Category: Health & Well Being

The Diabetic Daddy…

Parenthood is a challenging part of life. I’ve yet to meet a parent who can say with any firm honesty that raising children is smooth sailing with no inherent concerns. Even if you have a child who happens to be well-behaved and eats everything placed in front of them, there are still challenges that can lend some difficulties to the overall daily operation of one’s household. I happen to have two boys, 11 and 6 years old, respectively. And while I absolutely love them to the moon and back and would protect them with my very essence, they certainly do their fair share of seeing how easily they can crack my zen-like veneer. But setting that aside, and recognizing that there is no manual on how to properly raise one’s children, one of the unique obstacles I’ve faced for more than the past stable, is how to address and deal with Type-1 Diabetes with my sons.

All children, even the best-behaved ones, will eventually get into some shenanigans, take things they didn’t ask for, cause unintentional damage to things within the home (at least one HOPES it’s unintentional) and cause issues in areas that a first time parent may not think of. For myself, my issues came in when I started on my very first insulin pump. When this happened, my firstborn son was barely past a year old. While pump training and adapting to its use came easily enough for me, infants have a tendency of grabbing at everything that’s within reach. This is normal for them, and part of their sensory development and growth. However, it can be chaotic as it relates to grabbing pump tubing and playing tug of war with the infusion set injected into one’s stomach. It took me a significantly amount of time to strategically place myself so that my pump, the tubing and other components were safely out of my baby’s reach. Obviously, he can’t be faulted for his reflexive instincts, but it certainly makes things difficult.

I remember the one time, when Nathan was about two years old and we were rolling around on the floor and wrestling. He was giggling and we were having just a grand ol’ time. That is, until his little hands wrapped tightly around my pump tubing and I happened to be moving away from him right when he closed his fist. The infusion set tore free of my abdomen, leaving me to expel a sound from my mouth that I’m almost certain neighborhood dogs were able to hear. He immediately released his grip and started crying, Hanna been startled by my reaction. I writhed on the floor momentarily, uncertain which hurt more; the adhesive ripping away at my tummy hair or the infusion tube being ripped from my abdomen and the resulting blood that poured out for minutes afterwards. It was a definite lesson for me, in the management of my equipment around small children. IN the couple of years that followed, I educated my son on the purpose of the device on my abdomen, how it helped to keep me alive and healthy, and the importance of never touching it or fooling around with it.

I ended up going through all the same issues with my second son, who was born a few years later. I guess at least that my children’s are consistent. But one significant problem is keeping any fast-actions carbohydrates anywhere in the house. For the most part and for me specifically, the best thing is either jellybeans or Skittles. Sometimes some gummy candies will work as well, but jelly beans or Skittles seem to act almost immediately, where I can wolf down a dozen jellybeans and be back in the game within fifteen minutes. Same thing with Skittles. Pedant juice and some of the more traditional “give it to a Diabetic if they’re low” options have never worked for me quite as efficiently. And some of the carbohydrate capsules and gels you can buy at most pharmacies carry an increased cost that just isn’t worth it, when I can get a huge bag of jellybeans for about $10 and it lasts for weeks, instead of one or two episodes. But I digress…

The issue is that if small children see their parents wolfing down candy, they begin to ask why they can’t wolf down candy, as well. This is also a normal reaction and instinct, since most small children will moving the behavior of the parent. And the consumption of candy is obviously no exception. It can be hard for a child, who may not have eaten their meal yet, to ask why daddy gets to eat jellybeans but he can’t. It’s a valid question but trying to explain that I’m eating candy so I won’t die only serves to have the kid also believe they need candy to stay alive. And this can lead to some unexpected consequences. The best example is something that happened about six years ago, which changed my approach to storing, keeping and ensuring my candy is available to me for when I really need it.

I’m a particular night, when my first son was about four or five years old, he was wandering the house, playing quietly and doing his own thing. His mother and I were watching television and had essentially tuned out, since he was entertaining himself, allegedly in his room. After a while, we realized we could no longer hear him playing. Ever see those jokes online about how silence is the worst thing to hear when you have small children? That’s no joke. We wandered the hallways of our home looking for him but couldn’t locate him anywhere. We were calling out and receiving no response, which is obviously triggering to any parent. The doors or the house were still locked, so he hadn’t gone outside. I finally found him hunkered underneath my bed on his stomach, just absolutely going to town, wolfing down as many jellybeans as he could fit in his mouth.

He had gotten through quite a bit of the tub, too, which as a side note was impressive. I experienced the same thing with the youngest when he was about the same age, which was only about a year or two ago. I usually replenish my fast-acting carbs a couple of times a month. I’m this occasion, it was close to Halloween and sometimes those Halloween-sized packets are just perfect. So, I bought myself a box of 100 treats. I left it down by the desk of my home office, having long ago abandoned keeping them by the bed. In most circumstances and if I wake up during the night with a low, I would prefer to go down to my home office to consumer, rather than unnecessarily waking my wife. But I came home from work the one day, coming in at action 3.4 mmol/L and looking forward to scarfing down some candy to raise it up. I discovered the box nearly empty, which compromised my ability to get my blood sugar up quickly.

