Omote

The sun sets on Boca Ciega Bay, creating lazy, golden sparkles on the rippling water. A few gulls above the water ride the warm breeze, which smells like salt. The breeze blows through the mangroves and makes their sun-warmed leaves slither together. Out on the pier, an old man and his grandson are casually flipping their fishing lines out into the water. A brown Labrador crashes through the dry grass that covers the hills. A teenage girl chases after him with a look of exasperation on her face.

Warm crushed oyster shells crackle under my feet as I shift my weight. As I breathe, my mouth forms the counts, barely audible among the relaxing sounds of the coast. The fading sun feels good, warming my tee shirt and the muscles under it. I expand and contract, my own movement breaking like a wave. As I go through the familiar motion, my muscles start to relax. That sense of never-ending movement fills my abdomen. The day’s tension rises off me like a burnt fog under the sun.

I easily slide aside as the Labrador and his ward careen by me, both of them smiling at the good nature of their dispute.

I feel genki. Life is good.

Click, clomp. My teeth smack together as an outstretched hand crashes into my face. As my feet leave the ground, I can already taste the blood in my mouth, welling up from my cheeks. Everything feels wet. My keikogi is soggy with my own sweat, which clings to me even as it drags the garment down and distorts its shape. My hakama seems to hang off of me, as if the cords holding it on are just as exhausted as I am. My moistened hair clings to my brow.

The top part of my right knee cries out in protest as I get up, its familiar pain adding irritation’s heat to my already exhausted mind. This isn’t the rolling, steady, and orderly practice I’m used to. It’s violent and chaotic. It is the maelstrom of a sinking ship on a stormy sea. It feels loose and sloppy. My mind doesn’t even have the time to think about what people watching might think.

I can only think about one watcher, the one who stands above me with a slightly raised hand. His eyes are alight with the same uncertainty and excitement which doubtless fill my own eyes. His unshaven jowls work as he shifts his weight, readying his next assault. His heavy shoulders tighten up and swell unconsciously. I find myself looking at the symmetry of his close-cropped haircut.

The dojo stinks of sweat and mold. The gray walls match my mood. The mats, pulverized by countless feet, have attained the consistency of a rotten pumpkin, albeit not the texture. The whirring ceiling fans give the fluorescent light an odd strobe effect. The venerable plywood under the mats creaks as I gain my feet. For the briefest instant, I look in the mirror on the far wall and see the two of us, figures slumped from fatigue but somehow still energized and taut, like guitar strings wound almost to the point of breaking. I find myself wishing that I was somewhere else.

“Matte."

The word is deliverance for us both. The edge recedes. We bow and then we shamble into a hug. For a moment, this rough, large man and I just hold each other, still uncertain of all the things going on within us. Not an embrace as an empty form, but rather as an expression of mutual beingness.

I feel genki. Life is good.