I am an English teacher. What I teach my students to do is analyze works of literature, so I am constantly reading and looking for a deeper meaning. It is only natural that I translate several things in my life into that context.
Last night while I was training, I saw poetry in the technique.
Poetry is just a different way to interpret life. I like to write poetry because it's so free. It can be whatever you want it to be. Some poetry has rules, is exact. That's not the kind of poetry I write. Brazilian jiu jitsu has boundaries, but my coaches are always telling me to make it mine. Last night, I saw beauty within the boundaries.
Beauty, because a non-athletic lady of over thirty can find it and fall in love with it. Beauty, because it exists within a greater community. Beauty, because it takes its practitioners beyond given limits: physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.
I saw poetry in the movements last night. There was something so seamless and fluid, it was as if I couldn't tell where one movement ended and the next began. I loved watching the twists and turns that lead the body into its next maneuver. I loved watching the balance of the opponent defending himself against an attempt at submission. I loved seeing the smiles, the handshakes, the hugs at the end of each roll. We are not enemies - we are a family, pushing one another to be his or her best. That is poetry, no matter how you look at it.
There is a story behind martial arts, behind Brazilian jiu jitsu. When I teach poetry to my students, I tell them that each poem is a story. I do it this way: I read the poem by Robert Frost, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" and have them simply listen. At that point, it often seems flat and boring to the students. Next, I read it from a storybook, translated with pictures. It is then that they see and understand the story of poetry. It makes sense.
Brazilian jiu-jitsu is like that, like a story, only written more eloquently in form than boxy paragraphs and prose. If it seems that I am romanticizing the sport, well, that's certainly my privelage. You see, that's the best thing about art and poetry - a good artist and poet leaves interpretation up to the individual, trusting them, with no right or wrong in mind.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Friday, June 01, 2012
Guerita
I am the guerita, driving down the street
past the Casa Linda apratments -
whose name, I used to think,
meant "Linda's apartments,"
but now the words are automatic in my brain.
I don't belong to this place -
not if you were to see me,
with my skin as pink
as the palest rose,
though not as smooth -
not anymore
But I am the only pink one here
And on my street -
Just me, and four little pink kids
We five, who only get more pink
as we play in this Hot Houston sun
But for that, I think, we have also bloomed
For it used to be, that all aound,
everything was just one more thing
that was different
The words, the food, the faces, the smells,
the music, the dancing
the kisses on the cheek.
It was all waiting, if I only allowed myself
to be taken in by it.
And so I did
And Casa Linda is The Beautiful House
And my pink family, with all our colored eyes,
is familiar to the brown-eyed onlookers
at the taquerias and the quincineras
And I didn't even notice
that it had all become so familiar
Until I left it for awhile, went on vacation
And the place that is my childhood home
is what felt foreign:
I wanted to speak in Spanish
And eat pastor in maize tortillas
And have beans with my eggs and coffee -
So I wondered -
Is this how missionaries feel?
Once they have left home and family
And fallen so in love with a land
And a people
That after awhile,
They become the land and people too
so much so
That there can be no separation from it?
And so my children tell me
That I have just spoken to them in Spanish,
Without my realizing I had done it:
Mamma, what did you just say?
They have stopped asking me
If I could please turn off the Latin music -
Aaron even dances to it in the car
And my dreams at night are in that language,
And though my Spanish is bad, people say that
For a gringa who is still learning,
it is alright
My tenses are wrong
My phrasing, incorrect,
But even though my students laugh,
Adults will smile for me, clasp my hand -
"Tu espanol es muy bueno! Yo entende!"
The adults know how hard it is to learn
when you are not young.
My students benefit from having spoken both languages
since they were very young.
Their parents appreciate my effort,
and say that I have leaned quickly
So although I don't yet own the language,
maybe I am getting close
The same way that, after eight years,
I finally own this place,
All of it -
From the moment that I drive away
from my bright yellow house in the dark maornings
Till I drive home with the blazing afternoon sun
high in the sky -
The palm trees, the brighly-colored trailers selling food,
even the three pairs of shoes
strung over the telephone wires
in front of the trailer park -
It's all mine, just as it is all theirs -
The neighbors and I - both intimitdated to speak,
since we know just a little
of the other's language;
we smile and wave.
The brown waters of The Gulf
The azaleas, which begin to bud in February
and are lush and bright by March.
The trafic, the city, the bayous, the hurricanes
St. Arnold's Brewery and Minute Maid Park,
the memory of the battle of San Jacinto
Q and 1/2 Street on the Island,
The Island -
Where my Grandmosther was raised
and where my grandfather met her
and where my mother took her first breath
So maybe it is
That I have come back
To where I was always supposed to be
to this place, with all its life and color,
its flavor and its magic,
That accepted me so readily
when finally I was able
to let it all in
past the Casa Linda apratments -
whose name, I used to think,
meant "Linda's apartments,"
but now the words are automatic in my brain.
I don't belong to this place -
not if you were to see me,
with my skin as pink
as the palest rose,
though not as smooth -
not anymore
But I am the only pink one here
And on my street -
Just me, and four little pink kids
We five, who only get more pink
as we play in this Hot Houston sun
But for that, I think, we have also bloomed
For it used to be, that all aound,
everything was just one more thing
that was different
The words, the food, the faces, the smells,
the music, the dancing
the kisses on the cheek.
It was all waiting, if I only allowed myself
to be taken in by it.
And so I did
And Casa Linda is The Beautiful House
And my pink family, with all our colored eyes,
is familiar to the brown-eyed onlookers
at the taquerias and the quincineras
And I didn't even notice
that it had all become so familiar
Until I left it for awhile, went on vacation
And the place that is my childhood home
is what felt foreign:
I wanted to speak in Spanish
And eat pastor in maize tortillas
And have beans with my eggs and coffee -
So I wondered -
Is this how missionaries feel?
Once they have left home and family
And fallen so in love with a land
And a people
That after awhile,
They become the land and people too
so much so
That there can be no separation from it?
And so my children tell me
That I have just spoken to them in Spanish,
Without my realizing I had done it:
Mamma, what did you just say?
They have stopped asking me
If I could please turn off the Latin music -
Aaron even dances to it in the car
And my dreams at night are in that language,
And though my Spanish is bad, people say that
For a gringa who is still learning,
it is alright
My tenses are wrong
My phrasing, incorrect,
But even though my students laugh,
Adults will smile for me, clasp my hand -
"Tu espanol es muy bueno! Yo entende!"
The adults know how hard it is to learn
when you are not young.
My students benefit from having spoken both languages
since they were very young.
Their parents appreciate my effort,
and say that I have leaned quickly
So although I don't yet own the language,
maybe I am getting close
The same way that, after eight years,
I finally own this place,
All of it -
From the moment that I drive away
from my bright yellow house in the dark maornings
Till I drive home with the blazing afternoon sun
high in the sky -
The palm trees, the brighly-colored trailers selling food,
even the three pairs of shoes
strung over the telephone wires
in front of the trailer park -
It's all mine, just as it is all theirs -
The neighbors and I - both intimitdated to speak,
since we know just a little
of the other's language;
we smile and wave.
The brown waters of The Gulf
The azaleas, which begin to bud in February
and are lush and bright by March.
The trafic, the city, the bayous, the hurricanes
St. Arnold's Brewery and Minute Maid Park,
the memory of the battle of San Jacinto
Q and 1/2 Street on the Island,
The Island -
Where my Grandmosther was raised
and where my grandfather met her
and where my mother took her first breath
So maybe it is
That I have come back
To where I was always supposed to be
to this place, with all its life and color,
its flavor and its magic,
That accepted me so readily
when finally I was able
to let it all in
Friday, May 11, 2012
My Blue Belt
Going into BJJ, I never had the assumption that I would advance. I knew nothing about the "system" of BJJ. I remember the first time I saw belt test letters handed out in class. I had figured out what was going on, and I was happy for my teammates that were invited to test, but they were in a world I supposed I would never be a part of. I never dreamed that those stripes and colors were meant for me, too. I was just happy going to class.
I remember the first time Miss Belinda mentioned something about my advancement. I had asked her if she ever though I might compete, and she said, "Sure, of course! Let's get you a couple of stripes and start training you in that direction."
I was so elated at the thought of being trained to compete! My dreams for BJJ and competing were just taking root, but with others who believed in me and encouraged me, the roots were strong ones, and they grew.
Then I got my first belt test letter. I may as well have been given the moon! That's how likely it was in my mind that I would ever be invited to a belt test.
No one knew that morning of the belt test what I was carrying with me. My marriage was all but over, but I wasn't yet strong enough to leave it. There had been extra tension in the house in the weeks and days leading up to my belt test. The hours before the test, I sat, being yelled at and watching my husband kick things over in the house. His voice screamed in my ear, "I am so sick of hearing about your goddamned belt test!" The echo of those words pounded in my ears the entire 45 minute drive to Elite MMA on Westheimer in Houston.
But I stepped into the gym and I knew that nothing bad could touch me. This moment was mine. No one had given this to me. I had worked for it. I had earned it. No one could take it from me. I earned my first stripe that day. I worked for it, body, flesh and bones, sweat and tears, soul and spirit. I may as well have been given a black belt that day, I felt I had accomplished such a great feat!
And then another belt test, and two stripes earned. Two stripes! Two stripes in one test! I kept staring at them and touching them to see if they were real. They were!
That was in April 2011 that I earned those two stripes. In June of 2011, I left my husband, and the weight of the world that had been bearing down on me vanished. I knew I was strong. I was strong enough to do this. For more than a year, I had weighed the odds, but what price could be put on freedom? Without saying too much, let me say this: one of my professors in college said that slavery breaks a person's spirit. To some extent, I had an understanding of what he meant.
I knew, of course, that there would be significant changes after the separation, with the children, money, schedules, emotions, and etc. I also knew that my training would suffer, but by the time I left, leaving was definitely the best choice.
I had just competed about six weeks before the separation and had gone into some kind of strange slump after. I could never put my finger on it. Was it that I had put hours into training, weeks of focused preparation, for something that lasted only a few minutes? Had I expected more and come out disappointed with the results? I lost the match, but I hadn't felt defeated at the time. I felt empowered. But in the days and weeks following the competition, I lost some of my confidence.
Then summer came, and moving to a new house and taking a few weeks of vacation took time away from training. Then, as school began and we all adjusted to a new schedule and a new way of living, time and money were harder and harder to come by. A very dark depression began eating me alive. I wanted to train, in my brain, but my body just wanted to stay in bed. My tiny house became a gigantic empty cave when my kids weren't there. I was in some kind of terrible hole that I couldn't crawl out of; and I couldn't sleep or eat. And then came the day that I knew I could no longer afford my gym membership. When it comes down to the gym or putting food on the table, there is no choice that needs to be made.
Shane McNary, my dear friend and mentor, tried to teach me years ago that less is more, especially in writing. Let me try to make a long story short: things are much better now, just a few months out of that bad spell. I feel healthier. I got help for my depression. I have the most wonderful and amazing support system of family and friends. Even when I felt the most alone, I knew that I never was, and I can only be thankful for that.
These past weeks away from the gym have solidified my desire to be there. Knowing that I might not be able to go to class one night might hurt me a little bit. Knowing that I don't even have the option has hurt me a lot. But I have had time to think and refocus, and I have a new philosophy in regard to my goals: one thing at a time.
If anyone reading this has ever done Weight Watchers, then you know the focus is never on your entire amount of weight loss. You start with ten percent of body weight, and within that goal, you focus on one and a half to two pounds of loss per week. Tell someone they must lose fifty pounds, and it is too overwhelming. Tell them to lose a pound and a half in a week and exactly how to do it, and it is attainable.
Reaching small milestones makes a person more confident in reaching bigger ones. It makes sense. Ever since I decided that I really did want to fight in the cage, I think I have been trying to drink from a water hose. I was looking at the goals I have posted in my kitchen. At first glance, it just looks like a bunch of words. Looking more closely, the words turn into something huge that I feel can never be attained. I have to do ALL that stuff? And then I switched my thought process, finally putting into action the advice given to me by Mr. Robert. I switched from seeing it as a thousand unattainable things into several attainable things I could do one thing at a time.
