Reflections
Embrace Tiger, Return to Mountain:
Cerrito Vista Park
A story Eshin told: Imagine a man who is dreaming that he's being chased by a tiger. He knows it's a dream, but the terror and anguish he experiences are horribly real. He keeps telling himself, "Wake up! Wake up!" but it has no effect.
Q: How can the man wake himself from the dream and the suffering it entails?
A: Stop running. Turn and embrace the tiger.
After a long winter, I'm here
again, on this concrete
patch beneath the ash trees, with the sun
settling into San Francisco Bay.
A breath of warm air fills
my nose and mouth with
mock orange, a smell
whose impossible sweetness every spring
wrings out a vague
ache somewhere in my chest, like the undefined
longings of adolescence, like a nostalgia
for something no longer completely
remembered.
Still, the flesh, the bone--these remember. Remember
the weight of cotton karate pants, soaked
with sweat against my skin, steam rising off the fabric
in sharp morning air;
remember the bitter, delicious
ache of joint and muscle
as arms, gut,
legs, hammered into place
at the lock points of the forms --forging
the body on an anvil of resolve, beating
muscle and sinew
into armor.
For what? The samurai honed
their perfect blades, forged
their fell skills to serve
a lord, living only, we are told, for
honor, duty--what
a crock of meretricious shit. No--I think
of Hoku's small
hand in mine, of Marilyn's
earnest eyes, of the child I
was, who lived so much in fear. It was these fragile
things I trained so long,
so hard to protect, in a world
where there is no real protection. To protect,
or at the least,
to die trying.
It was July when the pain began between
my shoulder blades. The fingers
would go numb; my left
arm started to weaken unaccountably. I trained
through it till December, slogging
through the familiar moves, inwardly
rejoicing when, for a workout, or for a few
minutes, or for a few seconds, speed
and ease would temporarily return.
It was a path
less painful and less frightening
than watching walls it took
eleven years to build
crumble from neglect.
During the winter rains I stopped training and hung
my black belt on the wall; a bone ridge,
the neurosurgeon said, had pressed against
my spinal cord--Like a knife, I thought,
against your throat. I knew
a defense against a knife to the throat. (Grasp the attacker's wrist with both hands, pulling down sharply while keeping your elbows tight against your own body . Simultaneously press your chin hard into your pectoral and lower your center of of gravity, pushing your hips back into the attacker. Left step to.... )
Now in spring, I'm here again, practicing
Cheng's short form, hoping these quiet
moves with poetic names
will loosen the pain, perhaps
undo some damage done:
Cloudy Hands, Step Back to Repulse Monkey,
Embrace Tiger, Return to Mountain.
I remember a young Bruce Lee
in an interview on TV. He leaned
forward toward the host and smirked
the smirk of someone sure
he's the best fighter in the room. "Water,"
he confided, like it was a secret, "takes the shape
of whatever container you put it in. Be like water, my friend."
He was talking about
something else, but it applies.
A simple question: What does it mean
to assume the shape of disability?
One more breath. Beneath
these familiar
trees on a spring evening,
the chatter of words and fears
is, for a moment, stilled, and
the white frozen edges of anger
and despair melt,
like water easing seamlessly to fill
the walls of this cracked vessel.
They'll be back, but for now,
there is nothing to protect,
no grand gesture to make--
just taking a step,
moving a hand slowly
through the warm breeze, trusting
that whatever
shape this life takes, I will, in the end,
die trying. Another breath, another
step and then just
this--the smell
of mock orange, still delicious,
in the evening air.
By Kent Uchiyama
"No Self"
37" high x 22" wide x 6" deep
Glass, cast bronze and steel.
By Peter Powning
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