Kiai Echo - Summer 2001
Learning the Art Through the Experience of Crutches
by Steve Brume
| This is a story about someone who practices Jujitsu while walking on crutches. This is also a narrative about living
in a world of possibility rather than resignation. My name is Steve. When I was not yet one year old I caught a
little virus called polio, which rendered my legs mostly paralyzed. Five years ago I started my journey in learning
the art of DanZan Ryu Jujitsu. Now that I am approaching my Shodan it has occurred to me that it might be useful
for you and entertaining for me if I share a few words. My first thought is to let you know how to protect yourself from the guy on crutches when in the future he is uked up with you at some Jujitsu seminar. Since the statistical likelihood of such an event is far greater than winning any lottery, you might want to prepare yourself from potential injury. Since nowhere in any manual that I could find, thus far, does it tell you what to do in the event that you come face to face with a strong, ruggedly good looking guy with hidden steal bars up the sides of his legs and two wooden sticks that looks remarkably similar to crutches carried at his sides. You might wonder if this should be a concern of yours? Personally, I encourage you not to worry at all about your well being. In fact, if we ever do face each other on the mat I would prefer that you concern yourself primarily with my safety. But, I guess, if you were to ask any of my fellow martial artists who have had the dubious good fortune to be my ukes at the Honshin Kan dojo, the answer would be without hesitation, "Absolutely! Flying crutches and whirling steel hurt." I have heard them whine this and other similar remarks on several occasions as if forgetting that we are practicing a martial art. My thought is that if you understand that my crutches are weapons, flying at you while suteming from a Tomoe Nage then it is a no-brainer. Just get out of the way. My Sensei, Jeff Penner, differs in his opinion and has, I think, even written in the dojo safety manual, that "there shall be no solid core, black anodized, jet aircraft tooled, aluminum crutches allowed on the mat." I am foresworn to only carry my soft, five ply, pine wood crutches into the dojo. None-the-less, my Sensei, still, with suspicious glances, watches the steel bars attached to my legs that sometime shine as I am flying through the air landing on top of one of his black belts and has suggested that we wrap them up in thick huggable foam. But alas, I digress. And this brings up the second reason for writing this narrative, to tell you my story. How does one who walks, with canis lupis grace, on wooden sticks, perceive himself as a martial artist? When I was young, too small to yet walk, I caught a virus and let go the use of nearly all the muscles in my legs. Because I was so young I do not remember any of this. I was told this later after I developed the ability to communicate with words. All I remember is growing up with a body that was just perfect for me and two tools called crutches that I kept with me as frequently as others wear shoes. By "perfect" I mean that in my mind, since I had not yet learned the art of comparison I was the way I should be. That was my first and most important martial art lesson. Perfection involves living in each moment like it is a way of life without comparison. As a child I lived each day like one given a pass to a carnival. I explored all my capabilities. Most importantly I could not help but sense that people, young and old, liked to be near me. And this made me happy. Of course, not my whole life was that easy. At some point in my adult life I somehow came to develop the belief that if I did not have two legs that worked like most others then I was not going to be happy. I maintained this attitude up to four or five years ago. It was on my path of DanZan Ryu Jujitsu that I decided to develop a more empowering belief. To do this I used an analogy. I decided to compare myself to highly advanced technology. I asked myself a question. What would it cost to create a machine that had the power, beauty, sophisticated precision and brilliance of a normal, fully functioning human body? My mind went into major calculations, while it itemized all my abilities from my digestive system, sensory systems, logical systems, motor skills and on and on. Until finally in the face of my complete ignorance of what current technology is really capable of I decided that in order for the most advanced technological company to recreated what one human person can perform on any given day it would cost one trillion dollars. Now, what would happen if I had discovered some wonderful morning that I had won the Lottery of lotteries and had been given free, one complete, fully functioning trillion-dollar body? What a great day that would be, I thought. But lets say, in the shipment of my winnings from the factory to my house the truck driver got into a road collision and the shipment of my winnings got compromised by half. A note, I thought, from the manufacturer would surely arrive at my house saying, "sorry for the delay...minor troubles...would you accept a $500,000,000,000.00 winning? Please let us know soon." My reply to this incredible possibility did not come from sheer will alone, but rather, from a place in my heart that has never been gone. As of lately, each morning when the sun begins to fade the dark night sky to gold and blue and my conciseness rises to the surface of my day my lips whisper the words, "I win..." It was in March of 1995 that I walked off the street and into the Honshin Kan dojo in Santa Rosa, not at all to inquire into the possibility of learning Jujitsu, because at the time I did not know what Jujitsu was. I came to study Wing Chun Kung Fu, which was being offered in the same building as the Jujitsu classes. I generated the desire to learn this art by taking Tae Kwon Do several years earlier. I was frustrated learning how to do kicks with my legs by relying mostly on flying pivots to create the momentum to get my legs to move. Not much street practicality, I thought, and after a year of promotions I left the dojang in pursuit of an art that would use my strengths. As Wing Chun employs mostly hand techniques I came in search of a teacher. I arrived and sat to observe the class quietly as the students practiced sticky hand techniques, while in the next larger room students dressed in white were throwing themselves onto the mat and screaming like banshees. As I snuck a peek at these Jujitsu students I found my mind deciding that I could not and would not ever do that to my body and went back to the Kung Fu class glad to see