Once I had treated the low, I started investigating and found dozens of wrappers hidden among our storage totes in the basement. I won’t get into the details but it was determined and clear that the youngest had helped himself and pilfered most of my supply. Once again, I had to have an in-depth conversation about not touching daddy’s candy as it was needed to help keep him alive. Only this time, it was with the youngest. Now, I’ve obtained a small tool box, of all things, that allows me to place a lock on it. As sad as it sounds, I had to start locking my candy over recent years to ensure it isn’t snuck away by little hands. I can’t imagine what would be the result, if my fast-acting carbs were suddenly just not available. I’d probably make it through by eating straight granulated sugar, but it wouldn’t be ideal.

Another distinct complication is Diabetic fatigue. Whether from fluctuating blood sugars, fighting a high and trying to bring it down or a host of other reasons directly tied to Type-1, the reality is that in most cases, one’s energy level simply isn’t there. And that sucks! There’s nothing worse than having a smiling little face ask you to play and you have to tell him that you can’t because you’re “too tired.” To little ears, understanding simply isn’t there and disappointment sets in quickly. In most cases, a kid eventually stops asking because they assume you’ll say no. Then actually trying to do something with them becomes all the more difficult because THEY will start saying no. It’s a painful cycle. Luckily, I have my meds, supplements and workout routine somewhat down pat, which allows me to enjoy a level of energy I haven’t had for the past few years. But my oldest is at the age where all he wants to do is hide out in his room. Luckily, the youngest is still engaged and shows promise as he wants to learn karate.

The last concern for a Diabetic daddy, is a possible genetic component. Because Type-1 Diabetes is effectively an immune disorder targeting your body insulin-carrying beta cells, there’s a genetic component involved. One of my biggest fears is that my sons, or their children after them, would have to live through all the difficulties and obstacles that I’ve experienced in my life. Considering I’ve been comas, had stomach ulcers and a variety of visual complications as a result or Type-1 Diabetes, I can’t think of a single parent who wouldn’t be concerned about this altering passed on to their children. Luckily, both my sons have been tested and have come out clear and clean. Granted, even if it hasn’t taken hold yet, the possibility of becoming Diabetic can still exist, up until the early teen years. My oldest is essentially in the clear, but I’m still watching my youngest pretty closely for some telltale signs that he may be developing recognizable symptoms.

So, that’s it, folks! The only thing more challenging than being a modern-day parent, is being a modern-day parent trying to navigate Type-1 Diabetes with young children. There are plenty of other challenges that come as a result of my condition. But these are just the most prominent that I can think of, based on the past decade. It hasn’t always been easy but I’ve muddled through. Regardless on how great a challenge parenting can be, I saw something online a while back that got me thinking. Basically, it read that when the writer was a kid, he’d look at his father and assume he knew everything and could do everything. Now that he’s reached his father’s age, he realizes that his dad knew nothing, and was making a lot of it up as he went along. That’s kind o delay I’m learning now. While my sons come to me with questions, problems and curiosities of life, thinking that I have all the answers, there is no manual. No playbook. All we can do is our best and help them become the best people they can be. And not become Diabetic. That’s a pretty important goal. Food for thought…☯️

What The F$%k Am I Doing? The Odyssey‘s Aftermath…

It’s a dark, warm morning. The alarm blares loudly at 3 am, shaking me out of a fitful sleep and summons me to begin the routine I require before making my way to the airport to start the first leg of the my trip home. I shower, shave and pack my meager backpack as best I can, seeing that there are a few few snack and drink items I had purchased at my arrival on Sunday that I won’t be able to bring onto the aircraft. Always loathe to waste food to money, I hesitate as I leave the items behind, cognizant that they wouldn’t‘ make it past the security check in. My last energy drink, which I cracked open as soon as the alarm went off, will be fully consumed before I check in. I step out into the morning’s latent heat, which surprises me a little, since the sun’s not up. But it’s already 18 degrees Celsius and the local forecast promises a hot day with minimal clouds. There should be no inherent issues with my initial flight out of New Brunswick. Let the shit show begin…

Second to last name from the bottom, but it’s always nice to be recognized.

My travels of the previous day went by relatively easily. I travelled down to Bathurst to visit Sensei’s son Guillaume using the old highway, which takes a little over an hour to drive through, versus the highway which would have only taken forty minutes. But when visiting a Maritime province, part of the journey is enjoying as much of the ocean as one can. Hence, I drove along the coastal line. The houses, rolling grass hills and open ocean were sights to behold. I sang pleasantly along with the music in my car, content on the moment and trying not to dwell on the long day I would endure tomorrow. As I reached Bathurst, I wandered out to a small place called Middle River, which is where Guillaume resides. We enjoyed some good conversation, a few laughs and memories, and even discussed our recent 30-year high school reunion, which neither of us attended. Given that we chatted for almost two hours and it was already 3 o’clock in the afternoon, I got back on the road, fervently aware that I still had a couple of hours of tetanus time ahead of me.

I hammered down the highway in an attempt to make the best time to Moncton that I could. Sure, I wasn’t going anywhere once I got there and would mainly be hitting up the hotel and crashing. But I was very aware of the 40-minute detour I would encounter in Miramichi as a result of the Centennial bridge closure, which would require me to cut westward then come across a causeway bridge. This was the only other access through the area, so ALL traffic was diverted to this location. It was an absolute nightmare. I based the forty minutes delay on my arrival on Sunday, forgetting the detail that it was 9 pm when I drove through. This time, it was about 4:30 in the afternoon on a weekday, and many people were already commuting home from work. My the time I cleared the bridge and got back on the main highway, I had lost over an hour. Tired and frustrated, I stopped at gas station along the main drag and managed to find two slices of meat pizza and a bottle of soda for only $6. Unaware of when I had ever seen such a cheap meal option, I pounced. I got back on the road and ate my pizza in silence.