What if I pick one thing per week? More water this week. More protein next week. Less sugar the next. Running twice a week. Working up. Little by little, one more thing until the good habits replace the bad ones. Making sure that I do not condemn myself for not being able to make several huge changes all at once. Allowing myself the grace to undo thirty-five years of bad habits one at a time. This I can do. This will promote freedom, rather than the fear that kept me from doing any of it.
Same thing with my BJJ. One thing at a time. I want to focus on my BJJ today. My brain has been taking me to 2015, to a cage fight. Again, the waterhose. How do I get to the cage? One. Thing. At. A. Time. BJJ first. Trusting my coaches is imperative. Did they not ALL say they would train me? They did. Are they not ALL telling me to focus on my jiu jitsu? They are. So what I can do today is put myself on the mat mentally and be ready for when I am back on the mat physically. BJJ is something that I can do. I can make it mine, make it better and better and better. I can compete more. And from there, I can be coachable until it's time to take the next step toward the cage.
I will be back on the mats June 1, and I can't wait. I went to see my Elite family a couple of days ago, and the good news that they had to share is that the number of women who are now training has grown since I have been gone. That is great news! My coaches and I were remembering when I was often the only lady in class, almost two years ago. If Miss Belinda wasn't training, then usually, I was the only woman. Now we are several strong, and women in the sport is very important. We ladies owe a lot to those who have struggled before us in this sport that had been dominated by men, and we at Elite are blessed with coaches and teammates who encourage, accept, and promote women in the sport.
This woman, for one, will not back down. I love the sport. I love martial arts. I love to grapple, and to kick and punch. One day, one day, I will stand in front of my coaches and they will tie a new blue belt around my waist. I am sure, and so are they, that I will cry. I can see my blue belt now, it's out there somewhere for me, but it's going to mean so much more than a progression in skill, more than a recognition. I will see in that blue belt all the months of struggle. I will see what I have overcome, what I was strong enough to overcome. I will remember stepping onto the mat for the first time, with no inkling of such a moment, no idea of getting a blue belt. My blue belt will represent an overcoming - of overcoming self-doubt, fear, weakness, and will represent a becoming - becoming strong, confident, becoming free and empowered to be the person I was meant to be. I like this person!
Well, long story short is kind of too late now. But there is one more thing that I want to say: It is important to share our stories. Why do we read blogs? Why do we follow others on twitter or like people's facebook statuses? Why do we make time to catch up with friends? It's because everyone has a story, and the stories need to be shared. Jordan Rivas became part of my story when I met him in August 2010. As Elite MMA became incorporated into my story, so did Robert Yamashita, Belinda Serrano, Julian Rivas, and Frost Murphy. Then Vincent Serrano started teaching me kickboxing and I became friends with Debra Ibarra and Ben, Emily, and Robert Ibarra. Time passed, and team members in my BJJ class had names, like Robert, Richard, Franky, Kevin, Marisol, Bambi, Rene, Ivan, Brooksie, Christian, Baby J, Damien, Austin, Vicki, Brian, Tip, Albert, Chris, Kim, Val, Anthony, so many, many names that I could never put them all here. And our stories start to overlap until we see one another at tournaments and Legacy fights and birthday parties and Wings-and-More, until now I have a family instead of just a place that I train. Our stories and our sharing of lives is important. It's necessary. Our journeys cannot happen apart from one another. And as I have heard at the gym and at belt tests many, many times, nothing matters more than the journey.
I remember the first time Miss Belinda mentioned something about my advancement. I had asked her if she ever though I might compete, and she said, "Sure, of course! Let's get you a couple of stripes and start training you in that direction."
I was so elated at the thought of being trained to compete! My dreams for BJJ and competing were just taking root, but with others who believed in me and encouraged me, the roots were strong ones, and they grew.
Then I got my first belt test letter. I may as well have been given the moon! That's how likely it was in my mind that I would ever be invited to a belt test.
No one knew that morning of the belt test what I was carrying with me. My marriage was all but over, but I wasn't yet strong enough to leave it. There had been extra tension in the house in the weeks and days leading up to my belt test. The hours before the test, I sat, being yelled at and watching my husband kick things over in the house. His voice screamed in my ear, "I am so sick of hearing about your goddamned belt test!" The echo of those words pounded in my ears the entire 45 minute drive to Elite MMA on Westheimer in Houston.
But I stepped into the gym and I knew that nothing bad could touch me. This moment was mine. No one had given this to me. I had worked for it. I had earned it. No one could take it from me. I earned my first stripe that day. I worked for it, body, flesh and bones, sweat and tears, soul and spirit. I may as well have been given a black belt that day, I felt I had accomplished such a great feat!
And then another belt test, and two stripes earned. Two stripes! Two stripes in one test! I kept staring at them and touching them to see if they were real. They were!
That was in April 2011 that I earned those two stripes. In June of 2011, I left my husband, and the weight of the world that had been bearing down on me vanished. I knew I was strong. I was strong enough to do this. For more than a year, I had weighed the odds, but what price could be put on freedom? Without saying too much, let me say this: one of my professors in college said that slavery breaks a person's spirit. To some extent, I had an understanding of what he meant.
I knew, of course, that there would be significant changes after the separation, with the children, money, schedules, emotions, and etc. I also knew that my training would suffer, but by the time I left, leaving was definitely the best choice.
I had just competed about six weeks before the separation and had gone into some kind of strange slump after. I could never put my finger on it. Was it that I had put hours into training, weeks of focused preparation, for something that lasted only a few minutes? Had I expected more and come out disappointed with the results? I lost the match, but I hadn't felt defeated at the time. I felt empowered. But in the days and weeks following the competition, I lost some of my confidence.
Then summer came, and moving to a new house and taking a few weeks of vacation took time away from training. Then, as school began and we all adjusted to a new schedule and a new way of living, time and money were harder and harder to come by. A very dark depression began eating me alive. I wanted to train, in my brain, but my body just wanted to stay in bed. My tiny house became a gigantic empty cave when my kids weren't there. I was in some kind of terrible hole that I couldn't crawl out of; and I couldn't sleep or eat. And then came the day that I knew I could no longer afford my gym membership. When it comes down to the gym or putting food on the table, there is no choice that needs to be made.
Shane McNary, my dear friend and mentor, tried to teach me years ago that less is more, especially in writing. Let me try to make a long story short: things are much better now, just a few months out of that bad spell. I feel healthier. I got help for my depression. I have the most wonderful and amazing support system of family and friends. Even when I felt the most alone, I knew that I never was, and I can only be thankful for that.
These past weeks away from the gym have solidified my desire to be there. Knowing that I might not be able to go to class one night might hurt me a little bit. Knowing that I don't even have the option has hurt me a lot. But I have had time to think and refocus, and I have a new philosophy in regard to my goals: one thing at a time.
If anyone reading this has ever done Weight Watchers, then you know the focus is never on your entire amount of weight loss. You start with ten percent of body weight, and within that goal, you focus on one and a half to two pounds of loss per week. Tell someone they must lose fifty pounds, and it is too overwhelming. Tell them to lose a pound and a half in a week and exactly how to do it, and it is attainable.
Reaching small milestones makes a person more confident in reaching bigger ones. It makes sense. Ever since I decided that I really did want to fight in the cage, I think I have been trying to drink from a water hose. I was looking at the goals I have posted in my kitchen. At first glance, it just looks like a bunch of words. Looking more closely, the words turn into something huge that I feel can never be attained. I have to do ALL that stuff? And then I switched my thought process, finally putting into action the advice given to me by Mr. Robert. I switched from seeing it as a thousand unattainable things into several attainable things I could do one thing at a time.
What if I pick one thing per week? More water this week. More protein next week. Less sugar the next. Running twice a week. Working up. Little by little, one more thing until the good habits replace the bad ones. Making sure that I do not condemn myself for not being able to make several huge changes all at once. Allowing myself the grace to undo thirty-five years of bad habits one at a time. This I can do. This will promote freedom, rather than the fear that kept me from doing any of it.
Same thing with my BJJ. One thing at a time. I want to focus on my BJJ today. My brain has been taking me to 2015, to a cage fight. Again, the waterhose. How do I get to the cage? One. Thing. At. A. Time. BJJ first. Trusting my coaches is imperative. Did they not ALL say they would train me? They did. Are they not ALL telling me to focus on my jiu jitsu? They are. So what I can do today is put myself on the mat mentally and be ready for when I am back on the mat physically. BJJ is something that I can do. I can make it mine, make it better and better and better. I can compete more. And from there, I can be coachable until it's time to take the next step toward the cage.
I will be back on the mats June 1, and I can't wait. I went to see my Elite family a couple of days ago, and the good news that they had to share is that the number of women who are now training has grown since I have been gone. That is great news! My coaches and I were remembering when I was often the only lady in class, almost two years ago. If Miss Belinda wasn't training, then usually, I was the only woman. Now we are several strong, and women in the sport is very important. We ladies owe a lot to those who have struggled before us in this sport that had been dominated by men, and we at Elite are blessed with coaches and teammates who encourage, accept, and promote women in the sport.
This woman, for one, will not back down. I love the sport. I love martial arts. I love to grapple, and to kick and punch. One day, one day, I will stand in front of my coaches and they will tie a new blue belt around my waist. I am sure, and so are they, that I will cry. I can see my blue belt now, it's out there somewhere for me, but it's going to mean so much more than a progression in skill, more than a recognition. I will see in that blue belt all the months of struggle. I will see what I have overcome, what I was strong enough to overcome. I will remember stepping onto the mat for the first time, with no inkling of such a moment, no idea of getting a blue belt. My blue belt will represent an overcoming - of overcoming self-doubt, fear, weakness, and will represent a becoming - becoming strong, confident, becoming free and empowered to be the person I was meant to be. I like this person!
Well, long story short is kind of too late now. But there is one more thing that I want to say: It is important to share our stories. Why do we read blogs? Why do we follow others on twitter or like people's facebook statuses? Why do we make time to catch up with friends? It's because everyone has a story, and the stories need to be shared. Jordan Rivas became part of my story when I met him in August 2010. As Elite MMA became incorporated into my story, so did Robert Yamashita, Belinda Serrano, Julian Rivas, and Frost Murphy. Then Vincent Serrano started teaching me kickboxing and I became friends with Debra Ibarra and Ben, Emily, and Robert Ibarra. Time passed, and team members in my BJJ class had names, like Robert, Richard, Franky, Kevin, Marisol, Bambi, Rene, Ivan, Brooksie, Christian, Baby J, Damien, Austin, Vicki, Brian, Tip, Albert, Chris, Kim, Val, Anthony, so many, many names that I could never put them all here. And our stories start to overlap until we see one another at tournaments and Legacy fights and birthday parties and Wings-and-More, until now I have a family instead of just a place that I train. Our stories and our sharing of lives is important. It's necessary. Our journeys cannot happen apart from one another. And as I have heard at the gym and at belt tests many, many times, nothing matters more than the journey.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
On Dating
I won't lie - I have been dating pretty steadily since moving out in June. It has been fun. It has been an adventure. I feel like a teenager again in many ways, since I never dated that much in high school. Now I am going about it the way I think you are supposed to - meet several different kinds of people, go out on dates, weigh your options, walk away with no hard feelings if necessary. You're not going to be a match with everyone, and that's ok. I have met a lot of really nice guys, just not the right guy for me yet.
Dating is a little different for me, of course, at this point in my life. I'm older. I have four kids. I have a full-time job and a sport / hobby that I am passionate about. I have a lot of things going for me and I'm busy. But I make sure to put all that out there. I am never dishonest with anyone that I date, and on the whole, if they really want to date me, they are understanding. I date single parents, too. It just has seemed to work out that way, and it's a good thing.
But I have also had many adventures on this journey of dating, and some advice to offer ladies who may be in the same boat. However, any lady with a good head on her shoulders is just going to get the good laugh intended from this blog post and move on. If she doesn't, she probably not only needs to call me, but she may need counseling and medication as well.
Now, I am able to get along with just about anyone for an hour or so. Dating, although exhausting, has been interesting and amusing at times. Go out to dinner, chit chat with a new person, and then move on with your life. But the following are dates that, while amusing, never went past that first hour. Please pay attention to this PSA list of don't's in dating:
1. If he proposes marriage on the first dinner date over flautas and offers to take you to Mexico PRONTO, probably you should not have a second date.
