At the monastery they paint houses all day. If you ask them why, they'll tell you that it's easier and more fun than seeking enlightenment. Have you ever heard such nonsense?
I signed up for the karate class because I wanted to learn to defend myself. As a single woman, living alone in a rough neighborhood, the notion of self-defense often crosses my mind. All the neighborhood people to whom I actually talk seem friendly enough, but the strangers on every corner all seem sinister and dangerous. They peer around from under stranger eyebrows, always plotting stranger plots. Sometimes I feel like I live in a world of giants. I need a sling and a stone. I need to learn to use them.
There's only one other woman in this class, a boisterous and brassy amazon who smiles all the time. She's here for the men, not for me. I intended to take a defense class for women only, but the only one I found costs more than twice what this one costs, too much for me. Besides, this one is closer to my place. I keep telling myself that it will be better for me to get used to fighting men, since that's who I imagine confronting in the real world. Still, I don't talk well with certain men, and, apparently, those men all study karate. It would be nice to have someone to talk to before and after class.
So far we've only learned a few moves. They remind me of ballet positions. When I was a girl I wanted to be a dancer, so my dad had signed me up for a ballet class at the local Rec Center. We never danced. We just learned and practiced positions all the time. I went several times, but it made me sore and we never, ever danced. We didn't even have music. So, I quit. And now, after only five classes, I was starting to get the same feeling here.
"Now we spar," says the little instructor. "Come sit here." We all move and sit to one side of the exercise mats on the floor. "Score point here and here and here," the little man says, pointing vaguely to certain places on his body. Then he picks two people from the group, a big, dumpy, Hispanic-looking guy with a military haircut who looks to be in his early forties and a young, wiry, red-headed kid. They walk to the mat and look at the instructor. "Go," he says, and they start circling each other.
I don't even say anything. I just get up, grab my bag and leave. How the hell are we supposed to spar? We haven't even learned anything yet? The thought of circling out on that mat with one of these strange men or even with the amazon scares the hell out of me. Maybe I will just save my money and take the other class.
As I walk home, feeling silly in my karate clothes, I am overcome with a familiar feeling that everyone knows something that I don't know. Why was I the only one to walk out of the class? The red-haired kid and the dumpy guy didn't seem to mind blundering out there onto the mat. Why me? What do they know that I don't know?
"Hey, kung fu!" says the big, scary, homeless guy that sits on the corner of my block. I look over at him. He is smiling a huge, friendly smile with his hands up in front of him and his palms turned outward like a submissive victim. "Don't hurt me!"
I smile back and make a little karate chop in his direction, not breaking my pace. As I walk up the steps to my place, I think about how little it takes to stop being strangers. A karate chop or a dumb joke is almost enough. Maybe I won't take any class. Maybe I'll just wear the karate clothes to work.
"You missed a spot on the gable," said the Master, paint speckles all over his hair. When they were finished, they stood back for a moment and admired the house. It was good. The tan was a lovely color. "Beautiful," said the Master. "Come. We'll eat. Tomorrow we strip it down and try the green."
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
P. S. - Aphter: 46. Thanks for stopping by.