Moncton Airport

I got to Moncton relatively without incident and decided to get a leg up on the evening by filling the tinsel car’s gas tank now, as opposed to trying to find an open gas station at 3 in the morning. Besides an initial misunderstanding at the first gas station over requiring that I pay before I pump, which I totally understand having been a police officer, I got the tank filled and made my way to the hotel. Of, right! I should mention that the misunderstanding resulted in the police being called on me. But i cleared that up pretty damned quick. That’s a story for another post, since this one will be long enough without those details. I got into the room and laid out the clothing I would wear and organized the toiletries, which would also be left behind once I showered. At about 8:30 yesterday evening, I laid my head down for the last sleep in New Brunswick for the trip. Given the importance of being able to wake up alert and ready to move with the alarm, I opted out of my evening supplement, which usually encourages sleep, as well as the daily CBD gummy I usually take to help sleep through the vast kaleidoscope of PTSD nightmares I usually get.

Because I skipped all things that help with sleep, I only fell asleep around 10:45, which was much later than I ad planned. As a result, I barely got four hours of sleep when the alarm shook me back to consciousness. In recent years, I’ve always made a point of starting my morning off slowly, calmly, and at a relaxed pace. This has been an integral step towards maintaining my physical and mental wellbeing, and has served me well. Given the importance of not being late, this morning was different. I bolted out of bed, cracked a can of energy drink, slugged a few deep drinks and jumped into a hot shower. The warmth of the water beckoned me to return to the bed, curl back up and fly another day. But i had already been away from my family for too long and couldn’t miss this flight. Plus, given the way airlines tend to behave in recent years, I couldn’t risk losing the money on this ticket and being unable to reschedule. So, here I am.

Boarding passes? Check! In to security to get felt up…
The quiet calm of a small “International” airport

there were only a few people waiting to check in and the security line was quite short. So, I got into the secure area where my gate was located quite quickly. Looking at all the time slots for everything, I was suddenly quite glad I came in as early as I did. Despite the fact my flight only departs at 6:05 on my itinerary, my boarding pass showed a boarding time of 4:50, with departure time at 5:30. If I had slept another hour, I might have encountered long lines that may have created more stress than my fractured, sleep-deprived mind could handle. I settled in to wait for boarding with a hot Tim Horton’s coffee. Although it never really seems to happen much these days, I was praying for a reasonably empty flight. This usually makes boarding quicker, departure sooner and better odds of making my connection in Toronto.

I’d like to say I have some interesting stories but if I’m being honest, it almost felt as though the airlines and airports were making up for all the delays and issues I’ve faced in the past several days. For Canada was definitely on top of its game, with boarding and processes running smoothly and on time, with no delays, flight rescheduling or otherwise. We even landed in Regina at 8:45 this morning instead of 9:05 like my itinerary indicated. My family was waiting in the arrivals lobby to greet me as I came down the runway. It was its to get home, be among familiar streets, enter my home and have some of my own food. I was up at 3 am New Brunswick time to make my flights. Conceptually, that’s midnight in Saskatchewan and I landed just before 9 am. So I was up at midnight and have been up ever since. Around 1 o’clock, I blacked out hard and slept for about an hour and a half. The depth of that nap was as such that I haven’t felt in a long time.

All in all, it wasn’t a pleasant trip. Hey, I did say “all in all.” I had some pleasant times, visiting with friends, enjoying the Maritime ambiance, etc. But the big lesson I learned this time around is that Northern New Brunswick isn’t home anymore. While it was good to see my parents, that connection is broken. I have Minimal reasons to ever go back, unless it’s to bury my parents. Eventually, and if you’ve left to live elsewhere, you really can’t go home. Although I can safely say that every visit carries an augury of emotion, this one was harder than most. And I can’t argue the fact that I feel I’m getting too old for the long distance travel, the delays, the rushing, the cost… everything. As beautiful as Northern New Brunswick may be in the summer, my original home town really is the place where time stands still. And I’ve gotten too spoiled with living in a city where I have immediate access to everything that’s needed. And maybe that’s on me. But there may underlying reasons why everyone usually leaves the area. And perhaps that’s on them. But I digress… I’ve made it out and made it back safely, got to see my parents, enjoyed time with dear friends and accomplished my goals. Perhaps that’s all I need to focus on. Food for thought…☯️

What The F$%k Am I Doing? The Odyssey, Day 5…

Well, here we are, folks! Departure day! The trip is far from over but today is the day that I check out of the hotel and start making my way south to return to Moncton, where I will catch my return flight to Saskatchewan tomorrow morning. I COULD have spent an additional day in Campbellton and visited my folks again. The issue is that my return flight departs at about 6 am tomorrow morning, which means I would have to start driving from Campbellton around 1 o’clock in the morning in order to make boarding. In all honesty, I’m getting too old for that shit. On my last trip here, I travelled to Moncton a day early and spent a night there, allowing me to drive 30 seconds up the road to the airport. It made for a much more restful departure and I didn’t risk smacking every moose in the Province by traveling in the dark. But I digress… I’m going to do the tourist thing in this post, considering it was my last day wandering around, yesterday.

