Well guys, here's my poetry. Aside from all the deep stuff I want to let y'all know that I had the best time of my life. Man, there were so many good fighters. So much inspiration. You guys are top!
Thanks to Dogzilla for feeding the pack!
I dedicate this little writing of mine to all who were there, whether they were fighters, bystanders, musicians, camera folks or directors.
Guro Crafty, thanks for taking me under your mighty wings!
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A Corral In My SoulIt has been a week now that I left the gates of the corral at Ganson's Place in Temecula. Those of us who have been there will remember forever when I mention this place.
Pictures flash in my mind, fleeting memories. Of sunny days in the park. Of dust. Of the settling sun. Of the fighters, gathered in the circle.
The sounds cling in my ear. Of buzzing sticks, powershots amissed. Dry cracks of sticks squaring off. The baritone unspectular of a good shot landing on bone or flesh. The yells, the moaning and grunting, the laughter. And the drums of life.
Even the smells are still there. Fresh grass, brown rich earth. Old weeds and rotten old horse. The plowed and trampled ancient red soil of the west.
And that feeling.
The first day in The Park was like a celebration. Like a get together to get to know each other. Let there be no doubt - the fighting was hard, we saw feats of highest warriorship. A reminiscence of days gone by since the tribe gathered here for the first time 20 years ago. A tribute for those who paved the way. Some of us shed blood for them. A day in its own, out in the open field, on the grass and in the sun.
Then the corral. Each of us took to the task of preparing the ritual ground. Plowing and digging, loosening the hard baked arid land. We all were there, we all did our share.
The fighting was the best I ever saw. The fighting the day before has put us in a state in which we were no longer inhibited by our fears and doubts. We went out there to fight as if there is nothing else for us to do.
That was when I realized, my path into the corral began much earlier. When? I do not know. Maybe when I met my teacher Lonely Dog eight years ago? Or when that book about the Tao Of The Jeet Kune Do by Bruce Lee fell into my hands 12 years before? Perhaps when my father taught me the basics of fencing when I was at the tender age of eight? Maybe even earlier than that?
It does not matter. Only there in the corral I realized that I have been preparing for this all my life. Here I was, there I stood. On that day. When everything came together and time space were justly aligned for me.
Every little act beared symbolism. My return to America after I spent so much important time there when I was a teenager. A consolidation with a part of me that always felt American and was drawn to return to this great country. Meeting with my teacher, friend and now brother Lonely Dog who was the first I ever fought with the stick and who showed me my weaknesses in the very early days by defeating me. But also drawing me into the Tao of the Dog Brother without ever being demanding. The time I spent with Marc and his wonderful family where I was able to replenish and prepare for the turbulent days ahead. The teachings Guro put into my mind and my heart. His way of leading by example.
Then arriving at Ganson's Place. Picking up the axe and hoeing the soil while the sun was setting on the horizon. It put me back into the days when the first pioneers - people who left torn Europe in hope to provide their children a brighter future far from home - arrived to earn their meager living by cultivating the lands of the west.
But also to those times when the Indians celebrated their warriorship in conjunction with mother earth. What a symbol to have two white horses to watch our efforts.
Over our heads soared two ravens. Those who are familiar with Norse mythology will know that mighty god Odin used two ravens to watch over the lands for him. I remembered my journey to Norway where I practiced swordsmanship on a holy island of the Vikings, an island where their kings and warriors were buried. This moment became also present for me, there, far away from the lands of my ancestors, far away in the west - at the shore of our civilization.
The fighters came from all so different walks of life. Each one was carried to this place by another path, another way, another Tao. Some came there just for the fight, some to put themselves on the test, some even just for fun. Whatever intention, whatever history behind each man - he found his place in the corral.
I realized that my path is a spiritual and philosophically one.
There came this one moment in time. I fought on Friday. I fought on Saturday. Those two days were the highlight of my entire martial art. Then on Sunday I decided it would not be time to fight but take a step back to watch from a distance. And what I saw was sheer beauty - and art - violence - and courage - dedication - and passion - and love - compassion - but also pain, taken - stamina - and spirit - fortitude - brotherhood - and faith.
So later that evening I found myself alone looking out into the distant horizon, seeing all this. Everything I was fell apart - and was put together anew. Past, present and future merged and became one. The corral was burned into my soul. I became the Red Dog.
What is it like to live on the day after? What is it like to move from here on? I do not know.
One thing is for sure. The adventure continues. It will. There will be other adventures. New ones, maybe different ones, plenty of them. Whatever happens, whatever awaits us in those tides of the world, we can be sure of one thing. There is a place of power within us now. A place we can access. If we allow ourselves. We can carry it out of the ritual into the real world.
Reality - when the duties of everday life catch up with us - can be a dull place without magic, without myth, without love, without glory.
But I do not worry anymore. There is a family in my heart. And a corral in my soul. I will spark a light where there is darkness.
