not pressing forward.

Because of who I have trained with, and who I am, quite simply, I am always operating with the kid gloves on. I understand that we all do that, for one another, it's just the trick of finding that terribly scary, sweet sweet spot, where we can scare the crap out of each other, trust each other, and we drive each other to that Higher Ground.

I had a long, sweet, deep conversation with the person I consider my closest original teacher for aikido and judo.. the bond we have is truly incredible. There are not many people I will tell my troubles to, he is one, and we always have a laugh, however rueful. Regardless of anything, he will always be a touchstone for me, simply for the honestly of his approach.
I have literally placed my life in this person's hands, with the manic sincerity of my attacks. The only other person I have done that with, is the man I married, but we haven't trained for the last three years.

Our conversation made me realize, that I need to get to this level, with anyone I train with, for any kind of intensity.

I need real intent. I need real salvation.
I need for the people I train with, to really know what they are doing, to really trust their technique, to save them from a minor wacko like me. I can stop anything, I am a technical expert, but I need training to bring be beyond that, and through it.

I need people who are going to stop me, and say, If you really want to kill me, you will do it This way.. they will also express their expectations of control.

Because those are the people who really love you, and those are the people who really trust themselves and their technique.

Those are the people I need to train with.
I train with liberated men, who don't give me unnecessary breaks.
I would hate them, if they did.

I am going to go ahead and say it.

Women in martial arts, are mostly women on their own.
We are annoyed by the limitations imposed on our gender, in general.
We don't have time, or interest, in the opinions of small-minded people, about what we are capable of.  It's not any of your business, so leave it alone.

We will do what we want, and there is nothing you can do, about it.
We can, we will, and we are able.
You may not be.
That's your problem.
'Nuff Said.

Hold on, hold on to yourself
For this is gonna hurt like hell
Hold on, hold on to yourself
you know that only time will tell
what is it in me that refuses to believe..

this isn't easier than the real thing..
My love for you is strong and true..
Am I in heaven here, or am I..
at the crossroads I am standing..
and now your're sleeping peaceful, i lie awake and pray
that you'll be strong tomorrow,
and you'll see another day and we will praise it.
and love the fate that brings another smile across your face.. 

The nitty-gritty becomes comical..
I am darting down the alleyway to get a license number of a car engaged in truly odd suspicious behavior at the criminabe's.. it's snowing, I've got my snow boots on and am in my warmups, basically my PJs, otherwise. I greeted a suspicious character on the porch, and ran around the back to catch the license plate number.
The good neighbors called me after I got back, sort of to compliment me on my nimble sprint down the alley.
We keep trying to tell them.. who we are and what we do.. but it took my little trot down the alley, to see that this middle-aged chickie can move a bit. Granted, I'm in bodywork for a reason, and I was so beat-up at age 30, that I was Jackie Chan in the morning, cracking and creaking to the bathroom.
Now, thanks to the bodywork I've gotten involved with, I can get up cold, and trot out in the snow to check a license tag, and just worry that I might slip around the corner (which I took like Scooby-Doo on meth) and the neighbors are wondering what the hell.
Well, we keep trying to tell them, and old Possum Whacker has made it up out of the basement, to find a place amongst the possible whacking implements.
Meanwhile I am skidding on my snow boots around the corner, memorizing a plate and writing it down on the top of a local Chinese menu card..
The basics of this kind of thing are so very basic, that it just makes me laugh in a rueful kind of way, and not mind getting out on a snowy night, because our neighborhood flatfoots are out in it all the time.
Having Possum Whacker out comforts me, in a way.. that thing was so indestructible, through so many varmints, I am comforted to have it in my hands again. Three feet of battered, warped red oak, in the shape of the Japanese sword, bought in 1985.. almost a quarter century ago.
Possum Whacker was my weapon of choice against the legion of opossums who raided our compost and our chicken coop, back in Texas.
I came up with a "two-stroke" system with the warped, battered wooden sword after my trusty Marlin 22 failed to kill a particularly recalcitrant "Possum" after 7 shots into its furry body, and I had to do it in with butt-strokes from same 22, as it charged me.