A quiet heron perched twenty feet from the shoreline

My day yesterday once again started with breakfast with a friend, followed by a slow, relaxing drive down the coastline to Dalhousie. It’s one of those things where you don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone. After all, I spent almost thirty years in this area and drove that road more times than I could possibly count. But during in youth, I never appreciate the immense beauty of the open bay, rolling Appalachian Mountains or the wonderful views scattered all about the area. It isn’t until now, as an adult, that I’m able to look at all these sights and ask myself how/why I ever left this place. I was quickly reminded, mind you. But the thought was still there. You see, living in a bigger city has spoiled me, after all fashion. If it’s 10 o’clock at night and I decide I need a pizza, I have tons of options. If someone in our household is sick and needs something, i know of at least three 24-hour pharmacies in my city. There are no such availabilities in my home town where time has literally stood still, and the sidewalks almost literally roll up around dinner time.

The “Bon Ami” rocks

Once I reached Dalhousie, I got right down to business; visiting my folks. It’s been a difficult run this time around. My mother has become so tiny and diminutive, she’s almost the size of my 11-year son. She was semi-awake, but not responding to me in any meaningful way. She frowned and stared at me, almost as though she was wading through a very deep pool of memories, trying to determine who I was. Having learned my lesson on my last visit, I didn’t press her or try to explain that I was her son. I learned fairly quickly that it won’t help. I sat with her for a time, said my goodbyes and stepped out of her room. She didn’t even move enough to see me off or acknowledge my departure. I usually describe on these trips how strange it feels to come “home” with no home to come back to. After all, in the past, I would always go to my mother’s home. Always the steady rock of the family, she was always the one that arranged meals, gave me a place to sleep and took care of me when I visited. Now, I’m 100% a tourist in the very town I grew up in.

But this time, what I’ve realized that it’s far harder to recognize that the woman who was an absolute anvil, loud and full of life, who lifted me up and cradled me as a child, was now a tiny person the size of one of my own children and the person I knew is already forever gone. It’s a sobering thought that slaps one in the face with a dose of reality that life is short and fleeting. Things with my father weren’t much better. He’s now permanently on oxygen and doesn’t budge from his bed. He barely spoke to me, despite being awake. According to the staff, he’s also beginning to show signs of dementia, but I was able to converse a little with him. It felt like he was more focused on his television than on me. At one point, I even asked him if he wanted me to go so he could watch his show. All he did was grunt. I stepped out shortly after. The icing on the cake is the care home staff, who sit in their little alcove that covers all the entrances that one could use, who always seem to need to ask, “Leaving so soon?” Fuck off, dude. I don’t need your snide comments. Moving on.

The famous Dalhousie light house. No longer functioning (and no longer needed)

I moved through my afternoon by walking around the Inch Arran beach area, snapping the photos you’re seeing in this post and reminiscing about all the good times I’ve had when I lived here. The passage of time doesn’t change. The sea and the mountains don’t change. At least not on a scale that one perceives within their lifetime. But the one consistent change is the lack of familiar faces. No more locals that I knew or could connect with. I had the opportunity to visit with some dear friends but ironically, all of them except for my Sensei reside outside the immediate area. The biggest and headgear lesson of all is gaining the realization that despite I kept labeling this trip as “coming home,” this I any longer my home. And no longer a place that holds any purpose in coming back to. Obviously, my folks are still here and there will continue to be intermittent visits until they’ve passed on. But the charm and value of this place no longer exists for me. I miss my actual home. And my family. It will be good to get back.

Baie Des Chaleurs (Chaleur Bay). The mountains you see is the Province of Quebec.

My evening concluded with a visit to my aunt and uncle, who made a wonderful spaghetti for supper. We shared great conversation and stories, my uncle showed me their new SUV and I even had the opportunity to go on a short drive on his side-by-side. I’ve never been on one before and it was quite fun. We wandered the woods, only for about fifteen minutes but he showed me all the functions of the machine and how fast it could go. I enjoyed it. Once the sun went down and it started getting dark, I respectfully bowed out and prepped to leave, especially since both of them were yawning intently and I knew they would both be up at dawn to go to work. Once back at my hotel room, I crashed unceremoniously and enjoyed the only day this week where I managed to sleep in past 7 am. Of course, I’ll have adjusted to this time zone just in time to fly back to Saskatchewan, which is 3 hours behind the time here. That should be entertaining.

I’ve often heard the expression “You can’t go home again.” I’ve never really understood that expression before because I’ve always believed that of course you can! It’s costly and takes time and effort, but one can totally go home. The real problem is that eventually, home isn’t home anymore. THAT’s the reality that people usually fail to understand. But I’ve learned that lesson this time around. When I leave New Brunswick tomorrow morning to head back to Saskatchewan, it will likely be for the last time except for coming back to bury my mother and father. A sad reality of life that can often be hard to swallow. But such is life. It will be good to be back with my family, and even go back to work. Hopefully, the place held up in my absence. I’m on my way now, stopping in to visit Sensei’s son and my “brother,” Guillaume, on the way. It will be good to see him. Tomorrow’s post will be the last Odyssey entry for this trip, but I’m sure I’ll have plenty to bitch about regarding the flights, travel in general and all the people I’ll have to deal with. Que sera… ☯️

