Lessons Learned

Today I competed in the elders' division of ATA Nationals. I had practiced and trained to the best of my ability but in the end, I did not place in either event I had entered. But I won in a lot of ways. I won because I met eight magnificent men who cared for their bodies despite their age. I met a man who is 68 and who can do a full side split. That same man had won the "Triple Crown" (three separate World Championships - forms, weapons and sparring - in the same year).

There were three other current World Champions in the ring with me. And they each taught me something. I learned that I am never too old. I learned to shut up about being old - it is a blessing to be alive each day no matter what your age. I learned that wanting and aspiring to something are not sufficient to make it happen. Everything worthwhile takes loads of dedication, training and practice.

I learned that there men out there that I can aspire to be like - who are role models for what it means to be a champion and an elder. And, ye, there was one man in the group who was still stuck in that first half of like "winning is the only thing" mentality. He didn't win either.

And I learned from my own experience as well. I learned that giving my best might not be enough to place, but I saw opportunities where I could grow and better my best. And I learned that I don't want to stop growing and improving. There is more out "there" for me to discover, more to give and more space to inhabit.

So I didn't win or place but I grew a big chunk of humility and that is really really important in the end. Thanks to the eight magnificent men!

Entering the Ring

I am an elder. At least that is what I would be classified as by virtue of my 62 years of age and because of the number of men I have mentored over the last decade or so. And as an elder I am not supposed to be doing what I am presently in the act of doing – entering into a combat. The distinction of elder usually is bestowed on those who, having completed the elements of the first half of life, are now busied with passing those lessons on to others. Intrinsic with that definition is the idea that one is done with the contests and conquests associated with the first half of the life journey. And yet, the reason I am writing this is that I am currently aboard an airplane headed out to engage in one more “first half” endeavor – to engage with other men my age in martial arts competition.

We are told that life is divided into two elements: the first half is focused on gathering and building, and the second more focused on giving and applying. I like Richard Rohr’s division. Rohr says that the first half is about building our container and the second half about using it, the first half concerns finding our purpose and then we must live into that in the remaining years of our life. So as young warriors we venture out into the world to conquer it and bring home our trophies and medals – signs of accomplishing our tasks. We define our space, build our container, as Rohr would say, by doing and winning. Then, having secured our place in the world, we move into a role of helping others from the wisdom of our contests, our failures and victories. Most importantly we teach from our scars and our wounds.

So why am I setting out once again to compete? Have I not won enough, accomplished enough, failed enough, been wounded enough? I dearly hope that those are not the reasons I am doing this. No. As I searched my inner wisdom for some answer, I saw only one thing: my son. I have a late life son (my other children are grown and married with kids of their own) who as a young teenager is perhaps looking at this elder man in wonder. He wonders how I can relate to him. He wonders what it would be like to have a young thirty-something father – to learn from, to model and even joust with. He, like all boys his age wants a hero, and that usually is their father. And that is why I am on this quest.

It’s not for me this time, no medals or trophies are needed anymore, not for me. And I really don’t think he needs me to bring one home for him. But to know that his dad, despite injuries and aching bones could one last time do what it takes to be in the ring, to even qualify, perhaps shows him some element of what a father hero is all about. I want to teach my son that it’s never too late to try. I want to teach him that giving your best may not result in the gold medal, it may not even be enough to place. But I want to teach him that there is something special and valuable in putting all you have into the quest, no matter what the outcome may be. I can tell him this as many times as I like, but it will never register as anything more than words. SO I am doing it to the best of my ability.

I have dropped 15 pounds in the last month. I have doubled up my practice sessions and over the next few days I will be training and practicing and preparing to be able to say that this one, this time, I gave everything I could in his honor. This one is for Jesse. This is so that you know, my son, that giving your best is all that it takes and is all anyone can ask of you – in scholastics, in athletics, in music, and art and in all of life. Give it your all, my son. This is for you.

The Hurt Puppy

Recently we had the great honor of having several women (accomplished, powerful and articulate women) come to the Married Man's Survival Course to serve as a panel for our men. Our intention was twofold: to confirm some of the many statements we make in the Guide about what women have told us regarding relationships, and to allow the men in the class to ask ANY question they had to some open and honest women who promised that they would do their very best to respond.

It was breathtaking, to say the least! The level of honesty of these women and the vulnerability they showed while responding to our men blew us away. But about three quarters through the session a man asked an impossible question - one really that most likely reflected his own relationship but which he asked in a generic way. "Why do our wives say such hurtful things when we are arguing?"

There was a pause as the women looked back and forth at each other, then one brave, beautiful soul spoke these words:

"I don't know what your wife feels, I can only speak about how I feel. When I am hurting all I can think of is that hurt. Trust me, I really don't think she is talking about you. She just hurts and that's all that can come out." Then she added, "A long time ago I had a puppy. it was the gentlest, sweetest dog I have ever had. But one day it got out into the street and was hit by a car. I ran out to get my dog and take care of her and as I gently picked her up, she bit me. I don't think it was me she was biting, I just think she was hurt and was protecting herself from further hurts. I am just like that puppy, and I don't want to be hurting any further!"

All the women nodded in agreement. And the men in the room knew what she meant.