and the art of flamingos.
A young latino teenager, two white guys, and a very small woman walk into a dojo.
This is not the beginning line to a joke, but to a story about flamingos. I promise there’s no pithy lesson on wax-on, wax-off.
We’re about to undergo a physical, emotional, and psychological test. We’re attempting to earn our next belt, or rank, in karate, thus allowing us to move on to new techniques and new skills.
We put on our old belts and wait for the test to begin. I am not nervous. I am ready to get the test over with. We’re told to line up. I briefly catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and wink at myself.
The test begins.
Five minutes pass and the dojo is hot and sweaty. My heart is thumping, my lungs pumping at the rate of fists flying through the air. The scene is easy to imagine. Four grown human beings in Karate robes, directing their limbs at the behest of a tall, militant man who owns the rank of a black belt master.
At this time, we’ve been commanded to stand on one leg, like preeminent flamingos in black feathers. Or like trees, albeit weak ones, swaying in the wind. Sweat rolls down my brow and beads up everywhere, my body begging for mercy.
American Karate is regarded as comedic and childish, even in serious movies and shows. Nothing makes one giggle like watching grown men scream like they’re pretending to be in an anime show or make noises like jungle cats. But the particular karate organization I’m part of practices the closest thing to “real” kung-fu this side of the Pacific.
The evidence? My sweaty ass cheeks. My sore muscles and raspy voice, caused by throwing punches, kicks, and more in increasingly difficult combinations all while screaming our kiei, also known as a spirit roar.
Need more proof?
The master philosophizes every five minutes. And does so for long periods time while we stand on one leg, hip flexors aching, begging for a break. Our pain brings him joy. It inspires him to explain life to us in metaphors that range from “sure, I see that,” to, “man, how much Joe Rogan do you listen to?”
He tells us to switch legs and begins another lesson, “The significance of standing on one leg, like flamingos, is not a question of pain. I know you’re in pain, now. Keep those legs up! Don’t quit! This is a question of foundation. When you were white belts, when you just started learning karate, you practiced standing on one leg often.”
I think to myself, “I definitely didn’t as a white belt, but okay.”
He goes on, “You wanted to be so good at your side kicks and front kicks that you would stand on one leg until you couldn’t take it anymore. The reason you’re tired now is that you have forgotten where you came from, is that you have forgotten to train in the basics. Those things are your foundation.”
And he gets louder now, “How can you live your life without a foundation! How can you operate having forgotten the ground beneath your feet! Here you are sweating and groaning and sweating some more, when all you have to do is spend a few minutes every day standing on one leg!”
He makes us consider our foundations then, by ordering us to kick and kick and kick. A thousand kicks, maybe, again and again until our legs shake like we’re obese flamingos. We kick until we’re pink with exhaustion. I’m afraid that one of us will fail to kick the next time he orders us to, and if this happens, he will make us stand on one leg all day long.
Why am I doing this? I wonder. Why am I putting myself through pain? So I can get another belt? So I can learn new techniques on how to break arms or smash someone’s face in, techniques I will probably never use in real life?
“The purpose of life,” he says, “is growth. It’s to become your ultimate self.”
“Definitely too much Joe Rogan,” I think.
Karate is interesting in this way: you pay exorbitant fees for someone to boss you around, you train hard for years, learning techniques and material for self-defense that you might never need. The progression through the ranks is life simplified, where you can see where you’ve been and where you need to go. And this is probably what seems most childish about karate, what drives people away, besides seeing grown men bellowing like water buffalo.
There are no ranks in life. There is no predictability. Nothing is guaranteed, even if you think destiny or God is on your side.
Eventually, thankfully, we move on from standing like fabulous birds and progress through increasingly arduous tasks. We practice techniques. We do time trials. And then we spar.
But I am perpetually distracted. I have moved on from thinking about my karate foundation, to my life foundation, to what the purpose of life is. Is it really just to grow until…I can call myself an ubermensch, until I’m my own superman?
This thinking does not help during the sparring, where I gas myself out trying to strike and take down my opponent.
Our instructor orders us to stop, ending the test.
We kneel and close our eyes, catching our breath.
When we open them, we find that we have passed.
I take my new belt, the symbol of my next rank, and bring its fabric to my brow, baptizing myself with this new rank.
This practice is something I picked up when I was a white belt. I don’t remember who taught it to me. In that moment, I remember every belt I’ve ever earned, all of those I’ve stained with my sweat.
I’m reminded of a tree and its rings, each year of growth superseding and involving its previous years. What is the purpose of this growth? Does the tree ever reach its ultimate self? Do trees want for anything but to be trees?
What do I want? I wonder.
We are told to re-tie our belts, to solidify the accomplishment. I loop it around my waist, form the knot, and snap it tight.
A latino teenager, two white guys, and a very small woman exit the dojo. We are sore, We are tired. We have crossed a threshold into the next phase of our training. We are more than we were before the test. We are still the white belt, the yellow belt, the orange, the purple, the blue, and the green.
And this is what we have been reminded of:
We are not our goals.
We are not a means to our ends.
We are the means and the ends.
We are the sum of who we were, who we are, and that will produce who we will be. I don’t know what I want or who I want to be. But neither does the tree. Nor a certain flamboyant pink bird.
And this is the significance of flamingos.