I learned to walk up to the offending marsupial in a kind of wake-game, edge ever closer, and go from a brief hasso-gamae to two snap strikes: One to the neck, the second to the skull. This double-tap immobilized the animal, and allowed for the only strike capable of killing these prehistoric critters.
I've got nothing personal against them, it's just that they threatened our personal economy. As long as they didn't transgress, they were safe.
If they did, and I caught them, they were dead.
Pretty simple equation.. one I still live by. As much as Maryland allows.

I was awarded a "Hard Bastard" by the late Bill Mears, for this.
Not sure why, but I do drink a toast to the late, great Bill every time this story comes up.

Things get darker, and lighter.

Sometimes my flashbacks take me over entirely.
I spent last night in a cat and mouse with some kind of sentient interdimensional catfish, chasing through water, mountains, halls and sky. All four of my limbs were alternately cramping and going numb, as I tried to set them into and out of the covers. It was an incredibly uncomfortable, painful night.
It's a wonder I feel rested at all today, but I am curiously intrigued.

Many times, I am not sure where I am from, or where I am going.

This is a rare admission of the personal dislocation I live in.
Sometimes, if I seem a little disoriented, just keep in mind, that I am not entirely sure where I am from to begin with. Besides a part of Texas, that does not belong in Texas.

Sometimes there's a lot of ugly, sometimes a lot of beautiful.

When you decide to take the high ground, there's a lot of people think it belongs to them already.

People like me, little people with big ideas and big hearts, we end up cannon fodder, if we aren't smart about it. We end up diving into the meat grinder, with good intentions.

I so often feel like some kind of space alien, with knowledge from another planet, looking for a leader to talk to.

I have yet to find a rational group with something resembling national leverage.
There are so many divisions, so many delusions, so many different directions.

I feel the same way, in my personal life, but then I always have.
America's idea is that you sell out, to get by.
I have managed to get by without selling out, but I also work my ass off.

I have found the limit, and I have found the wall.
Perhaps I can forge it a little deeper, but this level of influence, is not enough for me.

I change things, life by life, but I would like a more organizational approach.

I am not satisfied, by any means, by any organization I currently belong to, though I am encouraged.

What the hell do I do with that..

The cold and snow, and listening to KGSR online, sends me into Time Travel mode.
Cold nights in Austin, Texas, are few and far between, and the times we all spent shivering and talking by our cars, are few and far between, but memorable.

I remember showing up at 5:30 pm Aikido class for special study with Jim P, working through the beginner's class, working through the Advanced class, and then Brendan taking me on for a good 30-45 minutes after that.

I walked into that building full of butterflies, taming them in the ritual of dressing for class and warming up, and then facing them again and again, as my teachers tested, and re-tested me.

I will never forget the rampant butterflies in my stomach, as I got into the elevator of the Belmont gym. I also remember the ritual of dressing, and warming up, bringing me to my center.

I also remember quickly re-dressing and recovering, to my regular shirt or sweater, hakama, and cowboy boots, just to save time. I drove home so often, in that outfit.

I am feeling that sense of exhaustion, satisfaction, and SEEK mode in a cooling body, dressed in this wack cultural rift, dealing with everything I was learning, all the shifts I undertook, with those boots on my feet, the hakama round my waist, and some random thing around my  shoulders. I just walked out and drove home like that, figuring that no one would know the difference.

They never did.. but I miss that sensation of learning and transition..

I miss needing to wear cowboy boots with my hakama.

I miss really training with intensity and intent, on a regular basis.

I intend to do something about that.

The lower education level in America, particularly for Rolfers, is something which hits very close to home for me.. as a person who struggled for a college degree, and was never able to make it, for economic reasons.. finally my training in Europe, with the ERA and with Peter and Christoph's group, and the Supervision with you where I had fortunately already read all of your material, your research, and could follow it all auf Deutsch, I finally felt like I was on a course of study I could keep up with, and that mattered to me.
I was also finally able to afford it, thanks to a new life situation.