2. If he tells you his papers are no good, please believe him.
3. If he tells you that he will be back in Mexico soon, but his heart will be here with you, just say something like, "aw, that's sweet," and go back in the house.
4. If you show up to dinner and he says he can't pay for it, take whatever you feel is the most polite course of action and then go catch a movie with a girlfriend or something. Likely, he won't pay for dinner next time either, so there really shouldn't be a next time.
5. If he asks for gas money to get home, tell him to call AAA. (I have four kids, I don't need a fifth.)
6. If he doesn't understand when you say, "You can't come see me, my children are with me," it's time to hang up on him.
7. If he has ever been stabbed, shot, or done prison time, it's a good idea not to leave the restaurant with him. Also, take an alternate route to your house or just go to Wal-Mart in case he is following you.
8. It should go without saying, but if he doesn't have a car . . . just don't even go out with him.
9. If a first date is to the flea market, and you have to take your own car because his has been in the shop for five months . . . and he takes his daughter . . . on a FIRST date . . . yeah . . . that's the last date . . .
10. If he doesn't own: a car, full-size fridge, coffee mugs, have hot water in his house, a washer and dryer, or have a bank account, and he is over the age of 40, you may need to gently tell him that he is simply not ready to date. It's the kindest thing you can do for him. No one else is going to tell him, obviously.
11. If you go on a relatively pleasant date with a guy, but then he calls you two days later to tell you that he has been dealing with a DUI and won't be able to drive his car from now on for ten months but would still really like to see where this is going with you . . . um . . . no . . . 'Cause you know where it's going. Anywhere, I guess, as long as YOU are willing to drive. And ladies, I may be old-fashioned, but that is not what I call dating.
12. If he lives with his parents or (gulp) his spouse or girlfriend . . . he is really not yet available to date. Not if you're looking for something serious. There are girls who are willing to date guys like that, but come on, ladies. Those girls aren't you and me.
13. If he has no job and no prospects, all he wants is a sugar mamma. 'Nuff said.
All of the above stem from true experiences, and maybe later I will write some more about it. In short, I never lie about my situation: not about my kids, my job, or the times that I am available. I have a good job, a car, a great support system of friends and a healthy social life. It boggles the mind that I meet men who present themselves as dateable when clearly they are not. They don't have enough money or time, they don't have vehicles or life situations that will allow them to be dateable. They misrepresent themselves, and it is a time waster for qulaity ladies like me who would really like to find someone worth my while. Oh, well, it also makes for a great laugh after these dates that make me feel like I am seriously on some kind of hidden camera show!
Dating is a little different for me, of course, at this point in my life. I'm older. I have four kids. I have a full-time job and a sport / hobby that I am passionate about. I have a lot of things going for me and I'm busy. But I make sure to put all that out there. I am never dishonest with anyone that I date, and on the whole, if they really want to date me, they are understanding. I date single parents, too. It just has seemed to work out that way, and it's a good thing.
But I have also had many adventures on this journey of dating, and some advice to offer ladies who may be in the same boat. However, any lady with a good head on her shoulders is just going to get the good laugh intended from this blog post and move on. If she doesn't, she probably not only needs to call me, but she may need counseling and medication as well.
Now, I am able to get along with just about anyone for an hour or so. Dating, although exhausting, has been interesting and amusing at times. Go out to dinner, chit chat with a new person, and then move on with your life. But the following are dates that, while amusing, never went past that first hour. Please pay attention to this PSA list of don't's in dating:
1. If he proposes marriage on the first dinner date over flautas and offers to take you to Mexico PRONTO, probably you should not have a second date.
2. If he tells you his papers are no good, please believe him.
3. If he tells you that he will be back in Mexico soon, but his heart will be here with you, just say something like, "aw, that's sweet," and go back in the house.
4. If you show up to dinner and he says he can't pay for it, take whatever you feel is the most polite course of action and then go catch a movie with a girlfriend or something. Likely, he won't pay for dinner next time either, so there really shouldn't be a next time.
5. If he asks for gas money to get home, tell him to call AAA. (I have four kids, I don't need a fifth.)
6. If he doesn't understand when you say, "You can't come see me, my children are with me," it's time to hang up on him.
7. If he has ever been stabbed, shot, or done prison time, it's a good idea not to leave the restaurant with him. Also, take an alternate route to your house or just go to Wal-Mart in case he is following you.
8. It should go without saying, but if he doesn't have a car . . . just don't even go out with him.
9. If a first date is to the flea market, and you have to take your own car because his has been in the shop for five months . . . and he takes his daughter . . . on a FIRST date . . . yeah . . . that's the last date . . .
10. If he doesn't own: a car, full-size fridge, coffee mugs, have hot water in his house, a washer and dryer, or have a bank account, and he is over the age of 40, you may need to gently tell him that he is simply not ready to date. It's the kindest thing you can do for him. No one else is going to tell him, obviously.
11. If you go on a relatively pleasant date with a guy, but then he calls you two days later to tell you that he has been dealing with a DUI and won't be able to drive his car from now on for ten months but would still really like to see where this is going with you . . . um . . . no . . . 'Cause you know where it's going. Anywhere, I guess, as long as YOU are willing to drive. And ladies, I may be old-fashioned, but that is not what I call dating.
12. If he lives with his parents or (gulp) his spouse or girlfriend . . . he is really not yet available to date. Not if you're looking for something serious. There are girls who are willing to date guys like that, but come on, ladies. Those girls aren't you and me.
13. If he has no job and no prospects, all he wants is a sugar mamma. 'Nuff said.
All of the above stem from true experiences, and maybe later I will write some more about it. In short, I never lie about my situation: not about my kids, my job, or the times that I am available. I have a good job, a car, a great support system of friends and a healthy social life. It boggles the mind that I meet men who present themselves as dateable when clearly they are not. They don't have enough money or time, they don't have vehicles or life situations that will allow them to be dateable. They misrepresent themselves, and it is a time waster for qulaity ladies like me who would really like to find someone worth my while. Oh, well, it also makes for a great laugh after these dates that make me feel like I am seriously on some kind of hidden camera show!
Monday, February 13, 2012
Cage Dreams, Part II
In achieving my goal of becoming a cage fighter, Frost gave me the assignment of writing about my cage dreams, and he told me start from the moment my hand is raised in the cage. So here is what I came up with:
I can feel blood dripping down my face. I think its source is near my eyebrow. I can feel a swell on my right cheek. Thankfully my nose, which was my biggest worry, is intact. My opponent was strong and we were well-matched. I will hug her and congratulate her in a moment. I will shake hands with her coaches. I am grateful that she took the challenge. We fought well, but there is only one winner. Today, that's me.
I stand triumphant, hand raised. The hand raising mine is one of the only things keeping me standing. I hear screaming; I hear my name being called. But everything is a blur. Nothing seems real. My feet are flat on the floor, but I seem to be floating away. I worked hard for this moment, and now it's mine. I look toward my corner, at my coaches waiting for me. I try to make out a section of the crowd, and I know my teammates are there, waiting for me. I correct myself - we worked hard for this moment, and now it's ours.
I am 39 years old, a mom of four kids, and a teacher. I stand in the cage this moment and think back to four years ago. I sat, timid and wide-eyed, waiting for each coach's answer. One by one, I told four men that I wanted to be a cage fighter. I told them that it sounded crazy, and I knew it. One by one, they listened - really listened - to my story. I told them sincerely what made me want to do this. One by one, they all said yes.
Things were hard. Recently divorced, finances tight, time to train scarce, I had to work very hard to make good on simple commitments. That first year after the divorce was the hardest. I felt depressed and defeated, but often never told anyone. I was facing so many obstacles that there were times I never thought I'd reach my goals. My dream seemed far away and unreachable. I felt like a failure at everything: being a mom, teacher, and at training.
There was a day that winter when the ink on the divorce papers was still fresh. The temperature was near freezing. It had rained and my little unattached garage, which housed my washer and dryer, was flooded. The kids and I needed clean clothes, so I had no choice but to wade barefoot into the freezing water and do laundry. I wanted to cry out to someone, to anyone, but I was alone in that garage and standing in water. Again and again, through several loads of laundry, I waded through the water. Each time I returned into the house, I would dry my feet and begin some other chore or take care of a need for the kids. I was in such pain that day; I felt so defeated and discouraged.
It became harder and harder to only show the positive, and that day was like a milestone marker to me. I had to let myself have my hard days. I had to forgive myself for being capable of doing only so much. I had to let that year be my year of grace and healing. It wouldn't last forever. Things could be much worse. So I had a flooded garage. So what? So what if I was living paycheck to paycheck, and sometimes not even that. There were weeks when milk and bread were a luxury. But did we have food on the table? Clothes to wear? Modest, yes, and there were no extras, but we were blessed. Beyond blessed. At the drop of a hat, I knew there were ten people I could call for help, and they would help me. I had overcome much, much more than wading through a flooded garage to do laundry. I was strong enough to keep going.
I kept a list of my goals and my plan taped to my kitchen cabinets. I looked at them every day. I knew that I had said them out loud. I had made them real. My coaches had helped me write it all out, and I had two versions taped up: their handwritten ones and ones I had typed. On each paper, I had drawn the shape of the octagon.
Most important for me was to have my children involved in the process. I remember sitting the kids down, looking them all in the eye, and telling them about Mom's dream. I asked them all, "Will you do this with me? Will you spend an extra couple of hours at the gym with me?"
I knew that if the kids weren't on board, I couldn't do it. My little fan club. They came with me to karate and bjj practice. On the nights they weren't with me, I went to MMA classes. I trained for tournaments and needed the mat time. As training times became more intense, especially during fight camp, I enlisted people to help me with the kids. I asked the right people for help, and they helped me. People that could see this was my dream, but it was something far bigger than me. People that help the kids see that their mom was strong, and that they were strong, too. I needed a community to support me. I was never alone. This will never be only my achievement.
My coaches never gave up on me, never stopped believing in me. My coaches never stopped reminding me that this was my dream, that I had told them I wanted it.
"You gotta show me, Miss Amy! You gotta show me you want it," they would say, each time I trained.
And I did. I trained, harder and harder. The weight came off, though it was a struggle. I got stronger. I sacrificed sleep. I had injuries and sore muscles. But I was coachable. All I had ever wanted to be was coachable.
I asked Mr. Jordan once what I could do to be more coachable.
"Miss Amy," he said, "just the fact that you are asking that question shows me that you are. But we will see how coachable you are when we start a fight camp."
Fight camp seemed a million years and miles away. I told my coaches four years prior to my fight that it's what I wanted. I will never forget the week that I told them all and got the ok. I told Mr. Robert first. I wasn't sure that he wanted to hear what I had to say, but I had to say it: "I want to be in the cage. I really do."
He told me that I had to get the OK from the other three coaches, and for three days I cried at home. I thought that telling Robert and beginning the journey would make me feel better, but he had shared with me some harsh realities: some people don't believe women should be in this sport; some people will ridicule you and make things hard for you. Elite had never trained a woman for cage fighting. The other coaches might say no.
They didn't say no. Frost liked the idea that I knew it was going to be a community effort; Julian wanted me to train more jiu jitsu, but he understood my limited time just then. He said he was enrolled and was ready to start training when I was.
I remember telling Jordan that I wanted to do this because I had seen my teammates train and I saw that it was something bigger than an individual. I told him that I wanted my kids to see that their mom was a strong lady; that if she wanted to be a cage fighter, why couldn't she? It was a long and liberating conversation, and at the end of it, Mr. Jordan said, "Miss Amy, I knew what you wanted when you came in here to talk to me, and I was going to say no, but your words have changed my mind."
Four years ago that conversation took place. Four years have gone by and my kids have grown; Eliza is 16 now. I am older and my face is showing it, but my body is strong. So is my spirit. I trained jiu jitsu harder and harder over those years, advancing at the help of my coaches. I focused and was coachable and did a fight camp for six weeks. And now . . .