What The F$%k Am I Doing? The Odyssey, Day 2…

Alright, I finally made it to the North Shore of New Brunswick. It was a hell of a day, and I’m going to start by telling you all about it. First and foremost, my departure flight from Regina was delayed. Go figure. The flight was reasonable. I watched a movie on my iPad and the folks sitting next me to slept the whole way through. Perfect. Once I landed in Toronto, and reactivated my phone, I got hit with a plethora of texts and emails from Air Canada. “Your flight has being delayed to 14:20.” Then, “You’re flight has been delayed to 14:50.” FML. Every little bate later I am on the tail end of the trip delays my ability to drive the three and a half hour drive from Moncton to Campbellton where I would staying during my stay. It was almost 4 o’clock by the time I finally boarded the last flight of the trip, uncertain if my car rental would still be waiting for me when I arrived in New Brunswick and contemplating my alternatives while I flew.

When I finally arrived in Moncton, I was like most of the people who walked off the plane; I was tired, exhausted, and not quite sweaty but yet, somehow still sweaty. The kind of condition that only comes from being someone with PTSD cramped in a confined space while surrounded by hundreds of people. All I wanted to do was get my rental vehicle and get the last leg of the trip out of the way. No such luck. My vehicle was delayed. First, it was only supposed to be “10 to 15 minutes.” Says them. I used the washroom. I took a walk. I spoke to some of the locals. Can’t back to the counter and was told, “We’re still waiting on some of the vehicles to be ‘brought up.’” Oooookay… I wasn’t certain what the fuck that means, but I’m not a big fan of waiting, especially after Enoch on the go since 3 am and it was already after 7 pm, meaning I wouldn’t reach my hotel room until after 11 pm. An old man like me usually tries to hit the sack by no later than 9 pm. Not tonight, dear reader. Not tonight.

Mao of the bridge through the Miramichi River

I thought that once I had my rental vehicle, I could put all the delays behind me and just get to Campbellton. No such fuckin’ luck. I had planned on stopping in Miramichi for dollar store supplies and snacks for the hotel room. Turns out, the Centennial Bridge that crosses the Miramichi River was closed for construction. Maybe it was the delirium setting in from traveling all day, but I started to feel as though fate was conspiring against me to prevent me from reaching my destination. To add insult to injury, the detour required an additional 40 minutes of driving to get around to the next bridge. Traffic didn’t help. I shouldn’t need to tell any of you how messed up it can be, when you redirect hundreds of cars to a singular detour point. And we all know just how much I love waiting on others. Once I crossed the detour bridge and made my way back into town (or I guess they call it a “city,” now that they’ve amalgamated), I stopped at a local pharmacy chain for some travel supplies. I don’t like being civilly liable, so I won’t say which chain it was. But y’all are smart enough to figure it out.

I grabbed the basics. Soap, shampoo, antiperspirant, toothbrush and toothpaste. I grabbed some Skittles in case my blood sugars dropped and a large bag of Ruffles chips to chew me through any snacking cravings I get during in stay. What would have normally cost me about twenty dollars getting all of this stuff at a dollar store or Walmart, it cost me almost sixty dollars at this pahrmacy. Despite it being the same stuff, same size, just a different location. Great. Next, I needed food. The last I had eaten was a small tray of sushi rolls almost nine hours previous. I tried stopping at a Tim Hortons for a grilled cheese melt. I’ve been dying for one of those since they came back on the menu. But such chance. Doors were locked. I encountered the same issue with Burger King. What. In. The. Actual. Such. It’s Saturday night, folks! And two major fast food chains are closed and locked before 9 pm. I finally found success with a local McDonald’s and grabbed a coupe of sausage McMuffins.

The messed up detour in Miramichi

I finally got on the road and reached the doors of my hotel around 11:30 pm. I was checked in by a very nice young man that I was pretty convinced was outside smoking up when I arrived. While it’s no longer illegal in Canada and I have no issues with someone doing it, doing it while on the job and making me wait at the very tail end of my journey when a bed is literally feet away and waiting for me was more than my recently-found calm could manage. My veneer cracked. Luckily, I made my way into my room and unceremoniously crashed after quickly downing my evening meds. The big thing being today’s post is that travel, even domestic travel, is no longer a guaranteed and safe means of making any destination in a planned manner. It didn’t matter that I had car and hotel reservations waiting; my flights were ridiculously delayed. Didn’t matter that I was tired and still had over three hours of driving to do, roads had me detoured. None of that really mattered to any extent. I surprised myself by maintaining my calm, not yelling at anyone and not losing my cool.

This morning, I still woke up around 7 am, which is fucked up considering that’s only 4 am back in Saskatchewan. You’d think that the time difference would have seen me sleeping in at least a little bit. I tried a different hotel than my previous stays because I wanted to change things up and it was a touch cheaper. Now, I know why. After grabbing a hot shower and getting my clothes unpacked of ride next few days, I discovered that the walls are quite thin. At least everyone was quiet during the overnight hours. Now, I’m off to see what delicious, gourmet breakfast I can find in my previous home environment. Then, I hope to kick things off by visiting my folks and possibly seeing Sensei this evening. The first day on the North Shore is already planned and mapped. We’ll see if at least one thing can go according to plan.

