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.