And now . . . four years later, here I stand, and my arm is raised. I know that the people I love are waiting for me. My coaches will hug me. My children, four shining faces, I can see them outside the cage from the corner of my eye. They are waiting to tackle me when I step foot outside the cage. Four long years of doubt met with belief, fear met with courage, a community who believes that no one is in it alone . . . this moment, my hand in the air . . . this is for all of us.
I can feel blood dripping down my face. I think its source is near my eyebrow. I can feel a swell on my right cheek. Thankfully my nose, which was my biggest worry, is intact. My opponent was strong and we were well-matched. I will hug her and congratulate her in a moment. I will shake hands with her coaches. I am grateful that she took the challenge. We fought well, but there is only one winner. Today, that's me.
I stand triumphant, hand raised. The hand raising mine is one of the only things keeping me standing. I hear screaming; I hear my name being called. But everything is a blur. Nothing seems real. My feet are flat on the floor, but I seem to be floating away. I worked hard for this moment, and now it's mine. I look toward my corner, at my coaches waiting for me. I try to make out a section of the crowd, and I know my teammates are there, waiting for me. I correct myself - we worked hard for this moment, and now it's ours.
I am 39 years old, a mom of four kids, and a teacher. I stand in the cage this moment and think back to four years ago. I sat, timid and wide-eyed, waiting for each coach's answer. One by one, I told four men that I wanted to be a cage fighter. I told them that it sounded crazy, and I knew it. One by one, they listened - really listened - to my story. I told them sincerely what made me want to do this. One by one, they all said yes.
Things were hard. Recently divorced, finances tight, time to train scarce, I had to work very hard to make good on simple commitments. That first year after the divorce was the hardest. I felt depressed and defeated, but often never told anyone. I was facing so many obstacles that there were times I never thought I'd reach my goals. My dream seemed far away and unreachable. I felt like a failure at everything: being a mom, teacher, and at training.
There was a day that winter when the ink on the divorce papers was still fresh. The temperature was near freezing. It had rained and my little unattached garage, which housed my washer and dryer, was flooded. The kids and I needed clean clothes, so I had no choice but to wade barefoot into the freezing water and do laundry. I wanted to cry out to someone, to anyone, but I was alone in that garage and standing in water. Again and again, through several loads of laundry, I waded through the water. Each time I returned into the house, I would dry my feet and begin some other chore or take care of a need for the kids. I was in such pain that day; I felt so defeated and discouraged.
It became harder and harder to only show the positive, and that day was like a milestone marker to me. I had to let myself have my hard days. I had to forgive myself for being capable of doing only so much. I had to let that year be my year of grace and healing. It wouldn't last forever. Things could be much worse. So I had a flooded garage. So what? So what if I was living paycheck to paycheck, and sometimes not even that. There were weeks when milk and bread were a luxury. But did we have food on the table? Clothes to wear? Modest, yes, and there were no extras, but we were blessed. Beyond blessed. At the drop of a hat, I knew there were ten people I could call for help, and they would help me. I had overcome much, much more than wading through a flooded garage to do laundry. I was strong enough to keep going.
I kept a list of my goals and my plan taped to my kitchen cabinets. I looked at them every day. I knew that I had said them out loud. I had made them real. My coaches had helped me write it all out, and I had two versions taped up: their handwritten ones and ones I had typed. On each paper, I had drawn the shape of the octagon.
Most important for me was to have my children involved in the process. I remember sitting the kids down, looking them all in the eye, and telling them about Mom's dream. I asked them all, "Will you do this with me? Will you spend an extra couple of hours at the gym with me?"
I knew that if the kids weren't on board, I couldn't do it. My little fan club. They came with me to karate and bjj practice. On the nights they weren't with me, I went to MMA classes. I trained for tournaments and needed the mat time. As training times became more intense, especially during fight camp, I enlisted people to help me with the kids. I asked the right people for help, and they helped me. People that could see this was my dream, but it was something far bigger than me. People that help the kids see that their mom was strong, and that they were strong, too. I needed a community to support me. I was never alone. This will never be only my achievement.
My coaches never gave up on me, never stopped believing in me. My coaches never stopped reminding me that this was my dream, that I had told them I wanted it.
"You gotta show me, Miss Amy! You gotta show me you want it," they would say, each time I trained.
And I did. I trained, harder and harder. The weight came off, though it was a struggle. I got stronger. I sacrificed sleep. I had injuries and sore muscles. But I was coachable. All I had ever wanted to be was coachable.
I asked Mr. Jordan once what I could do to be more coachable.
"Miss Amy," he said, "just the fact that you are asking that question shows me that you are. But we will see how coachable you are when we start a fight camp."
Fight camp seemed a million years and miles away. I told my coaches four years prior to my fight that it's what I wanted. I will never forget the week that I told them all and got the ok. I told Mr. Robert first. I wasn't sure that he wanted to hear what I had to say, but I had to say it: "I want to be in the cage. I really do."
He told me that I had to get the OK from the other three coaches, and for three days I cried at home. I thought that telling Robert and beginning the journey would make me feel better, but he had shared with me some harsh realities: some people don't believe women should be in this sport; some people will ridicule you and make things hard for you. Elite had never trained a woman for cage fighting. The other coaches might say no.
They didn't say no. Frost liked the idea that I knew it was going to be a community effort; Julian wanted me to train more jiu jitsu, but he understood my limited time just then. He said he was enrolled and was ready to start training when I was.
I remember telling Jordan that I wanted to do this because I had seen my teammates train and I saw that it was something bigger than an individual. I told him that I wanted my kids to see that their mom was a strong lady; that if she wanted to be a cage fighter, why couldn't she? It was a long and liberating conversation, and at the end of it, Mr. Jordan said, "Miss Amy, I knew what you wanted when you came in here to talk to me, and I was going to say no, but your words have changed my mind."
Four years ago that conversation took place. Four years have gone by and my kids have grown; Eliza is 16 now. I am older and my face is showing it, but my body is strong. So is my spirit. I trained jiu jitsu harder and harder over those years, advancing at the help of my coaches. I focused and was coachable and did a fight camp for six weeks. And now . . .
And now . . . four years later, here I stand, and my arm is raised. I know that the people I love are waiting for me. My coaches will hug me. My children, four shining faces, I can see them outside the cage from the corner of my eye. They are waiting to tackle me when I step foot outside the cage. Four long years of doubt met with belief, fear met with courage, a community who believes that no one is in it alone . . . this moment, my hand in the air . . . this is for all of us.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Belts Matter
The other night in BJJ class, when we were doing lines, my friend turned around and looked at the three stripes on my white belt. My friend said, "So when are you getting your blue belt?"
"Never, I guess," was my joking answer.
"Yeah, me too," came the reply.
I know some people in my BJJ family to whom belts just really don't matter. And I believe that, to those few, belts really don't. And I can remember that before my belt tests, they didn't matter to me, either. Hell, I never thought I'd ever get invited to a belt test. I can't tell you how emotional that moment was for me when I got my first invitation. I knew that even if I never got invited, I'd still train. I just loved the sport that much.
But belts DO matter, let's don't lie. If they didn't, why would we be belt tested? Why would we talk about them? Why would so many people accept the invitation to test? Because . . . they matter. They just do.
I can't begin to think that I understand the formula by which our coaches deem us ready to test. And I am a little afraid to ask about it. It just seems . . . sacred, I guess. The coaches have been there, they have the belt, they know the deal. But I do wonder. How can I not wonder? Is there a grid, a rubric, a standard of readiness? If so, what is it? What's the guideline? And is it subjective from gym to gym or coach to coach? I just wonder.
For instance, I am planning a trip to LA this summer. I will visit some of my friends, who also happen to train BJJ. We are talking about the training we will do at their gym, and I wonder how I will measure up with my friends' teammates. How do they train? In other words, is a white belt with three stripes at Elite the same as a white belt with three stripes at my friends' gym in LA? What is the criteria, and is it the same across the board?
I know some people who train at other gyms. Their system for getting belts is different in some ways. Some gyms do it by mat time, and some have "promotion nights" instead of belt tests. I like the way our gym does it. I like belt testing. It's a big deal, and it's a celebration. It's always a good day. But knowing the different systems makes me wonder about the guidelines. I also watch at competitions, and some competitors are more aggressive and (I hate to say it, but I have to), seem to fight dirty. We are never taught to fight dirty at Elite, so I wonder . . . what makes a blue belt or a purple belt at a gym like that? And . . . am I ready and aggressive enough to compete against that kind of blue belt?
I don't feel bad for asking these questions. I talk about these things with my teammates. I think most people involved in BJJ have talked about these things. My friend in LA has even asked me if I'm a blue belt yet. I don't think it's a bad thing to talk and wonder, especially since it all seems like such a mystery.
When I set my four-year goal for cage fighting, my coaches seemed happy. One of my coaches even said, "By then, she'll be a purple belt, and who wants to be in the cage with Miss Amy as a purple belt?"
Which tells me . . . belts do matter.
Don't they?
I want to progress. And I do progress, and I will progress. I have not belt tested in awhile, but it hasn't surprised me. My coaches will know when I am ready. I have had to miss quite a bit since summer. But I am coming back, and I am strong, and I am committed to three days a week. I want to be certain that I am a blue belt before I am one, if that makes sense. Because at competitions, I will have to compete against other blue belts when I am one. That's kind of scary.
I admit, and I have heard other teammates express, that it's sometimes surprising and hurtful to see others progress faster than me, but others also don't have the obligations that I do. If I move at a snail's pace, then I do, and I just have to trust my coaches to be fair. That's all I can do, and that's all I can know. I am not going to stop working for what I want. My coaches love me, I do know that, and they want the best for me. Otherwise, they would not encourage me to keep on keeping on. They wouldn't have listened to my cage dreams and taken me seriously.
One of my favorite things to tell my students is: "Trust the system." So that's what I will do, too, even if I don't understand it. But it is an interesting system to think about. And I think it is only natural to have questions about it once you start to progress.
"Never, I guess," was my joking answer.
"Yeah, me too," came the reply.
I know some people in my BJJ family to whom belts just really don't matter. And I believe that, to those few, belts really don't. And I can remember that before my belt tests, they didn't matter to me, either. Hell, I never thought I'd ever get invited to a belt test. I can't tell you how emotional that moment was for me when I got my first invitation. I knew that even if I never got invited, I'd still train. I just loved the sport that much.
But belts DO matter, let's don't lie. If they didn't, why would we be belt tested? Why would we talk about them? Why would so many people accept the invitation to test? Because . . . they matter. They just do.
I can't begin to think that I understand the formula by which our coaches deem us ready to test. And I am a little afraid to ask about it. It just seems . . . sacred, I guess. The coaches have been there, they have the belt, they know the deal. But I do wonder. How can I not wonder? Is there a grid, a rubric, a standard of readiness? If so, what is it? What's the guideline? And is it subjective from gym to gym or coach to coach? I just wonder.
For instance, I am planning a trip to LA this summer. I will visit some of my friends, who also happen to train BJJ. We are talking about the training we will do at their gym, and I wonder how I will measure up with my friends' teammates. How do they train? In other words, is a white belt with three stripes at Elite the same as a white belt with three stripes at my friends' gym in LA? What is the criteria, and is it the same across the board?
I know some people who train at other gyms. Their system for getting belts is different in some ways. Some gyms do it by mat time, and some have "promotion nights" instead of belt tests. I like the way our gym does it. I like belt testing. It's a big deal, and it's a celebration. It's always a good day. But knowing the different systems makes me wonder about the guidelines. I also watch at competitions, and some competitors are more aggressive and (I hate to say it, but I have to), seem to fight dirty. We are never taught to fight dirty at Elite, so I wonder . . . what makes a blue belt or a purple belt at a gym like that? And . . . am I ready and aggressive enough to compete against that kind of blue belt?
I don't feel bad for asking these questions. I talk about these things with my teammates. I think most people involved in BJJ have talked about these things. My friend in LA has even asked me if I'm a blue belt yet. I don't think it's a bad thing to talk and wonder, especially since it all seems like such a mystery.
When I set my four-year goal for cage fighting, my coaches seemed happy. One of my coaches even said, "By then, she'll be a purple belt, and who wants to be in the cage with Miss Amy as a purple belt?"
Which tells me . . . belts do matter.
Don't they?