The view of Sugarloaf Mountain through my dirty hotel window

As I wrote in yesterday’s post, a lot of mixed feelings about being here. Memories and old landmarks are pulling me back to a couple of decades ago. Many things have changed, including a number of towns and villages along the main highway that weren’t there before, even a year ago when I was here last. Old businesses have made way to new ones, some buildings that have been there my entire life have been demolished or rebuilt. I’ve often heard that you can never go home again. Well, that’s only partially correct. You can go home; it just may not be the home you remember. I’m looking forward to seeing my parents. We’ll see how well THAT visit goes. But that’ll be an update for tomorrow’s post. ☯️

What The F$%k Am I Doing? The Odyssey, Day 1…

Yes, buckle up folks! It’s gonna be one of THOSE posts. As seems to be the routine every year for the past few years, I’m currently awaiting to board the first of two flights that will take me the long way home to New Brunswick to visit my mother and father. I’ll be gone for a number of days and as is my custom, I’ll be sharing thoughts, experiences and walking my readers through what’s happening on the East Coast’s North Shore on a day-to-day basis. I already have some friends and family set up that I will be visiting during the trip, and there should be some augury of positivity to go with the negative. So hopefully, I don’t get bogged down in a week-long bitchfest about traveling. But as most of you know, if you’ve been reading my posts over the years, I’m not a big damn of flying, being around large crowds and being contained in tight spaces. An airplane covers all three of those things…

It’s already been a bit of a harsh morning, waking at an hour that sees most people still quietly sleeping without concerns of the outside world. I awoke about ten minutes before my 3 a.m. alarm; an unfortunate byproduct of being Type-1 Diabetic and wearing an insulin pump. Last night’s installation of a new CGM sensor required a second calibration at about 2:50 this morning, rendering the last ten miners of sleep you’ve pointless and getting me out of bed all that much earlier. Not like I was exactly sleeping deeply anyway. My family were absolutely on the ball this morning. More so than I was, in fact. My boys were already out the door with shoes on, piling into our car, before I had even finished getting dressed. I drove to get us here, and was comfortably impressed at how easily my city streets are to navigate and how quickly one can reach places when it’s the middle of the night and there’s no traffic. It made me nostalgic for my policing days, when I would patrol municipal streets during the wee hours of the night, no other vehicles or traffic with nothing but the quiet streets to keep me company. But I digress…

This trip is intended to look into a number of concerning items regarding my parents that apparently can’t be dealt with by email or telephone. I won’t get into the nitty gritty of those concerns. I’ll only say that after calling twice and emailing once, over the course of the past two months, and getting no reply, I felt it was time to go out and determine what’s happening myself. Family is great and I do have some family still out there, but they can and should only do so much. After all, they’re MY parents and as the only child, I have a direct responsibility for ensuring the folks who gave me life and raised me are well looked after. As I’ve written on previous trips, going home is a strange experience for me now. Having lived in Saskatchewan for almost 20 years at this point, I always had the comfort of safe Harbour when I returned home. A warm bed in my mother’s home and family greetings that included home cooked meals and attentions paid. Such is not the case any longer.

Now, when I travel back home, I do so alone. The rising cost of airline travel coupled with vehicle rentals, accommodations and incidental costs make it far too expensive to rationalize bringing my entire household with me, even though exposure to the Maritime air and energy would be great for them. When I make my way home, I no longer have a home to go to. This means that the only way to see my mother and father is to modify them within their care home. My mother has dementia and no longer understands she still has a living son. My father is beginning to show signs of dementia but historically, when I visit him, he’s sleeping with little to no chance of waking him. It makes for a difficult dynamic and tends to bring equal amount of emotional pain to whatever small vestiges of nostalgia I may be experiencing. So much has changed during my absence from in home Province. My home town is still recognizable; I can wander some of the places I used to live as a kid, wander or mountain and drink in the beautiful views of the open bay against the Appalachian mountains.

But in the end, I’m still very much alone. I should have the opportunity to visit with Sensei, along with a couple of close friends who are still there. Otherwise, it will be a packed few days of sorting through my parents’ affairs and ensuring everything is in line. While it will be a visit slotted within the duties of a son, there shirts nonetheless be some time for the beauty and calm that only the North Shore can provide. I have a long day of airports and waiting ahead of me. Such is the way of it, any time I travel home. Here’s hoping the trip goes smoothly and I have nothing “exciting” to write about. That would, ultimately, be the best thing that could happen over this trip. But stay tuned; I’ll keep y’all posted. ☯️

An 80-pound Oops To Complicate Life…

I’ve certainly never professed to being my own version of Mike Tyson, but decades of knuckle push-ups, striking exercises and frequent use of a makiwara have made it so I can pack a pretty decent punch. Not “break through concrete” kind of punch, but definitely a “fracture your bones or knock your shit out” kind of punch. Your body strength with strikes has always been a bit more of a forte for me than kicking. While I enjoy, employ and appreciate a good kick, I usually prefer punching. This fits well into my style’s generalized philosophy that if the opponent is outside arm’s reach, why would you strike? But that’s a whole different concept for another day. Today, we’re talking about my punches and the subsequent issue it caused me a little over a month ago. Quite a few years ago now, I invested in a standalone steel-framed stand and an 80-pound punching bag. I set all of it up on my garage, since our archaic garage isn’t big enough to house a modern vehicle and we mostly use it for storage. The garage has quickly become my refuge, allowing me space to enjoy the nice weather without being exposed to summer heat, puff on a nice cigar without disturbing my family and gives me an environment to burn through my inner rage on the bag without shaking the house’s foundations.

