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.