I want to progress. And I do progress, and I will progress. I have not belt tested in awhile, but it hasn't surprised me. My coaches will know when I am ready. I have had to miss quite a bit since summer. But I am coming back, and I am strong, and I am committed to three days a week. I want to be certain that I am a blue belt before I am one, if that makes sense. Because at competitions, I will have to compete against other blue belts when I am one. That's kind of scary.
I admit, and I have heard other teammates express, that it's sometimes surprising and hurtful to see others progress faster than me, but others also don't have the obligations that I do. If I move at a snail's pace, then I do, and I just have to trust my coaches to be fair. That's all I can do, and that's all I can know. I am not going to stop working for what I want. My coaches love me, I do know that, and they want the best for me. Otherwise, they would not encourage me to keep on keeping on. They wouldn't have listened to my cage dreams and taken me seriously.
One of my favorite things to tell my students is: "Trust the system." So that's what I will do, too, even if I don't understand it. But it is an interesting system to think about. And I think it is only natural to have questions about it once you start to progress.
I Wish I Could Train
I wish I could train every single day.
I wish I could train in the morning, first thing when I wake up. But I don't wish for less time with the sleepy little boys snuggled up next to me.
I wish I could train at noon, but I don't begrudge the 150 pairs of eyes on me all day long, waiting for me to tell them something important and to place some hope in their hands.
I wish I could train every single night, but I don't resent the mouths that need to be fed, the baths that need to be given, the bedtime stories that need to be read.
I wish that on the nights that I do train, I wasn't so tired and weary from the long hours of the day, but I do take that hour of training as a gift and try to use it well.
I wish that I had come into martial arts back in the day; back when I was younger, with fewer responsibilities, with more time to train. I wish that my life had grown up around BJJ instead of BJJ popping up unexpectedly as it did.
No . . . I don't wish that. I am so glad that BJJ popped up. It just might have been the thing that saved me at just the right time.
I just wish . . .
But I'm happy. What if I had never found BJJ? What if this passion were not inside me? My friend the other day said that all the things I mentioned above are not limitations. They are priorities and joys of my life. It's true. I have so many great things going on in my life. It's just that sometimes, I daydream about being on the mat. I come home exhausted and mentally drained and wonder if I have the juice to train, and sometimes I just don't. So . . . I wish there were more time. But there just isn't.
So what do I do? Take it as part of my journey. Go with it. Train when I can and take it, as I said, as a gift. That's what it is. It's a gift. A gift that makes me wish for me, and how can that be a bad thing? The trap in life could be wishing for less, and that's a wish that you can be sure will always come true. So may I ALWAYS just keep wishing for more.
I wish I could train in the morning, first thing when I wake up. But I don't wish for less time with the sleepy little boys snuggled up next to me.
I wish I could train at noon, but I don't begrudge the 150 pairs of eyes on me all day long, waiting for me to tell them something important and to place some hope in their hands.
I wish I could train every single night, but I don't resent the mouths that need to be fed, the baths that need to be given, the bedtime stories that need to be read.
I wish that on the nights that I do train, I wasn't so tired and weary from the long hours of the day, but I do take that hour of training as a gift and try to use it well.
I wish that I had come into martial arts back in the day; back when I was younger, with fewer responsibilities, with more time to train. I wish that my life had grown up around BJJ instead of BJJ popping up unexpectedly as it did.
No . . . I don't wish that. I am so glad that BJJ popped up. It just might have been the thing that saved me at just the right time.
I just wish . . .
But I'm happy. What if I had never found BJJ? What if this passion were not inside me? My friend the other day said that all the things I mentioned above are not limitations. They are priorities and joys of my life. It's true. I have so many great things going on in my life. It's just that sometimes, I daydream about being on the mat. I come home exhausted and mentally drained and wonder if I have the juice to train, and sometimes I just don't. So . . . I wish there were more time. But there just isn't.
So what do I do? Take it as part of my journey. Go with it. Train when I can and take it, as I said, as a gift. That's what it is. It's a gift. A gift that makes me wish for me, and how can that be a bad thing? The trap in life could be wishing for less, and that's a wish that you can be sure will always come true. So may I ALWAYS just keep wishing for more.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
MMA Lady
The following is the beginning of a project that I plan to be working on for quite awhile:
Life is short. So short. Fleeting. And one day you wake up and realize that you are thirty-five years old and exactly what that means. At age thirty-five, conceivably, half of my life is gone, and how much of my time was wasted? Have I even really started living? Was I living a life I thought I was supposed to live, based on misconceptions or pleasing others or whatever it may have been?
As I go to pick up my children from their dad's house, I take a route along Trinity Bay. I have to cross a channel that spills into the bay. I don't know how long the channel is or where it begins, but I can tell that it must be a significant distance. What matters is that I get to see the end of its journey. Though the bay itself isn't very big, and neither are its bayous or tributaries, it seems big. From my point of view, the other side isn't visible. There is just this open expance of water upon water, and at last the water running down that channel is free.
The other day, as I drove across the channel and saw it end in the bay, I felt a kind of identity with it. How long had I been going in one direction, with no way to turn? How long had I allowed myself to be pushed along, feeling as though I were on some kind of journey with no meaning and no end in sight? It was a long time, but I will not forget the moment that I saw the end of that long, straight, and often very dark channel. I will not forget the moment that the journey at last spilled me into something open and free. At last, there was the moment that things were clear and limitless and vast.
Please understand that I believe every part of the journey is useful, necessary, and important. An in the midst of darkness will shine moments of light: the birth of my children and precious time with them, for instance. But I am talking about the overall journey - the culmination of good and bad and the realization of where it is taking you. For a very long time, I felt trapped in that current, without the choices or the power to change anything. I felt enslaved, and I heard once that slavery breaks a person's spirit. I understand that now. What I didn't know was that I was strong, and that the key to tapping that strength would be found in such an unlikely place.
I even laugh a little to call it "unlikely," because now it just seems like the most logical place in the world. For those involved in martial arts, "unlikely" would be the furthest word from their minds. But my world had nothing to do with that world. I didn't know it, understand it, or even think about it. It was almost accidental that I found it in the first place.
I have told my coaches many times: Elite MMA did not give me my life back. But Elite MMA gave me the tools I needed to get my life back. It showed me my strength and helped me chip away at my fear. I am nothing but thankful that, for whatever reason, and by whatever force, I was guided to Elite MMA to begin my journey. The jouney started with Brazilian jiu jitsu, and I want to tell you my story, since I have learned that sharing stories is healing for both the speaker and listener. We identify with one another through stories. Our stories connect us, and I would not even have a story to tell if others hadn't woven their stories into mine. Our stories are important.
One thing I have learned, and I hope to bring out as much as possible, is the concept of the journey. We hear it a lot at my gym. Your BJJ journey is yours. Your BJJ will look different than mine. Your pace, your technique, your style, your timeline. Life happens in the midst of this journey, and that's nothing to beat yourself up about. Own your jorney and love yourself through it, because it's very easy to do the opposite. It is easy to want your BJJ to look like someone else's or to get down on yourself when you can't train or you're not improving. But: it's a marathon, not a sprint, and the journey is beautiful, no matter what.
Now I understand and appreciate my journey so much more. My journey into and through BJJ is part of my journey through life. My journey through life, now, is better I think, because of my journey through BJJ. BJJ is so many things to me: it is relationships, both on and off the mat. It is pushing myself beyond my limit. It is allowing others to pour themselves into me, which makes us both better. It is being encouraging and being encouraged. It is emotional, and it is a release. Whatever I have, I can bring it to the mat, where I can let it go. It is positive and constructive. It is allowing myself to be broken and rebuilt.
Life is short. So short. Fleeting. And one day you wake up and realize that you are thirty-five years old and exactly what that means. At age thirty-five, conceivably, half of my life is gone, and how much of my time was wasted? Have I even really started living? Was I living a life I thought I was supposed to live, based on misconceptions or pleasing others or whatever it may have been?
As I go to pick up my children from their dad's house, I take a route along Trinity Bay. I have to cross a channel that spills into the bay. I don't know how long the channel is or where it begins, but I can tell that it must be a significant distance. What matters is that I get to see the end of its journey. Though the bay itself isn't very big, and neither are its bayous or tributaries, it seems big. From my point of view, the other side isn't visible. There is just this open expance of water upon water, and at last the water running down that channel is free.
The other day, as I drove across the channel and saw it end in the bay, I felt a kind of identity with it. How long had I been going in one direction, with no way to turn? How long had I allowed myself to be pushed along, feeling as though I were on some kind of journey with no meaning and no end in sight? It was a long time, but I will not forget the moment that I saw the end of that long, straight, and often very dark channel. I will not forget the moment that the journey at last spilled me into something open and free. At last, there was the moment that things were clear and limitless and vast.
Please understand that I believe every part of the journey is useful, necessary, and important. An in the midst of darkness will shine moments of light: the birth of my children and precious time with them, for instance. But I am talking about the overall journey - the culmination of good and bad and the realization of where it is taking you. For a very long time, I felt trapped in that current, without the choices or the power to change anything. I felt enslaved, and I heard once that slavery breaks a person's spirit. I understand that now. What I didn't know was that I was strong, and that the key to tapping that strength would be found in such an unlikely place.
I even laugh a little to call it "unlikely," because now it just seems like the most logical place in the world. For those involved in martial arts, "unlikely" would be the furthest word from their minds. But my world had nothing to do with that world. I didn't know it, understand it, or even think about it. It was almost accidental that I found it in the first place.
I have told my coaches many times: Elite MMA did not give me my life back. But Elite MMA gave me the tools I needed to get my life back. It showed me my strength and helped me chip away at my fear. I am nothing but thankful that, for whatever reason, and by whatever force, I was guided to Elite MMA to begin my journey. The jouney started with Brazilian jiu jitsu, and I want to tell you my story, since I have learned that sharing stories is healing for both the speaker and listener. We identify with one another through stories. Our stories connect us, and I would not even have a story to tell if others hadn't woven their stories into mine. Our stories are important.
One thing I have learned, and I hope to bring out as much as possible, is the concept of the journey. We hear it a lot at my gym. Your BJJ journey is yours. Your BJJ will look different than mine. Your pace, your technique, your style, your timeline. Life happens in the midst of this journey, and that's nothing to beat yourself up about. Own your jorney and love yourself through it, because it's very easy to do the opposite. It is easy to want your BJJ to look like someone else's or to get down on yourself when you can't train or you're not improving. But: it's a marathon, not a sprint, and the journey is beautiful, no matter what.
Now I understand and appreciate my journey so much more. My journey into and through BJJ is part of my journey through life. My journey through life, now, is better I think, because of my journey through BJJ. BJJ is so many things to me: it is relationships, both on and off the mat. It is pushing myself beyond my limit. It is allowing others to pour themselves into me, which makes us both better. It is being encouraging and being encouraged. It is emotional, and it is a release. Whatever I have, I can bring it to the mat, where I can let it go. It is positive and constructive. It is allowing myself to be broken and rebuilt.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Thinking Jiu Jitsu
Learning a new language is difficult. I have been trying to learn Spanish for awhile now. I am getting better at it, little by little. I practice it as often as I can. I have heard that when I start to think in Spanish, I will know I really have it.
I don't think in Spanish yet. But I think in jiu jitsu.
I remember when I first started BJJ, just a few months in, I would find myself suddenly thinking jiu jitsu. What I mean is, I would think and work through moves that didn't go quite right the night before in practice. I would analyze it, work through it in my mind, think of alternative techniques I could have used. Thinking jiu jitsu. In the middle of the day. At work.
When you don't practice a language that you are trying to learn, you lose it. I didn't practice jiu jitsu much this summer. I hadn't practiced it much until recently. That made me sad, and it made me lose a lot of my confidence. I stopped thinking jiu jitsu. For awhile, I felt I could never go back. I thought that things would be too hard forever. The truth is, not going to Elite made things worse.
When you are learning a language, it is important to be around people who also know and practice the language. Immerse yourself. It's also important to overcome fear in speaking the language. A lot of times, I won't speak Spanish because I am afraid I will mess up and sound stupid. It's the same with jiu jitsu, especially with getting back to it. I was afraid to go back to the gym for awhile. I was afraid of how I would look, having lost any fluency I had gained. It was one step forward, ten steps back. But not going at all wasn't helping anything. I needed to be in a place where jiu jitsu was spoken openly and easily, where I could be safe to make mistakes, where there were people to lift me up and encourage me to keep going.
