A Flower in the Wild

I must have been 12 or 13 when I first saw him walk into the dojo. I assumed he was someone's father or grandfather until he made his way over to the changing area and walked out in a very old dogi. Most of the judoka in my age group didn't bother to pay any attention to him. We were highly competitive and rough, priding ourselves on sending visiting judoka and teammates alike to the emergency room. He didn't seem very impressed by us either. He wore a white belt and made no eye contact with anybody but the senior instructor. Most of us (the competitors) thought he was beneath us. But I was intrigued. His dogi looked very worn. And his white belt wasn't the same white belt you see on the fresh meat entering the dojo. It was so worn that parts of it were held on by threads. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He took his falls smoothly and lightly. His technique, while nothing fancy, was textbook perfect. Slowly, I made my way over to him and got his attention. I bowed to him and asked to train with him very politely. He gave me a very grim look and curtly nodded, "Hai." Over the next 30 minutes, he proceeded to beat me more severely but with more love than I had ever experienced in my life.

That's a concept tough for many westerners to understand but he explained himself years later to someone else which I then heard about through the grapevine. Sensei often used me as a demonstration partner for seminars especially when he wanted to show a technique at combat speed. Fortunately for me, I have always been very durable so this lucky honor became mine by default. During a particular demonstration, he blooded my lip pretty severely and fractured my collarbone by my sternum. I said nothing about it and left for the hospital on my own at the end of training. Sensei went to the post-seminar party and he and I never spoke for a second about my injury.

It was at this party that one of the local judoka had her emotions overcome her good sense and she verbally attacked Sensei for injuring me and letting me go to the hospital on my own. Quite upset, she reportedly stuck her finger in his face and said, "If you hate him so much, why do you use him?" A friend of mine told me later that the look on Sensei's face was bewilderment. (He would never tell me these things himself) He said quite calmly, "Hate him? I love him." He then proceeded to explain his philosophy towards training me.

There are flowers which are raised in a hothouse. They are nurtured and protected from the elements and become very beautiful. But if the hothouse is ever destroyed, then chances are the flower will perish. Then there are flowers that are forced to endure the elements. The weather the heat and the cold and survive the the frost and various natural predators. Those flowers, if they survived, would be beautiful and strong. He hoped I would survive but he wasn't sure yet. But it was his responsibility to make sure I was prepared. Lastly he said that he let me go to the hospital myself because he wished to cause me no greater shame and that he expected everybody at the party to be silent about my condition whatever it was. By Western standards, that's some tough love, but you know what, I couldn't have been more honored by his actions. It was the first time he said to me- without the words- you're a man now. A warrior. A member of the tribe.

I am grateful to him in ways I can't begin to mention. Every success I've had in my life has come from the tenacity that I learned from this stoic Japanese man. Before he passed, his wife told me that it was because of my initial courtesy to him that he taught me with the zeal that he saved for me and a few others. He had told her that my courtesy in approaching him showed him that I was able to see beyond the surface. I didn't have the heart to tell her that nothing was further from the truth. I just lucked into it because I thought training with him that day so many years ago would be a welcome break from the bone crushing intensity of my teammates. I was wrong. Happily and luckily so.