that these students had the good sense to keep their feet planted on the wooden floor. However, a black belt, Carl, saw me looking in the door, and came to persuade me to come and join the Jujitsu class. I tried to explain to him that such an art not only looked impractical for my body type but unsafe as well. He was not persuaded and told me the story of Laurie Santiago, who though nearly 80% paralyzed and maneuvered from a wheelchair was an Ikyu. I was impressed. And then, something that has changed me forever happened. I found myself going over to the Jujitsu class, to sit and watch...until both Sensei, Jeff Penner and Lisa Goldoftas came over to me and honored me by suggesting that it would be a privilege to let them teach someone with my body type do an art never designed for someone like me. I was touched and I found myself smiling as I signed all the necessary forms including a check and gave them my word that I would be at the next class ready for workout. Shaking my head in dismay, I walked out smiling still trying to pronounce the name of this art. My first class. I sat on the side of the mat and watched as the Sensei, Lisa Goldafas, was instructing three rows of perhaps 20 standing students the arts of Yawara. Since my hands were busy holding my crutches while standing I decided to sit on the mat to make my hands available for this lesson. Lisa came over to where my uke and I were practicing and observed that our nearness to the ground created new possibilities for this art. For instance, Katate Hazushi Ni required that the Tori's escaping arm move more horizontally rather than diagonally down in order to avoid the floor. She smiled at our solution, bowed and stood, asking that all the students sit to perform this Yawara in order that all could enjoy the new problems and ways to escape them. As I watched all twenty students perform this technique at my eye level I smiled at my new teacher and her method of welcoming me. In my heart I realized that I had found a home. That was five years ago. Fumbling for an escape to a handhold while quietly wondering how in the world I was going to learn to roll, tumble and fall. Later that question was voiced when a good friend and fellow student asked me point blank why I had chosen this art. The answer rose up from some place in my being, call it my heart, mind, spirit...perhaps God in me, who knows... "This is my home." Then I told him what little I knew about this art. That it was first designed over a thousand years ago by warriors who had lost weapons while in battle while their opponents still came at them with swords, knives and armor force...it was designed for the outnumbered, weaponless, courageous underdog. Seishiro Okazaki came to his first Judo dojo convinced that he was going to die soon from TB...in essence came with nothing but a few days to live and the desire to learn. The bottom line, I explained, is that it was created by people like me. My friend smiled and continued to instruct me in rolls, tumbles and falls. I also came with two powerful beliefs. The first I have already mentioned. My body is a 500 billion dollar machine and can truly do mind blowing things if it is given a direction, a plan, and time to conduct the practice. The second is that I am, as a birthright, a warrior. My definition of Warrior comes from the early American Plains Indians...In their society existed a type of warrior called the Wolf Men. These were a class of brave men who were recognized for theirs actions of courage under fire or acts of valor in extreme conditions, like protecting the village from enemy warriors or saving the life of a lost child in a Dakota snow blizzard. Within this elite force was yet a higher distinquishment of courage. The Tethered Warrior. He was an individual with exceptional bravery even amongst the fearless and this distinquishment usually fell on no more than one or two for each village. It was self-appointed. This man would go into battle with a 15-foot leather rope with a stake tied to one end and the other end attached to his shoulder. If at any point during the battle his side started to loose, while the rest of his warriors were retreating he would stake himself to Mother Earth and pray to all his ancestors, his totems, and to the Earth Herself for the courage to fight till his life was over. Sometimes these Tethered Warriors would fight with so much power and supernatural possibility that the opposing warriors would refuse to end the life of such a gift to the world and let the warrior go back to his village alive. More often, he would die with a death song of his fathers on his lips. Regardless of his outcome, a very important thing would happen to his village that night around the community fire. Rather than tell stories of resignation and retreat into limitations or despair the warriors would tell the story of one man's impossible bravery against all odds. That story would inspire each member of the community to believe that they were part of a truly great family. The level of what is possible would raise one large notch. Around those campfires the retreating warriors would tell the story of victory and the village would live as though they were unconquerable. Sometimes I smile at the affect my presence has on others. Someone who does not know me yet will start sharing problems they are experiencing with a landlord, a sore foot, a rainy day, how unfair the world is and in my turn after I empathize with their troubles I will share what my Jujitsu class taught me the night before. The response is always the same. Their eyes narrow into a suspicion that I am telling them a joke with no punch-line, then pure disbelief, and then I see their eyes open with gradual awareness that my descriptions of how I perform the Circle Throw or Tomoe Nage is actually what happened to me. At that moment something happens to them. Their face takes on the blank astonished expression of an actor who forgets his lines while on the stage. My guess is that whatever problem they were faced with suddenly gets very small compared to the possibility that the Tomoe Nage creates while standing on crutches. I have heard that my name gets brought up more often than not in circles of friends and family. I am convinced that while the stories are being told of my adventures what is being quietly said by everyone listening is "All my excuses that keep me from doing what I want just vanished." The most satisfying experience I have known in life is feeling my fear turn into excitement and confidence. The second most enriching experience I know of is to share in someone else's transformation. This is what a warrior who walks on crutches feels when he enters a dojo. Domo. |