I have accepted this coming year as a hard one. That doesn't mean it can't also be good, that it can't make me stronger. It has and will. But I can't be hard on myself, either. There will be days and weeks that I can't train. I am navigating this year as a newly single mom. My finances are different, my schedule is different. I have set long-term goals for a reason and the words "for now" are an important part of my vocabulary. But there's good news: I have started thinking jiu jitsu again.
It happened two weeks ago on the way to work, and it was a definite marker for me. I was just about to the gate where I enter the parking lot, and I caught myself doing it: working through a move from the night before. I was rethinking my technique, reworking the move in my mind, just as I had done a million times before. I was thinking jiu jitsu without even trying, without realizing it. It was natural to me. I knew then that I was back, and it made me smile.
I don't think in Spanish yet. But I think in jiu jitsu.
I remember when I first started BJJ, just a few months in, I would find myself suddenly thinking jiu jitsu. What I mean is, I would think and work through moves that didn't go quite right the night before in practice. I would analyze it, work through it in my mind, think of alternative techniques I could have used. Thinking jiu jitsu. In the middle of the day. At work.
When you don't practice a language that you are trying to learn, you lose it. I didn't practice jiu jitsu much this summer. I hadn't practiced it much until recently. That made me sad, and it made me lose a lot of my confidence. I stopped thinking jiu jitsu. For awhile, I felt I could never go back. I thought that things would be too hard forever. The truth is, not going to Elite made things worse.
When you are learning a language, it is important to be around people who also know and practice the language. Immerse yourself. It's also important to overcome fear in speaking the language. A lot of times, I won't speak Spanish because I am afraid I will mess up and sound stupid. It's the same with jiu jitsu, especially with getting back to it. I was afraid to go back to the gym for awhile. I was afraid of how I would look, having lost any fluency I had gained. It was one step forward, ten steps back. But not going at all wasn't helping anything. I needed to be in a place where jiu jitsu was spoken openly and easily, where I could be safe to make mistakes, where there were people to lift me up and encourage me to keep going.
I have accepted this coming year as a hard one. That doesn't mean it can't also be good, that it can't make me stronger. It has and will. But I can't be hard on myself, either. There will be days and weeks that I can't train. I am navigating this year as a newly single mom. My finances are different, my schedule is different. I have set long-term goals for a reason and the words "for now" are an important part of my vocabulary. But there's good news: I have started thinking jiu jitsu again.
It happened two weeks ago on the way to work, and it was a definite marker for me. I was just about to the gate where I enter the parking lot, and I caught myself doing it: working through a move from the night before. I was rethinking my technique, reworking the move in my mind, just as I had done a million times before. I was thinking jiu jitsu without even trying, without realizing it. It was natural to me. I knew then that I was back, and it made me smile.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
I Am A Teacher
I came into this profession - kicking and screaming, as it was - later in life than most. I was almost ten years out of college already. I was a stay-at-home-mom, and I wanted to stay that way. Teaching found me and not the other way around.
Thank God it did.
I have said it many times: I can't imagine doing anything else. Now the job that I never wanted is one of my life's passions.
The thing about education is that it's full of politics. There are numbers involved; data, policies, procedures, documentation. Sometimes scores don't come out right and God forbid the student be held responsible for not learning. Sometimes you forget to document something, not follow a procedure, and you get a write-up in your file. Sometimes you have to call your lawyer, because you find yourself in some kind of crazy situation. It's nerve-wracking; it's maddening. But it's only part of the job.
Because besides the data, policies, procedures, and documentation, there are these people - these people who are just coming into their own, and you get to watch them become something amazing. They are just at the beginning of this journey, and they make mistakes. They make good choices, too. They have triumphant days, and they can't hide their joy. They have bad days, and they come in with their stormcloud faces. They are too vulnerable to hide anything, even though they try. There is a story seated at every desk, and you get to watch a small part of that story as it is created, in real time.
You get to laugh with them, hurt with them, listen to them. You get to watch them interact and pray that they treat each other well. You get to laugh when they remind you how Mexican they are and how Mexican you are not. You get to go to quincineras. You get to learn Spanish and hear them laugh when you make a mistake and hear them cheer when you get it right. You get to hug them when they are having a bad day and you get to hug them when they are having a good day. You get hand-drawn pictures of volkswagens. Sometimes, some days, you cry and so do they.
And you get to watch them learn. I am so lucky that I teach English; it's subjective. Everyone feels differently about every story and every poem. I get to show them how to pick it apart, then set them to it. Every word means something, every comma, semicolon, dash. At a time when emotions naturally run high, it is fascinating to wach reactions when Doodle dies in "The Scarlet Ibis" or when the sniper finds out he has killed his own brother. When Angel Vargas dies in The House on Mango Street, poof, like a little powdered donut, and life goes on, what will my ninth-graders say? Will they grow from it? Will they remember it? I hope so. Even if it happens in one moment and only for a moment.
I have had bad days. Really, really bad days. Many bad things have happened in my short three years of teaching. But I will tell you what: every August, I am happy to see them come through the door and every June, I am sad to watch them go. I don't try to love them. It just happens. I know now that I was designed to be a teacher. Despite all the bad data and misplaced papers and unfollowed procedures and write-ups, there is a bigger thing happenening. There are people: one-hundred fifty of them, and I am not a babysitter. They are counting on me for something. I feel the weight of that.
And so, every morning at 4:30am, I roll (or crawl, or inch) out of bed to get myself and the kids ready, so that I can go to the job that I never wanted, the job that I now don't know what I would do without.
Thank God it did.
I have said it many times: I can't imagine doing anything else. Now the job that I never wanted is one of my life's passions.
The thing about education is that it's full of politics. There are numbers involved; data, policies, procedures, documentation. Sometimes scores don't come out right and God forbid the student be held responsible for not learning. Sometimes you forget to document something, not follow a procedure, and you get a write-up in your file. Sometimes you have to call your lawyer, because you find yourself in some kind of crazy situation. It's nerve-wracking; it's maddening. But it's only part of the job.
Because besides the data, policies, procedures, and documentation, there are these people - these people who are just coming into their own, and you get to watch them become something amazing. They are just at the beginning of this journey, and they make mistakes. They make good choices, too. They have triumphant days, and they can't hide their joy. They have bad days, and they come in with their stormcloud faces. They are too vulnerable to hide anything, even though they try. There is a story seated at every desk, and you get to watch a small part of that story as it is created, in real time.
You get to laugh with them, hurt with them, listen to them. You get to watch them interact and pray that they treat each other well. You get to laugh when they remind you how Mexican they are and how Mexican you are not. You get to go to quincineras. You get to learn Spanish and hear them laugh when you make a mistake and hear them cheer when you get it right. You get to hug them when they are having a bad day and you get to hug them when they are having a good day. You get hand-drawn pictures of volkswagens. Sometimes, some days, you cry and so do they.
And you get to watch them learn. I am so lucky that I teach English; it's subjective. Everyone feels differently about every story and every poem. I get to show them how to pick it apart, then set them to it. Every word means something, every comma, semicolon, dash. At a time when emotions naturally run high, it is fascinating to wach reactions when Doodle dies in "The Scarlet Ibis" or when the sniper finds out he has killed his own brother. When Angel Vargas dies in The House on Mango Street, poof, like a little powdered donut, and life goes on, what will my ninth-graders say? Will they grow from it? Will they remember it? I hope so. Even if it happens in one moment and only for a moment.
I have had bad days. Really, really bad days. Many bad things have happened in my short three years of teaching. But I will tell you what: every August, I am happy to see them come through the door and every June, I am sad to watch them go. I don't try to love them. It just happens. I know now that I was designed to be a teacher. Despite all the bad data and misplaced papers and unfollowed procedures and write-ups, there is a bigger thing happenening. There are people: one-hundred fifty of them, and I am not a babysitter. They are counting on me for something. I feel the weight of that.
And so, every morning at 4:30am, I roll (or crawl, or inch) out of bed to get myself and the kids ready, so that I can go to the job that I never wanted, the job that I now don't know what I would do without.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Cage Dreams
Million Dollar Baby: saddest movie in America. Also one of the best. (Hilary Swank: Oscar-winning performance). But I think I was crying even before the part where you are suppose to cry. This is why: I was struck by Maggie's drive, even when no one would train her; even when she was shunned and ignored; even though she was starting in her thirties. She never backed down. Her attitude was this: whatever it takes.
I say it a lot: I wast to be a cagefighter. I love going over to the Westheimer gym and just looking at the cage or standing in it. I want to be in there, and I want to fight. I say it, and I think that some people believe me. I joke about it, and people laugh with me. But here's the thing: I really do want to be in the cage one day. I really do.
I am not thinking that I will make it to the cage in a few months or a year. I don't even know if two years will be enough time to get ready. I know it will take a lot of time, a lot of work, a lot of sacrifice. Not just for me, but for my coaches and classmates as well. I watch my teammate, Yanez, train for his upcoming fight, and I see what it takes.
And as I watch Yanes, I think about fights I have watched. I think about other classmates and coaches of mine that I have watched train - Vincent, Jordan, Trent, Chris, and others. As I've watched, I have learned something: it's not just the fighter that is stepping into the cage. Hours and hours of training go with him; tiresome hours and dedication from trainers and classmates who believe in him. His entire gym - the name, the mission, the integrity of that gym - goes into the cage. That idea weighs on me. It makes sense to me that I should not sept into the cage unless I am ready. I am taking too many others in there with me.
So I have a question: Will you train me? Will you spend the hours, the weeks and months, to get me there? Possibly the years? Are you willing to attach your name and your integrity to me? Will you make me ready to fight?
One thing that I will need to get me there is to be able to take my kids to the gym. I took them on Friday, when I trained karate. It went pretty well. Charlie had a moment or two toward the end of the hour. He came onto the mat and helped me recite the Learner's Creed with me. :) But I will have to recruit help from my classmatets. I don't know how they are going to feel about that, though I have a feeling I will have a positive reception. I will have to bring them with me from time to time in order to get in the training time that I need, especially to be able to work on my standup. I hope that they will see that their mom is a strong lady, that she is willing to work hard, and that the gym is a positive place for them to be.
When Mr. Robert was helping me with my goals, he asked me why I wanted to be in the cage. Did I get into a lot of fights as a kid? Did I have some pent-up aggression? I actually think that many people, especially those who have known me for any length of time, are wondering the same thing. I didn't get into fights, and I don't have pent-up aggression. The truth is, I love the sport. I have a lot of respect for the mat. After watching my classmates train, I respect the drive, determination, and dedication put forth to reach a goal. I like the idea of finishing what you start. For me, it's not about proving anything or beating someone up. It's a sport; an amazing sport. It's about passion and integrity. It's about setting a goal and reaching it. It's about being strong and believing that I can do anything in life that I want to do. I want this. I want to fight in the cage. I believe that I can do it.
Is it a little bit laughable? Do I look like a cagefighter? No. I look like a mom. Who teaches. And eats donuts. Is that why I am sometimes met with skepticism? Is it because I have never been atheletic that maybe some don't believe I can reach this goal? I don't know. But I am willing to do whatever it takes to get to where I need to be - to get to the cage.
Whatever it takes.
And what will it take? Nutrition. Working outside the gym. Running, lifting weights. I don't know. I need a plan. I am very obedient, if you give me a plan. So . . . will you train me? Will you give me a plan? Will you give me short-term goals on my way to the long-term goal, which could be two or three or four years away? I will be a good athelete for you. I will carry your name and Elite's name well.
This is my dream, and I believe it will come true.
I say it a lot: I wast to be a cagefighter. I love going over to the Westheimer gym and just looking at the cage or standing in it. I want to be in there, and I want to fight. I say it, and I think that some people believe me. I joke about it, and people laugh with me. But here's the thing: I really do want to be in the cage one day. I really do.
I am not thinking that I will make it to the cage in a few months or a year. I don't even know if two years will be enough time to get ready. I know it will take a lot of time, a lot of work, a lot of sacrifice. Not just for me, but for my coaches and classmates as well. I watch my teammate, Yanez, train for his upcoming fight, and I see what it takes.
