butterfly
its march in okinawa. it has been five months since birds calling. easy to imagine my good mood as i enter a small park in naha. its tuesday afternoon and i seem to be alone. only a black butterfly shares the path with me. i follow him for a moment as grey americans chase clouds up above, mimicking rolling thunder. their wings folding too fast to see, only the ears can tell their path. an island in the pacific, green, subtropical. blue turquoise water to east, south, west and north. in stark contrast with all of this: an active base of the us airforce.
a man comes past me, a long pole with a net on the end. i ask him what kind of butterfly this black one was i saw — the fine gauge net gave him away as an insect enthusiast who probably knows. and he gives a latin name after correcting me: it is a moth, not a butterfly. daylight moth!
i thank him and continue my stroll. a daylight moth? it’s probably just training for a devastating bomb run during the night hours. meticulously observing target locations, practicing immelmann turns, yo-yo maneuvers and barrel rolls. and then, revealing its true form “night moth”, going on the hunt.
my train of thought comes to an abrupt halt. the eyes have just pulled the emergency brake. i have come to an open, grass covered space. on one end of the field the reason for halting. a man standing shirtless, nunchucks swinging. what a tuesday afternoon. manly as can be, at the local park. my thoughts have found new tracks it seems. this guy sure would make for an amazing subject in a photograph. i stop in hesitation. finally, i turn and head into the green dojo. coming up to the guy i ask
what are you training?
nunchucks! bruce lee, you know?
oh, yes, i know.
here, have a look. he says, handing me the weapon and explaining.
women nunchucks, a little bit shorter. this — pointing to where the two sticks are connected by string — makes it more powerful. you do any sports? karate?
hm, no, i just walk a lot.
ah walking is good. you have a good body i can see. try karate!
perhaps! i only tried kickboxing in school, but it did not stay.
kicking at the air he is making this hissing sound, you know if you ever have watched people boxing. hs hs hss
you interested in karate? have you been to the museum?
no i have not been. i heard okinawa is famous for karate though.
you want to go?
sure why not.
ok lets go.
after he put away his nunchucks and put a shirt on, we head for his car.
climbing the stairs to the parking lot i ask about his profession. at first i dont quite understand the answer.
he tries sign language, the arms relaxed he is cupping one hand in the other, holding them below his belly. then, drawing my attention to his bald head, he points and pets his shaven scalp. i finally get it.
monk!
yes yes!
zen monk?
zen monk!
he goes on asking me if i know about zen buddhism. well kind of yes, i am just now reading a book on it. that being said, i am well stuck in the details and sanskrit of the indian/chinese genesis — my answer might as well be no. as if he knows, he tries to explain. and this really is where i pitied the language barrier a lot. (although maybe this could actually help to feel zen, not to say grasp it)
emptiness! everything, emptiness. he repeats as we take the last set of stairs.
this! he says, holding up a dry leaf.
on the tree, living, then falls down, earth. emptiness. everything. this flower there, emptiness. you, emptiness. me, emptiness.
he concludes his explanation with a laugh and opens the trunk of the car. after a quick parking lot performance with the “bo” — a wooden stick used for some karate forms — we start the drive. the next trick is not waiting and he picks up a small silver pocket radio from the dash.
pocket radio, public workout, car and girls nunchucks. what a modern monk.
traditional shamisen (imagine a three stringed banjo with the drum’s felt being made of snake skin) is droning from the small loudspeaker.
he sings along and asks me about my doings.
art student? so you like the beautiful things.
yes, sure. but i like the ugly things just the same. i like a picture of a pretty flower, but i also appreciate a picture of some piece of trash.
he is steering with his right and holding his shaking belly with his left as he laughs. this makes me remember what i appreciate most about art. i tell him, beautiful is good, ugly also is good but the best is fun and laughing.
he turns to me and exclaims: you buddha!
now i am the one laughing.
when i zazen (meditate), laughing is the highest goal, i try.
we arrive at what looks to be the karate museum. inside we are promptly pointed to the next stage building, this here is the training and competition hall, the dojo. the monk is not very irritated by the explanation of the guard and we continue to have a look around. the central hall is massive, with cedar planks everywhere. floor, walls, benches — golden brown wood. in the far corner of the hall four women in white robes are standing talking. they look tiny in the massive scale of the architecture.
the monk talks to them for a while and asks them to demonstrate something with their bo. its a little uncomfortable for me as i can feel they are not keen on showing off and were just finished with training. the monk does not share this feeling and finally one of the karateka agrees to show something. the repeated begging of the monk, explaining how we met and that i am interested in karate bears fruit. he kneels down sitting on his heels facing the demonstrator. i try the same but immediately realize i wont be able to hold this position for long. he sees and tells me to go into a cross legged seat which lets me focus on the wooden stick. blown, thrusted, strung across, whirled around in precision and absolute control. fast and fluid to abrupt stops, the strength coming from the literal blow. the air leaving from her mouth — the shouting that goes with the explosive motion. something utterly powerful in a society where no one — except kids — screams or shouts and quiet and calmness is valued so highly.
she finishes, standing straight in front of us. her eyes looking above our heads, through the wall of the building and somewhere into the horizon. the bo, having struck attackers on all sides, now resting beside her. i can see the sweat running down her temples.
impressive.
we give a two person applause, bow and thank her for showing us. the mood has lightened in the big hall and we lightly converse with the women. the sweaty face tells me how her daughter is an illustrator and lets me hold the bo for a moment before me and the monk leave for the museum, thanking and bowing again.
the museum really was nothing to write home about. if you want to go some day, my suggestion would be: meet a monk first.
lets see what happens next ~kunde