A little over a month ago, the weather started moving to a nicer temperature, which allowed me to move on a few different fitness steps. I cleaned up my bicycle, greased the chain and prepped my carry bag for what will hopefully be some reasonable mileage throughout the summer. But I also took the time to tidy the garage floor, clear away all the winter storage and clean the dust off of the punching bag. I started having my usual bag workouts out there a couple of times a week, which usually involves 30 minutes of 1-minute-punching-30-seconds-rest, followed by another 30 minutes but on the bike. It makes for a solid sweat, exhausts me nicely and allows me to burn off a lot of stress and pent up anger from the world outside. However, recently while working out on the bag, I may have allowed my zeal to take control and after a few focused strikes that really struck home (pun FULLY intended), the chain links holding the bag up onto the steel frame snapped, sending the bag tumbling to the floor.

My poor bag sitting on the floor… I know, I know, I heard it as soon as I said it…

Ignoring for a moment the fact that I don’t secure my frame to the ground, which would likely be helpful as it would keep it from sliding along the floor as you see in the photo, I was reasonably lucky that the bag simply fell straight down from the frame, the frame didn’t tip over or knock anything over and most importantly, nothing fell on me or injured me. As a side note, the bike got put back into place where you see it AFTER I stopped the workout because the bag fell. Now, I faced an interesting conundrum. Where to find a replacement for a double looped swivel link to replace the one that broke. Unfortunately, as I would come to learn, such a singular, specialized piece wasn’t so easy to find. I started with some local sporting goods stores where punching bags are sold. I don’t like leaving myself open to comments being interpreted as litigious, so I won’t name the stores, but I was somewhat surprised that none of these retail locations, which sell punching bags and related equipment, sold any replacement or spare parts of any of the hardware. Alright. Fair enough.

The broken link…

I had the option, of course, of purchasing an entirely new punching bag, which would include the swivel link I needed. But my current bag is still in good condition and will likely last another few years. My next step was to hit up some hardware stores. After all, what could be more basic than getting chain hardware from a hardware store, right? I stopped at two locations, one of which is a large, national chain that has orange as its primary color (wink, wink). I found similar chain links, but they had significantly low weight tolerance. We’re talking less than what the bag itself weighed. Factor in striking the bag repeatedly and sometimes having it swing in every which direction would mean this thing would barely last one workout. IF I was lucky… I don’t live in a MAJOR metropolitan center, but we are in a city of about 270,000 people. So, one would be inclined to think that there should be SOME availability of hardware like this. But nope, nope, triple nope… Couldn’t find it anywhere.

Finally, I resorted to my least favorite means of retail shopping: online. I’m not trying hard to age myself here, but I always prefer to do my shopping at an actual retail location. That way, I can see, touch and check exactly what I intend to purchase and I know exactly where to go if something needs to be returned, replaced or repaired. This is not always the case when one purchases online. But, it is 2026 and sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do, right? I found a swivel link on Amazon for $20. This thing is twice as thick as the previous one that came with the bag and has a weight capacity of (allegedly) 1,200 pounds. Perfect. Good price, good specs. That’ll do in a pinch. Add to cart and a week later, I got it in. I even had the foresight to order an extra one on the unlikely chance I managed to pop this one. With a little help, I managed to get the bag set back up and even followed it up with a family workout, using the bag, punch pad and makiwara as stations.

A punching bag is not only a good way to get some passive cardio in and burn off stress and frustration. I’ve long believed it’s a necessary training step for any martial artist who trains extensively alone. After all, you can only swing the brush through empty air for so long before you need to start touching paint to canvass. In the same vein, you can only do form and shadow boxing for so long before you need to strike an actual surface to start developing. And since I don’t currently train in any dojo, my sparring partners are few and far between. This makes the punching bag and striking pad all the more important. Plus, nothing makes you feel quite better than burning off steam on a bag after a long, hard day’s work. Totally meditative. I’m glad I got the bag repaired and cancel in action. It does humble one when considering the fact that given enough time and enough strikes, even steel gives way to flesh. Food for thought… ☯️

The Will Must Be As Strong As The Skill…

It’s a scenario that may be familiar to many… The alarm clock blares and shakes you out of what was likely a very deep sleep. You slap it silent with a deep tinge of annoyance. You stretch, roll and try to bring life into your still sleeping body. You throw your legs off the bed and sit there for a moment, wondering if you’ve lost your mind or whether you should just roll back under the covers for warmth and further slumber. As you finally will your body to move, you take the first tentative steps into the new day. The usual morning ablutions ensue, along with using the washroom and grabbing an energy drink to kick off your morning. The few sips of caffeine do nothing to clear the fog from your mind. You change into some fitness gear, still questioning whether you’re making the right choice or not. As you make your way to the workout area, you recognize that the rest of the household is still peacefully adrift in dreamland, a place you long to be at that moment. You stretch. You warm up. You break into some weight repetitions followed by your kata and some shadow sparring. You end it all with a quick, 30-minute run on the stationary bike. You finished in a hot, sweaty huff, no linger feelings the last vestiges of cold your body experienced by shedding your blankets for the world outside.