And as I watch Yanes, I think about fights I have watched. I think about other classmates and coaches of mine that I have watched train - Vincent, Jordan, Trent, Chris, and others. As I've watched, I have learned something: it's not just the fighter that is stepping into the cage. Hours and hours of training go with him; tiresome hours and dedication from trainers and classmates who believe in him. His entire gym - the name, the mission, the integrity of that gym - goes into the cage. That idea weighs on me. It makes sense to me that I should not sept into the cage unless I am ready. I am taking too many others in there with me.
So I have a question: Will you train me? Will you spend the hours, the weeks and months, to get me there? Possibly the years? Are you willing to attach your name and your integrity to me? Will you make me ready to fight?
One thing that I will need to get me there is to be able to take my kids to the gym. I took them on Friday, when I trained karate. It went pretty well. Charlie had a moment or two toward the end of the hour. He came onto the mat and helped me recite the Learner's Creed with me. :) But I will have to recruit help from my classmatets. I don't know how they are going to feel about that, though I have a feeling I will have a positive reception. I will have to bring them with me from time to time in order to get in the training time that I need, especially to be able to work on my standup. I hope that they will see that their mom is a strong lady, that she is willing to work hard, and that the gym is a positive place for them to be.
When Mr. Robert was helping me with my goals, he asked me why I wanted to be in the cage. Did I get into a lot of fights as a kid? Did I have some pent-up aggression? I actually think that many people, especially those who have known me for any length of time, are wondering the same thing. I didn't get into fights, and I don't have pent-up aggression. The truth is, I love the sport. I have a lot of respect for the mat. After watching my classmates train, I respect the drive, determination, and dedication put forth to reach a goal. I like the idea of finishing what you start. For me, it's not about proving anything or beating someone up. It's a sport; an amazing sport. It's about passion and integrity. It's about setting a goal and reaching it. It's about being strong and believing that I can do anything in life that I want to do. I want this. I want to fight in the cage. I believe that I can do it.
Is it a little bit laughable? Do I look like a cagefighter? No. I look like a mom. Who teaches. And eats donuts. Is that why I am sometimes met with skepticism? Is it because I have never been atheletic that maybe some don't believe I can reach this goal? I don't know. But I am willing to do whatever it takes to get to where I need to be - to get to the cage.
Whatever it takes.
And what will it take? Nutrition. Working outside the gym. Running, lifting weights. I don't know. I need a plan. I am very obedient, if you give me a plan. So . . . will you train me? Will you give me a plan? Will you give me short-term goals on my way to the long-term goal, which could be two or three or four years away? I will be a good athelete for you. I will carry your name and Elite's name well.
This is my dream, and I believe it will come true.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Stalked
It is with fear that I post again. I have had someone using this blog to stalk me. I don't like it. But I opened myself up to it, I suppose. You splash your life onto the Internet, and tell people where to go to find it splashed, well . . . 'nuff said. But it makes me ANGRY. I LIKE to blog. I NEED to blog. I need you to READ it. You can read it; YOU can't. And if YOU do, I will call the police. I am putting this blog back into circulation. I need to talk about my experiences and I need to live without fear. So that's that.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Dear Birthday Fairy, Take a Look:
If I had $75 extra, I would make this mine. If you want to make it yours, go here. Hurry up and get it. It won't be there tomorrow.Aaron
You looked at me
and in an instant,
I saw you as a man -
your little-boy face
no longer there:
your little-boy days
escaping rapidly,
as a fleet of ships
speeding toward distant war
I looked at you
and your innocent smile
was changed:
your jaw more square,
your shoulders broad,
your laugh, deep and sure
You looked at me, and all at once
the solid little boy
was a strong, solid man
as calendar leaves
flew by me,
fluttering in a wind
I could not catch
Then again - in an instant
your blue eyes caught mine,
your exclamation-point laugh
hung in my ear
as I looked down
to where you lay in my arms,
your fluffy, golden hair
brushing my chin
as you wrapped your hand
around my finger,
and I held you that moment,
hung on for dear life -
that dying moment
before the wind
whipped up again.
9-18-2011
and in an instant,
I saw you as a man -
your little-boy face
no longer there:
your little-boy days
escaping rapidly,
as a fleet of ships
speeding toward distant war
I looked at you
and your innocent smile
was changed:
your jaw more square,
your shoulders broad,
your laugh, deep and sure
You looked at me, and all at once
the solid little boy
was a strong, solid man
as calendar leaves
flew by me,
fluttering in a wind
I could not catch
Then again - in an instant
your blue eyes caught mine,
your exclamation-point laugh
hung in my ear
as I looked down
to where you lay in my arms,
your fluffy, golden hair
brushing my chin
as you wrapped your hand
around my finger,
and I held you that moment,
hung on for dear life -
that dying moment
before the wind
whipped up again.
9-18-2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
The Heart of a Fighter
The heart of a fighter
beats to the rhythm
of a thousand others
coming alongside,
those whose hearts
have bled into his:
their pain, their wounds,
their sweat and blood,
their strength for his good.
The heart of a fighter
is made by his peers
who push and encourage,
who offer fists for fists,
bruises to heal any weakness,
and a hand under his chin
with a long, cool drink of water
The heart of a figher
is never born alone,
is never left alone,
and his proudest moment
is the moment that,
when images blur,
and above a crowd's scream,
a Master's voice is all the fighter can hear -
From deep within his corner:
"That boy there - That's MY fighter . . . "
9-16-2011
I was inspired to write this after watching my friend last night, who is training for his first cage fight. It was the shark tank, but I watched our coach give him a drink of water; it was one of those moments when you understand what this sport is about, and what the heart of it is.
beats to the rhythm
of a thousand others
coming alongside,
those whose hearts
have bled into his:
their pain, their wounds,
their sweat and blood,
their strength for his good.
The heart of a fighter
is made by his peers
who push and encourage,
who offer fists for fists,
bruises to heal any weakness,
and a hand under his chin
with a long, cool drink of water
The heart of a figher
is never born alone,
is never left alone,
and his proudest moment
is the moment that,
when images blur,
and above a crowd's scream,
a Master's voice is all the fighter can hear -
From deep within his corner:
"That boy there - That's MY fighter . . . "
9-16-2011
I was inspired to write this after watching my friend last night, who is training for his first cage fight. It was the shark tank, but I watched our coach give him a drink of water; it was one of those moments when you understand what this sport is about, and what the heart of it is.
Friday, September 02, 2011
BJJ Blues
Everything is different now. My life has changed. Even though it was a change that needed to happen, it's been a big adjustment. My schedule is different. I miss the kids. I have up days and down days. I am getting used to it, and I know that one day it will all seem normal.
I have missed several days and weeks of training in all of this transition. I love training. I love all of it: the punching and kicking of kickboxing and karate; the intricate moves and submissions of jiu jitsu. Martial arts is a big part of my life now, and missing training makes me feel empty in a way.
I know that I will get back in a routine, but I feel so discouraged. I can't train on the days that I have kids, and I really don't want to. I want every undivided moment I can have with them. On the days that I don't have the kids, I am so exhausted I usually go home and fall asleep. I know that I am not balanced right now, and I need to train.
My goal is to get my blue belt by December. I know I can do it if I work hard enough. I have been hearing that little voice lately. The one that tells me I am really not a warrior, that I really don't have it in me. The voice tells me that I don't have the heart of a fighter, that if I did, I would push through against all odds. The voice tells me that when I get back to the gym, I won't be any good anyway. I have been told at the gym by friends and coaches not to listen to that voice. Many times I have been told. So how do I get rid of it? How do I stop believing it?
I don't know what the answer is. But I have to get back. I have obstacles and limitations to overcome, but I know I am strong. I have been strong. I have to pull that strength back out. I miss BJJ and karate and kickboxing. This is MY journey, and I want to continue it. I can't give up.
I have missed several days and weeks of training in all of this transition. I love training. I love all of it: the punching and kicking of kickboxing and karate; the intricate moves and submissions of jiu jitsu. Martial arts is a big part of my life now, and missing training makes me feel empty in a way.
I know that I will get back in a routine, but I feel so discouraged. I can't train on the days that I have kids, and I really don't want to. I want every undivided moment I can have with them. On the days that I don't have the kids, I am so exhausted I usually go home and fall asleep. I know that I am not balanced right now, and I need to train.
My goal is to get my blue belt by December. I know I can do it if I work hard enough. I have been hearing that little voice lately. The one that tells me I am really not a warrior, that I really don't have it in me. The voice tells me that I don't have the heart of a fighter, that if I did, I would push through against all odds. The voice tells me that when I get back to the gym, I won't be any good anyway. I have been told at the gym by friends and coaches not to listen to that voice. Many times I have been told. So how do I get rid of it? How do I stop believing it?
I don't know what the answer is. But I have to get back. I have obstacles and limitations to overcome, but I know I am strong. I have been strong. I have to pull that strength back out. I miss BJJ and karate and kickboxing. This is MY journey, and I want to continue it. I can't give up.
Friday, August 19, 2011
"I Am A Martial Artist" by Karen Eden
"I am a martial artist." I see through different eyes.
I see a bigger picture when others see grey skies.
Though many can't conceive it, I stand...facing the wind.
My bravery, not from fighting, but from my strength within.
I am a martial artist. I'll walk the extra mile.
Not because I have to, but because it's worth my while.
I know that I am different, when I stand on a crowded street.
I know the fullness of winning, I've tasted the cup of defeat.
I am a martial artist. They say I walk with ease.
Though trained for bodily harm, my intentions are for peace.
The world may come and go, but a different path I'll choose.
A path I will not stray from, no matter, win or lose.
-Karen Eden
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Competition
Cross-legged and rocking back and forth, side to side, I sat, waiting. My eyes were shut tight, my hands curled around my feet. Now that I am away from this experience, I cannot tell you how far into myself I had to go in that moment, but it was far. It was as though the core of myself were a bottomless cavern.
Debra was there, postured in a similar way, unconsciously rocking, but she had an earbud in one ear. Emily was there. I was so aware of their presence, they may have been touching me. They weren't. There was no need. The silent, blind connection of sitting and waiting and wondering and hoping - together - was enough.
There was noise and confusion all around. Everywhere. Announcements, yelling, moving, milling, seaching, finding, focusing, jumping, laughing, talking. Debra, Emily, and I sat separate from it all, as if on an island. We were aware but not a part of all the noise and movement.
I broke the silence between us when I said, "I want my coach."
"Mr. Robert?" asked Emily.
"Yes," I said, "I need my coach."
"Do you want me to go find him?" Emily touched my hand.
"Yes, I do," I pleaded.
"Don't worry, he will be here," Debra calmed.
Debra: in her mother-voice, in her loving-friend voice, in her I-am-there-too voice. Six words from Debra, and I knew it was going to be OK.
Suddenly, Belinda and Vicki were there. Cross-legged and comforting, right in front of us. From where? I don't know know. They appeared from nowhere, it seemed. But there they were. Vicky touched my knee.
I know my eyes were pleading with both of them. I didn't need them to tell me that I would win; I just needed to hear that I was worth doing this, that I was good enough.
And I was terrified. What if I failed? What if I disappointed everyone that had poured themselves into me and had believed in me?
My parents were there. My daughter. Coaches, classmates. Friends had called and texted with encouragement. I might let all of them down.
Vicki looked at me. She said, "This is just another training, just another class . . . "
I said, "I am so scared," and I felt the tears choke me. I swallowed the sob in my throat.
"Why?" asked Belinda, "You have done this a hundred times . . ."
Belinda and Vicki continued to encourage us and tell us that we knew what to do. We had our game plans. We had everything we needed for this match.
After feeling the weight of eternity, Debra's name was called from the thin air. It was time to start. We had been watching the nogi matches. I had been hoping those matches would continue forever, but they ended and white gis were taking the place of rash gurads and shorts.
Debra bowed, shook her partner's hand, and the match began. Just as everyone else had, it seemed that Mr. Robert had materialized from nothing. But there he was, just as Debra had said he would be, his voice strong and sure. I watched Debra as Mr. Robert gave her instruction from the side. Her partner was much taller than she was, and I wondered if mine would be, too. Debra did her technique just as she had been taught and practiced. The fight was a good one. I watched with intensity, feeling my body twist and turn as I watched each way that she went on the mat.
