 |
| "Demura Sensei": ink brush drawing. |
Want music?
Click here for Regina Belle, If I could.
then click back on this blog tab or here to listen as you browse, or not?
As you read this Kangeiko 2020 is or has taken place.
Kangeiko is the annual, traditional cold-weather training.
 |
Finishing traditional training with seiza in the sand. 2000
|
Always the first Sunday of the new year, Huntington Beach, CA.
Always dark when we gather at 5:30 am, usually cold.
The sun coming up during training, and daylight by the
time we go home. Completing a brisk training, and still have the day ahead. I have a love-hate relationship with Kangeiko.
I love the tradition and training with Sensei together as a family.
And, I love that we do it only one time a year.
This annual event is a tradition, as is the beach's cold, cold sand,
It is palpable, and worth everything.
Sending love to all the participants, enjoy every second.
This annual event is a tradition, as is the beach's cold, cold sand,
so much so that when we end up in the water, it is a relief.
The format of running, warm-ups, kihon, kata, kumite and
even sumo activity help us focus on our techniques
in adverse conditions, partly forgetting the cold.
in adverse conditions, partly forgetting the cold.
However, this year I cannot attend this tradition I truly love, for
the first time. The past two years were hard but I had extra support from kind karate-ka, who were distracted from their own training.
My health requires that I have to make the responsible choice.
WW suggested I bundle up and watch, it would kill me to watch, There have been tears just knowing that I will miss.
I will miss the euphoria felt after completing Kangeiko. the first time. The past two years were hard but I had extra support from kind karate-ka, who were distracted from their own training.
My health requires that I have to make the responsible choice.
WW suggested I bundle up and watch, it would kill me to watch, There have been tears just knowing that I will miss.
It is palpable, and worth everything.
Sending love to all the participants, enjoy every second.
Every year I repost an exquisite essay on Kangeiko.
Written by former student, Rachel Maher in 2007, used as a part
of her college application. Now a grad school graduate
with a stellar career, as you might well have imagined.
of her college application. Now a grad school graduate
with a stellar career, as you might well have imagined.
* I hope you can take two minutes to enjoy,
and get the real feeling of Kangeiko.
and get the real feeling of Kangeiko.
My lungs are an old filter, painfully swelling with each swig of cold air; my heart is a malfunctioning clock, gradually increasing its steady pulse; my feet are blocks of ice, chipped away by a hammer with each pounding step.
I am too cold to shiver, and as I gaze out at the pale expanse disappearing in the darkness before me, the only thing that motivates me is the sound of my numerous pursuers. They start to overtake me, and I feel weak and tired. When I run into the circle, I shove my bare feet deeper into the sand and briefly contemplate why I ever chose to leave my warm bed. But I am soon called back to reality by the sound of Sensei's voice. He shouts his orders and my feet leave their insulating cocoons as I kick, sending abrasive granules flying like explosive sparks of fireworks against the black of early morning.
I
catch the eyes of my friends and fellow trainers and we exchange grins.
This is the day we have been anticipating with excitement, dread - and
just a touch of insanity. This is Kangeiko, cold-weather training, a new year custom in our traditional Karate. It is a time for friends to meet and collectively persevere in the face of a challenge, thus starting the year with good fortune. On the first Sunday of January, we layer sweaters over our uniforms and socks over our feet and head down to the beach at 5:30 in the morning. We stand together exchanging holiday stories and, gradually removing layers, we acclimate ourselves to the cold.
There are levels of cold on the dark beach in January. The air itself is chilly - the runny nose, aching ears kind of cold. Even so, it is bearable, cold only in relation to our mild days. The wind adds an edge to the chill, spraying algid Pacific mist against one's already reddening face, making it feel raw and numb. The sand hurts. Sand is a great insulator, so while in the warmth of summer its golden swells exude the sun's heat, it also expertly retains the cold of the night. Sand - at 5:30 in the middle of winter, feeling like a thousand needles jabbing the feet - is the most irritating, painful, sharp, biting, stinging, piercing, frigid material one's appendages could ever hope to encounter. After several years of exposing myself to this torture, I am convinced that our warm-ups are not so much to warm us up as they are to make our feet numb so that we can put the pain behind us and get to work.
This method must be effective, because what may be routine in the dojo suddenly takes on an element of the exotic, and we proceed with great zeal though perhaps with little grace through our basic techniques and our kata. We come to thoroughly enjoy ourselves, our happiness augmented by bewilderment at our own audacity to engage in such an activity. As dawn approaches, we participate in activities that stoke our competitiveness, while encouraging camaraderie. We have relay races and drills that take us down to the water's edge where we spar, actually grateful when we are taken down into the relative warmth of the cold and churning ocean.
To ensure that we understand the worth of this morning's activities, my chief instructor, wise as he is skilled, shares with us a message. With his thick Japanese accent, Sensei makes poignant observations about the significance of beach training in our lives: of the importance of connecting with new and old acquaintances, and
the necessity of having a focus during difficult times.
Wet and sandy, we then scramble into a line facing the sun, beaming with our blue
lips. Seisan is a very special part of the training, a short meditation at
the beginning and end of every session, first clearing our minds of all
distractions, then reflecting on how blessed
we are to be able to be active and disciplined. Seisan at the end of
Kangeiko is particularly tranquil and meaningful. Although each person
feels tired and uncomfortable kneeling on the sand, the freshness of the
sun lighting the misty shore, combined with the consciousness
of the physical and mental strength that was required for the previous event, makes it impossible to finish that morning without feeling proud
and connected with the surrounding people and environment.
What
comes next is the most physically strenuous part of my morning, though quite possibly the most valuable event in which I partake. As most of
our group migrates towards blankets, hot beverages, and a blazing fire pit, a small number of us trudges back towards the waves where we stand thigh-deep in water to do one kata for every person present. The water is no longer an inviting relief from the cold sand, and the resistance of the water hurts our legs and pushes us out of balance. Wave after wave, the tide threatens to knock us over, but we continue our training. Sharing this experience, we are able to laugh, shiver, joke, and smile. Despite being a strict ritual, this training is informal, not confined to the structure of our dojo. By participating, though, Kangeiko literally makes the entire world my dojo - a sacred place of learning, respect, manners, and discipline. Though I often isolate myself in Karate because I feel that I lack the skill necessary to be associated with my fellow trainers, there is no time of the year that I feel more connected to everything around me than on the day of Kangeiko, when I am engulfed by the ocean, surrounded by my friends, and focused on a collective passion. Gazing at some dolphins swimming in the crispness of the new morning, a particularly strong wave splashes me in the face. I stumble, continue with my moves, and realize that it is the waves that make the experience worthwhile. Rachel Maher, 2007
A smile for Sunday ...
