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I’m bruised and sore. My ribs and shoulder ache, my right bicep doesn’t work as well as it should, my legs are blue and purple. Lance commented to me once this weekend, “I love having Uke’s I don’t have to worry about hitting too hard.” Of course, as Uke, you learn more than anyone else, and of course, I volunteered as often as I could.

The retreat was impressive on all levels, and I’ll definitely be making a dent in my 800mg ibuprofen. But the real significance was facing the impending loss - or evolution, I should say - of the school. Of how much I’ve grown, and how close I’ve become to these people. To Mike and Chris and Lance and Jess, and all the rest, too numerous to name, the brothers I never had. To be able to say unabashedly that I love these men. I’m reminded of that exchange from Good Will Hunting: “The reason he hangs around with those ‘gorillas,’ as you called them, is because anyone of those ‘gorillas’ would take a baseball bat to your head anyday. It’s called loyalty.” These guys aren’t gorillas, although we do each live in disparate domains outside of the dojo, but the loyalty to I feel to these brothers is rings similar.

I remember distinctly the Friday night I’d just flown back to SD after having just lain Kevin to rest. I walked into the dojo and drilled aiki, silent, again and again, until I was too tired to muscle the movements and the flow began to emerge. I stood, bowed to my partner and off the mat, and plopped down in the changing room. Half undressed, with one shoe on and one off, I sat, and cried. I hadn’t cried during the funeral – my role there had been support. But now I let myself go, exhausted, without the strength direct it. Jess walked in to fetch something from his bag. After a moments glance, he asked the inevitable, and I replied matter-of-factly: “I buried a friend today.” A pause, and a response: “Come on, let’s train. Back on the mat.” I followed, without the strength to contest, and bowed in. Lance notices, understanding with a nod. We proceed to beat each other silly in silence, a celebration of brotherhood and blood and sweat and pain and … of finding victory now. A physical analogy to finding that which needs to be done, and doing it. Not controlling the grief and loss, but harnessing; not caging a wild horse, but mounting it, directing it, letting it run it’s course under my direction.

I thought back to the time I spoke with Sensei, after Ashley and I split, where he revealed more to me of himself than he’s ever shown me, of the common denominators of us all. Of accepting out situation but not sacrificing our will to cope with it or change it. That night, as well, I re-entered the mat and trained until I was emptied of frustration and confusion and self-detritus, and full of resolve.

At the luau after the retreat, several of the senior-most students stated public acknowledgments to Sensei in front of the student body, thanking Sensei for what he’s given us; how he’s given us heart and compassion and discipline, all tools that have allowed us to overcome challenges over the years and excel.

And Sensei apologized. He apologized to his teachers, he apologized to us, he apologized for being to young and not masterful enough, for this being too early to deserve this. He said, “I’m not ready for this. I still have a long way to go myself. But thank you.”

I drove home from the retreat with these thoughts and these aches, and noticed I kept slowing my speed, continually creeping below sixty, as if my body wouldn’t let me pull from the bonds, a visceral rejection of finality. I don’t want it to end.

And I won’t let it. I don’t know how, but I won’t let this art die in me, and I won’t let these bonds break or atrophy.

I commented, privately, to Sensei before I left: “I don’t want to say goodbye, so I won’t. I know I’ve got a little trip planned, but before and after, I’m gonna try to figure out where you are, ‘cause I’m not done training.”

His response? “Good.”

Postscript: There is one thing I never thanked Ashley for: breaking up with me. She never issued an ultimatum to me, she never even intimated that it was “me or your art,” but I’d realized the logistics of our relationship, that I would have to move out of San Diego for us to be together long-term. I had plans to move, I had plans to keep myself training in another place, plans to generate income and time to fly back down to SD to keep training periodically with Sensei. But it would have minimized the constant interaction with my peers. As the bonds between my brothers and I were not completely forged at the time, they would have been strained under the pressure of distance. So, Ashley, thank you for breaking up with me; thank you for not forcing me into having to make that decision. Thank you for the gift of allowing me this time with my family.