Her match was over and I was up. My opponent was six feet tall to my five feet, one inch. Mr. Robert had trained me this way: go for the takedown and then to the mount for an armbar; or, should my opponent get me on mount, shrimp out to take side control and then go for the mount. But his most important instruction for this competetion was to listen to his voice and his voice only. He had told me to tune out every other noise and tune in only to what he was saying.
The match began and I went for the takedown. I forgot to get my grips as I concentrated on the single leg that I had practiced, but her reach was much greater than mine. I felt myself go down but I didn't give her the mount or the side control easily. I only wanted five minutes on that mat, and no less. I could hear Mr. Robert loud and clear. I hadn't been sure that I would be able to focus like that, but I did it. His voice and his only came in loud and clear. At every turn, every move, Mr. Robert: "You know what to do Miss Amy, just like we practiced. Good, good. Now watch for the triangle. Super shrimp, you know how to do this. Good, Miss Amy. Forget about her head, just bump. Good, Miss Amy, good . . ." And Mr. Robert, certainly having done this more times than he could count, knew just what to say at just the right moment. I am certain that he knew if he had not continued his calm encouragement, that I may have broken on the mat. His instructions were golden, but most important in keeping me in the game was each soothing accolade: "Good, Miss Amy, good . . . "
I didn't win. My opponent tapped me with an armbar. I almost tried to roll out of it, but for fear of being truly injured, I tapped. I didn't know her; I wasn't familiar with her. This was the real deal and not practice. I couldn't ask her to help me with my technique. She wanted to win! So I chose defeat to possible injury and conceded to my opponent. She was better than me, and she won, but I gave her a run for her money. I was proud of myself.
Mr. Robert gave me a hug and told me I had done a good job. I felt like it was a strong fight, and I felt good about how I did. I hugged Debra and I knew we both felt we had come out victorious, even if we hadn't won our matches. We had conquered our fears, gotten out there and done it. We had won our battles just by doing that.
I wasn't sure how I was going to feel after my match. I was fearful of losing and of how my perception of myself would change if I did. The thing is, I didn't feel like I had lost. I felt awesome. I didn't know if I would ever compete again, and I had trained hard, body and soul, to get to that day. But I stood strong, I had finished. Win or lose, no one could take that day from me. I will never regret it, and I walked away from it with pride and my head held high. I knew that I had disappointed no one, least of all myself.
Debra was there, postured in a similar way, unconsciously rocking, but she had an earbud in one ear. Emily was there. I was so aware of their presence, they may have been touching me. They weren't. There was no need. The silent, blind connection of sitting and waiting and wondering and hoping - together - was enough.
There was noise and confusion all around. Everywhere. Announcements, yelling, moving, milling, seaching, finding, focusing, jumping, laughing, talking. Debra, Emily, and I sat separate from it all, as if on an island. We were aware but not a part of all the noise and movement.
I broke the silence between us when I said, "I want my coach."
"Mr. Robert?" asked Emily.
"Yes," I said, "I need my coach."
"Do you want me to go find him?" Emily touched my hand.
"Yes, I do," I pleaded.
"Don't worry, he will be here," Debra calmed.
Debra: in her mother-voice, in her loving-friend voice, in her I-am-there-too voice. Six words from Debra, and I knew it was going to be OK.
Suddenly, Belinda and Vicki were there. Cross-legged and comforting, right in front of us. From where? I don't know know. They appeared from nowhere, it seemed. But there they were. Vicky touched my knee.
I know my eyes were pleading with both of them. I didn't need them to tell me that I would win; I just needed to hear that I was worth doing this, that I was good enough.
And I was terrified. What if I failed? What if I disappointed everyone that had poured themselves into me and had believed in me?
My parents were there. My daughter. Coaches, classmates. Friends had called and texted with encouragement. I might let all of them down.
Vicki looked at me. She said, "This is just another training, just another class . . . "
I said, "I am so scared," and I felt the tears choke me. I swallowed the sob in my throat.
"Why?" asked Belinda, "You have done this a hundred times . . ."
Belinda and Vicki continued to encourage us and tell us that we knew what to do. We had our game plans. We had everything we needed for this match.
After feeling the weight of eternity, Debra's name was called from the thin air. It was time to start. We had been watching the nogi matches. I had been hoping those matches would continue forever, but they ended and white gis were taking the place of rash gurads and shorts.
Debra bowed, shook her partner's hand, and the match began. Just as everyone else had, it seemed that Mr. Robert had materialized from nothing. But there he was, just as Debra had said he would be, his voice strong and sure. I watched Debra as Mr. Robert gave her instruction from the side. Her partner was much taller than she was, and I wondered if mine would be, too. Debra did her technique just as she had been taught and practiced. The fight was a good one. I watched with intensity, feeling my body twist and turn as I watched each way that she went on the mat.
Her match was over and I was up. My opponent was six feet tall to my five feet, one inch. Mr. Robert had trained me this way: go for the takedown and then to the mount for an armbar; or, should my opponent get me on mount, shrimp out to take side control and then go for the mount. But his most important instruction for this competetion was to listen to his voice and his voice only. He had told me to tune out every other noise and tune in only to what he was saying.
The match began and I went for the takedown. I forgot to get my grips as I concentrated on the single leg that I had practiced, but her reach was much greater than mine. I felt myself go down but I didn't give her the mount or the side control easily. I only wanted five minutes on that mat, and no less. I could hear Mr. Robert loud and clear. I hadn't been sure that I would be able to focus like that, but I did it. His voice and his only came in loud and clear. At every turn, every move, Mr. Robert: "You know what to do Miss Amy, just like we practiced. Good, good. Now watch for the triangle. Super shrimp, you know how to do this. Good, Miss Amy. Forget about her head, just bump. Good, Miss Amy, good . . ." And Mr. Robert, certainly having done this more times than he could count, knew just what to say at just the right moment. I am certain that he knew if he had not continued his calm encouragement, that I may have broken on the mat. His instructions were golden, but most important in keeping me in the game was each soothing accolade: "Good, Miss Amy, good . . . "
I didn't win. My opponent tapped me with an armbar. I almost tried to roll out of it, but for fear of being truly injured, I tapped. I didn't know her; I wasn't familiar with her. This was the real deal and not practice. I couldn't ask her to help me with my technique. She wanted to win! So I chose defeat to possible injury and conceded to my opponent. She was better than me, and she won, but I gave her a run for her money. I was proud of myself.
Mr. Robert gave me a hug and told me I had done a good job. I felt like it was a strong fight, and I felt good about how I did. I hugged Debra and I knew we both felt we had come out victorious, even if we hadn't won our matches. We had conquered our fears, gotten out there and done it. We had won our battles just by doing that.
I wasn't sure how I was going to feel after my match. I was fearful of losing and of how my perception of myself would change if I did. The thing is, I didn't feel like I had lost. I felt awesome. I didn't know if I would ever compete again, and I had trained hard, body and soul, to get to that day. But I stood strong, I had finished. Win or lose, no one could take that day from me. I will never regret it, and I walked away from it with pride and my head held high. I knew that I had disappointed no one, least of all myself.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Sites To Be On Every Day
I found some new sites, thanks to Debra! You MUST check them out, and I am about to add a link in my blogroll:
www.bjjhq.com
www.karatedepot.com
Go there! Now!
www.bjjhq.com
www.karatedepot.com
Go there! Now!
Thursday, June 30, 2011
My Donut Joys and My Donut Woes
I love donuts. I just do. What can I say? Donuts are amazing. When I lived in Benton, when Eliza was about two, she and I found the most amazing donut shop. It's sad that I forget the name of it now, but that was ten years ago. Eliza loved stopping there, as was our Sunday morning ritual on the way to church. These donuts . . . ahhhh . . . they had the most amazing chocolate glaze. Just the right texture, not too thin, perfect chocolate taste. There will never be another chocolate donut to equal it. That place shut down after I moved to San Francisco. I was sad to hear it. Eliza used to call them "people donuts." That's because I would tell her we were going to the place to get the good donuts and the "donut people" would ask us what kind of donuts we wanted. I have a picture of her in her highchair eating one of those "people donuts." Still such a fun memory!
In San Francisco, it was Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. I never really went for those. They were way too sweet. It's like they just couldn't get the balance right: there has to be just the right amount of yeasty, doughy goodness to balance a light, yet just-sweet-enough-glaze. The Krispy Kremes put the sweetness level over the edge. And the donuts there were to scrawny. Scrawny, skinny, too-sweet-to-taste-the-yeasty-doughy-goodness. No, thanks. I tried, ya'll. I really tried to like the Krispy Kremes, because everybody said, "Oh, you HAVE to have the Krispy Kremes! They are SO good!" But, sorry, they just didn't live up to my standards.
In Highlands, I was going to The Donut Palace. The owner knew the kids and me by name. Everything there was good. But then the owner got pregnant and started to get very sick. The hormones took over, and she just couldn't be around all the donut goodness anymore. I felt her pain. I remember when I was pregnant and couldn't eat anything, I used to call "donuts," "throw-nuts." So, I missed her. Some of her family members took over that shop, but nothing ever tasted the same after that. The kolaches were never as rich, and the chocolate glaze tasted like fingernail polish remover. So I quit going there and landed down the street at Dannay's Donuts.
Dannay's. Yum. Now, we have enjoyed Dannay's hit-and-miss the entire seven years we have lived in Highlands. But now I am a loyal customer. They have the best, most perfect-tasting kolaches and these melt-in-your mouth blueberry donuts with the absolute exact amount of idyllic glaze . . . heaven.
I don't know if you can tell, but I am passionate about donuts.
Which brings me to my dilemma. I have moved. I am far from Dannay's donuts now. I am unfamiliar with the donut shops around my new place. It's not easy being on the donut market again. Trying all those new donut places, some twice or three times just to make sure it really wasn't better than the other place. It's a job. Gonna be a chore.
However, I believe that I am strong enough to find a new donut place that is conveniently located near my new home and on the way to work. I have the fortitude to see it through. I will always miss Dannay's, and I may just have to visit from time to time, but I feel sure that, in time, I can embrace a new donut place.
In San Francisco, it was Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. I never really went for those. They were way too sweet. It's like they just couldn't get the balance right: there has to be just the right amount of yeasty, doughy goodness to balance a light, yet just-sweet-enough-glaze. The Krispy Kremes put the sweetness level over the edge. And the donuts there were to scrawny. Scrawny, skinny, too-sweet-to-taste-the-yeasty-doughy-goodness. No, thanks. I tried, ya'll. I really tried to like the Krispy Kremes, because everybody said, "Oh, you HAVE to have the Krispy Kremes! They are SO good!" But, sorry, they just didn't live up to my standards.
In Highlands, I was going to The Donut Palace. The owner knew the kids and me by name. Everything there was good. But then the owner got pregnant and started to get very sick. The hormones took over, and she just couldn't be around all the donut goodness anymore. I felt her pain. I remember when I was pregnant and couldn't eat anything, I used to call "donuts," "throw-nuts." So, I missed her. Some of her family members took over that shop, but nothing ever tasted the same after that. The kolaches were never as rich, and the chocolate glaze tasted like fingernail polish remover. So I quit going there and landed down the street at Dannay's Donuts.
Dannay's. Yum. Now, we have enjoyed Dannay's hit-and-miss the entire seven years we have lived in Highlands. But now I am a loyal customer. They have the best, most perfect-tasting kolaches and these melt-in-your mouth blueberry donuts with the absolute exact amount of idyllic glaze . . . heaven.
I don't know if you can tell, but I am passionate about donuts.
Which brings me to my dilemma. I have moved. I am far from Dannay's donuts now. I am unfamiliar with the donut shops around my new place. It's not easy being on the donut market again. Trying all those new donut places, some twice or three times just to make sure it really wasn't better than the other place. It's a job. Gonna be a chore.
However, I believe that I am strong enough to find a new donut place that is conveniently located near my new home and on the way to work. I have the fortitude to see it through. I will always miss Dannay's, and I may just have to visit from time to time, but I feel sure that, in time, I can embrace a new donut place.
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