I will be pursuing the study of nerves via Barral, as this seems to be the next big breakthrough in manual therapies, and something I can do and study with little damage to my body.
Finally in 2007, I separated my left shoulder again, in aikido training (which I have since given up, with great mourning), and my body was in crisis for another year and a half, and I went into the Advanced training here on the East Coast of the US with Tessy Brungardt and Jane Harrington.. I made friends with Tessy early, but Jane and I had to negotiate (we are so much alike) but we all came out crazy about each other, and Cosper Scafidi audited the class, and we are now very good friends- there is a real resonance there, with this brilliant, slightly crazy individual. Cosper had us to his home, cooked for us, and made sure we felt "gemuetlich" which Cosper does in a very special way.
He also introduced me to a prolotherapy doctor, who has done some very effective work repairing my torn AC joint with organic "glue".

The move back to America was a real crisis.. you know we didn't really want to go back, but there was a very important election, and finally our votes were counted.

We both fell apart, and it was the Advanced Training that held me together.. we could not afford it, and sold many of our things to make it happen.  I worked very hard, and got an article in the local newspaper.

My body was in real trouble, and my soul was truly displaced and disoriented.
Now I am working on myself as the foundation of a kind of bridge- anything I can do, to bring the wisdom we have so forgotten here, in to our practices in the US, from the heart of Europe, I am interested in doing so. I am working with a dear friend (also an Upledger instructor) to create a space in the rural heartland of the MidAtlantic for studies and adventures in the improvement of the human condition.

I can't make it back to Dear Old Europe nearly as often as I'd like, so I like to leave the light on and the door open, for teachers and colleagues from my "Zweite Heimat".

Most of the time, I just want to go Home, and quietly walk around..
Just to listen, soak the beauty and uniqueness in..

A letter from one of my original Aikido teachers, hand written.. telling me about his new kitten.

Listening to Seal, from that time when he was everywhere..

I was training with a group in Near East Austin, one guy who held a kind of study group in his back yard (this was the basis of my early training, talented guys with big back yards), the house always smelling of ginseng and herbal remedies.
I will never forget the smell of that place, and lapse into deep, sweet recollection with the smell of simmering ginseng and ginger.

It was a time of real exploration for me, as I searched for my martial identity.
I remember trying Escrima, so dyslexic that two of my martial arts buddies stood at my front and back, one holding and guiding my arms, the other providing the other side of the contact. Of course I was madly in love with both of them, in that immature, transferred state.
I knew what was going on, I was letting all of this pass through me, and just blissing out on the contact and the experience.

Eventually, and partially through the convulsions of my breakout from Austex, I found my real bliss in classical Japanese martial arts.

The simple truth, of putting the sword in my belt (learning how to tie it) sitting down (learning how to sit) taking it out (learning how to take it out) using it (an endless exercise) and putting it back (my greatest challenge, on so many levels) is one of the best study sets I can approach, to make myself a better person.

Encountering the sounds, scents, and sensations which set me on my way, fill me with tremendous nostalgia for that whole set of experiences, which can never be repeated, and will always be cherished.

I was such a Hometown Girl.. Austin is, and ever will be, my hometown, and any year passing, that I don't go home for the wildflowers in spring, is one that hurts me deeply.

Pulling up my pins and moving on was the single most painful thing I have ever done.
My compass will ever return, to Austin, Texas, though I can't survive in that environment.
Well.. I could.. if I decided I liked that oven heat, and absented myself late Dec-March, deadly cedar season.

But no.. I love Fall, here in the Mid-Atlantic.
I love cool springs, crocuses, cool June nights.

July and August, I can travel (not to Texas) and then there is actually some fall going on by September. They don't really have a handle on hot, here. This year, it got to 106, and that was miserable, with the local humidity, but it ain't no 110, ain't no 115.

I listen to Guy Forsyth's Hometown Boy, with the lines about the bloodsucking metal mosquitoes, the shotguns, the dead kids who wanted to do good, and it all hits me center square. Suzy was my best friend, and I never thought of kissing her, even though she would have liked it.

No, I will never leave my hometown.
Not in my heart.
My body just can't stand it.

But I am not at an end.
Just another, new, strange beginning.