Dynamic Dreamer ~ Art Weaver

After a somewhat sedentary existence following the birth of my daughter, I was cajoled by my son Connor’s Taekwondo Master to take a non-obligatory trial class. Here I was, a chubby post partum mom staring impending middle age in the face and I was being coerced into a situation that I was less than enthusiastic about. I told myself there was no way I can do this. I was clumsy and achy. I had two left feet and I had multiple abdominal traumas after a near fatal appendectomy in my 20s and two cesareans in my 30s; and now I was willing to subject myself to kicks and punches? I suffered from migraines (requiring quietude and darkness), borderline high blood pressure, high sugar levels, being overweight, low self-esteem and an exceptionally high heart rate. Years of concentrated studio and educational efforts took its toll and I had resigned myself to physical mediocrity. In other words, I was a mess! But despite my misgivings and because of the pleas of my young son (who thought it would be cool if his mom did TKD) I put on my sweats and showed up to class: There, are you happy? I thought to myself. The academy was populated by the young and fit, seasoned super people called black belts, and an unrelenting Master who, having survived Vietnam as a Marine, had no mercy for excuse makers. How was I going to be able to do even one stomach crunch? I still couldn’t feel the abdominal surface marred by medical emergencies. I hadn’t done a push up since high school and I had no idea where my withered deltoids, biceps and triceps were hiding…and here I was a bloated spectacle who somehow survived the hardest part of this unexpected journey: taking that first step onto the dojo mats. I came home with a new ghee and a white belt, triumphant in a sort of rebellious way but feeling crazy for abandoning my supposed comfort zone.

That was the beginning of an incredible journey.

Since then I’ve cried in class, I’ve “quit” multiple times, I’ve yelled, I’ve sounded off expletives (and I don’t typically swear), I’ve been bloodied, bruised and battered, I’ve been mangled to the ground, rough and tumbled and pretty much stripped of all dignity. And frankly, if it wasn’t for my wise son’s repeated recitation of the school’s code of conduct policy: “Perseverance: we keep on going in spite of difficulties”, I probably would have caved into defeat long ago. Connor was instrumental in making me see that giving up was not an option. If I did throw in the towel, what message would I be sending my impressionable son? He too was training and he too had his own challenges to face. I needed to keep on going for myself as well as for him. As a result, we were forging a close mother/son bond with our martial arts collective. That alone had been worth the effort.

But also through the physical and mental trials, something subtle began to envelope my being. Mental malaise was surrendering to physical prowess, a part of me that was allowed to languish in my 30s. I was reawakening my long dormant senses. The once competitive cross-country runner in high school, affectionately called “wild horse” by her mother, reacquainted herself with the very spirit that fueled her desire to conquer grueling trails of long ago. I had run like the wind, a wild horse with pony tale flowing behind. I had felt exhilarated and free as I struggled through stitches and discomforts-consequences of pushing a body beyond perceived limitations. Those races were a rite of passage, setting the pace for indefatigable nights at the ever-ambitious drawing table.

But as time went on, the physical accompaniment to a somewhat balanced existence relinquished under the strains of deadlines and life stuff. In an effort to streamline my daily repertoire, I axed physical activity. Not one of my smarter moves. But Wild Horse was still there, deep down inside. I had only hit the pause button while the passing days continued to prove distracting.

Back at the dojo:
Thoughts of my former life would occasionally taunt me as I struggled through hardcore pushups, having to dig deep inside for assistance from internal Wild Horse. It was hard–really, really hard, almost impossible; the quest beyond white belt seemed insurmountable and foolish. But climb I did and with each belt progression I grew stronger, fitter and most importantly, calmer—the ol’ sense of balance was returning as was my once size 8 physique. That first stomach crunch became 200. That first assisted push up became 50 standard pushups. That first clumsily executed form became a series of eight mellifluous ones. And instead of falling over with each kick, I was now flying… like a wild horse in the wind: white, yellow, gold, orange, green, blue, purple, and then red…fiery red belt before finally making it to the elusive brown belt. And a brown belt evokes exactly what you may think: earthy calm, collected, ripe and ready like the leaves about to fall from the trees. The autumnal leaf analogy came from the mouth of the wise Master himself. I understand what he means now, but would not have comprehended those sagacious words without having traveled the challenging road of his teachings. In a few days, those leaves will fall-December lucky 13 to be exact. I had sprouted, grown, fruited and am now preparing for the end of one cycle only to start a new one as a black belt. Like Jung’s ouroborous, the martial arts path is an infinite one. And the day the black belt is placed around my waist, I will be reborn and ready for the next phase of training, or as my Master poignantly suggests: “Then the real training will begin.”

Although I have not seen it, the Master has informed me that the black belt will have “Wild Horse” emblazoned on it—my indelible identity. I will have found and embraced my inner Wild Horse, now tame, seasoned, free and fully alive.
My spidey senses are tingling!

The black belt test is supposed to be grueling—it is said to be an excruciating mental ordeal in addition to a physically challenging event. The objective: exhibiting an indomitable spirit in the face of adversity using sheer will and discipline as compasses for survival.

Just to make sure, I went for a physical and to my great surprise, was deemed in “excellent shape” (although I still get that rare migraine)—for example my heart rate went from 98 to 65, my blood pressure is 110/70 and my sugar and cholesterol are low. I’ve dropped 40 lbs of fat replacing it with invaluable muscle. I have more energy and endurance and feel empowered and undeterred—these fortifications carry over into all areas of my life and have made me more efficient and balanced with everything that I do. I’m also much more keenly aware of my surroundings, having recently caught a glass that flew out of my cabinet. How about that? I shan’t collapse into cardiac arrest after all like I thought I would the first time I did a rising kick—I’ve trained, prepared, conditioned and am now ready to face whatever challenges await me. Not only have my muscles come out of hiding, sending a photo to my mom turned out to be a mind blowing experience for her. Who is that fit, muscular woman? It’s just me mommy, Wild Horse!

Supposedly, the test starts off with a mile run in under 10 minutes (easiest part of test) and then it escalates from there including standard strength drills, accelerated forms, 30 minutes of sparring with a constant stream of blackbelt brawn bent on making the candidate cry and many surprises in between. I cannot completely imagine what I’m up against—probably better that way. And it has been said no one will hold back from fully engaging me in this hazing process even if I am an almost 42-year-old whose had her share of hard years. I have long since learned there are no excuses. I must take the punishment like all others before me and “persevere despite difficulties”. Earning the black belt will be a monumental achievement that I will carry with me forever. And perhaps, I can be an instrument for inspiring others, who may eye the threshold of the dojo with trepidation. Maybe, just maybe if I can do it, so can almost anyone. To quote a Chinese proverb: a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. And the first step is most certainly the hardest!
*******

The Chinese fairy tale Hok Lee and the Dwarves as represented by the Three of Wands is a fascinating story about a man cursed by the spirits for living a double life and engaging in misdeeds. In order to alleviate the curse, that had rendered his cheek grotesquely swollen, Hok Lee must successfully perform a dance to an audience of forest dwelling dwarves. His first attempt ends miserably as he stumbles his way through an awkward performance. As a consequence, the curse expanded to his other cheek. This left Hok Lee with little choice but to request another chance to redeem himself. The dwarves agreed and the contest commenced. Hok Lee took a deep breath and decided to let his spirit soar. He raised his arm and then his leg and boldly jumped into a graceful dance. He let go (something I’ve heard my Taekwondo Master say to me over and over again). He kicked and twirled and soon the leaves were spinning along with him. When he finished, the dwarves clapped and cheered. His growths disappeared and from there on in he helped others find a way to their own cures.

Tatterhood is the spunky heroine of a Norwegian folktale. She is an untamed wild child whose resourcefulness leads her to rescue her more prim and proper twin sister from hobgoblins. As you can imagine, I loved painting Tatterhood in all her ragtag glory. She is the princess of wands, with her demonstrative confidence, determination, creative energy and adventurous spirit—all the things I will need to earn my Wild Horse black belt. I also love to a paint goats. Perhaps because I’m a capricorn.

~ Lisa

Tags: adversity, black belt, courage, Lisa Hunt, spirit, strength, taekwondo, transform

This entry was posted by lisahuntart on Sunday, December 7th, 2008 at 4:13 PM and is filed under Wands. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.