For some of you, this is pretty routine. It’s something you’ve trained yourself to do every morning and may have been doing so fairly consistently. For me, the concept of waking at an early hour to work out is difficult at best. For the most part, finding the time and opportunity to work out AFTER work is just as challenging. Once the work day is complete, I often face a plethora of different challenges that include but are not limited to, exhaustion from the work day, delays from stopping for groceries/errands, supper is ready when I walk into the door and the lethargy and full stomach that accompanies eating said supper. Pair this off with having a couple of young children in the house who are vying for daddy’s attention once he’s through the door, and my evenings tend to fill up pretty damn quickly. I often push against routine and make a point of hammering out an hour’s worth or exercise, but the consistently needed to maintain benefits (and karate skills) just isn’t there as it used to be. This presents challenges to someone who needs to work hard towards maintaining one’s health.

Working out first thing in the morning would seem to be the obvious option, although finding it obvious and willing one’s body to get up and comply are two entirely different things, hence the scenario described in the opening paragraph. While I’ve tried, on occasion, to get my crusty ass out of bed in the wee hours of the morning to exercise, various factors will come into play against that concept. Most nights, at least the ones where I’m not constantly shaken awake by PTSD nightmares, sees me having fluctuating blood sugars, frequent visits to the washroom to urinate, restless leg issues and the various pains and discomforts that come with almost four decades of full contact karate and operational policing. All of these things have a tendency to not only inhibit and prevent a proper night’s sleep. It usually leaves me in a state where, once the alarm rings, I find myself unable to will my body to respond or find the motivation to actually get up and get moving. In fact, the prospect of having an additional hour’s sleep, given all of the above, usually wins out.

With respect to this issue, I’m reminded of something Sensei told me about a year ago, while we were catching up. He commented on the fact that he wakes every morning, goes through his usual routine and then hits the road on his bicycle, working in a significant number of kilometers before returning home and facing his work day. Sensei has often asked himself if it was worth it to keep pushing in such a manner, and whether it wouldn’t just be better to sit back and relax during his morning. But then, he asks himself if he enjoys the freedom of movement, the continued mobility and the health he has maintained. The answer is always a resounding yes. He then asks himself if he wants to continue to maintain those standards to continue reaping those benefits. Another resounding yes faces him in the mirror. And for that reason, Sensei continues to push himself forward and workout first thing in the morning, regardless of fatigue, weather or how deeply the bed beckons him back to slumber.

Now granted, Sensei doesn’t have to contend with Type-1 Diabetes or many of the health-related obstacles I described earlier. But that’s the catch-22; BECAUSE of these health concerns, it would be in my best interest to wake, rise and sweat. Also because of those health concerns, I’m usually exhausted and without energy to engage in them. It makes for a conundrum as to how to address this properly. A bit of a chicken or the egg scenario. That being said, and I’ve written about this before, a lot of it is like becoming the little engine that could. Once you manage to get yourself up and moving and start doing it, the following morning seems just a LITTLE less torturous. This is because you’ve lost the element of unknown that comes with trying to get yourself started. Once you’ve overcome that first step and have actually hammered out a workout, the next morning may still suck. You may still want to just roll over and go back to sleep, but at least you’ve started. Once you’ve begun doing this regularly, your body will adjust and you’ll begin to feel that it isn’t such a big deal, getting out of bed while your family sleeps, breaking out a healthy sweat and then showering and getting ready for your overall day.

While using this early time in the morning to workout may seem tedious, there are several benefits to doing it this way that can be very beneficial for one’s health. In an online article posted by HealthLine.com entitled, “13 Benefits of Working Out In The Morning,” the positives of working out during the early hours can include facing fewer distractions while exercising, getting your workout in before the day’s heat kicks in, increased alertness and setting a positive tone for the rest of the day, better mood, focus and overall energy. There’s also some indication that earlier workout can help support weight loss and help with appetite control. Taylor morning workouts can also help with blood pressure AND blood sugar control, which is obviously an important factor for me. The article also suggest that it might help improve your sleep, citing, “After the morning workout, the participants spent more time in deep sleep and experienced fewer nighttime awakenings. It also took them less time to fall asleep.” Obviously, I would recommend reading the full article by clicking the link above, in order to get the fulsome information.

There are plenty of benefits to exercising early in the morning and many advantages, such as better time management, besides all the health perks. After all, you’d get all of those if you just exercised consistently, regardless of the time of day. But if you use this time where it may be quieter, less distractions, kids aren’t vying for your attention AND it gets you going and energized for the rest of the day, it’s a win-win. Pair that with the possibility that it will help with your overall sleep quality at night, that’s an easy recipe for better health. The challenge, at least for me, is getting past that first instance and actually getting my tired old ass out of bed long enough to get that first workout in. But once I can get myself started, being like the little engine that could or a rolling dynamo, it just might be the edge I need to have more energy, shed a few more pounds and have some will to do more with my evenings than binge-watch Netflix and fall asleep early. Who know? I may even end up encouraging some of my family members to rise with me and start early. All part of the journey towards better health and better Diabetes control. Food for thought… ☯️

Slow And Steady Isn’t JUST For The Race…

As one gets older and life carries on, one may begin to contemplate life, how it’s lived and how perspective changes over time. As a child, I wasn’t exactly what one might call energetic. Being afflicted with Type-1 Diabetes, which back then was referred to as “Juvenile Diabetes,” I was often lethargic and lacking in energy, mostly a byproduct of rampantly uncontrolled blood sugars. I’ve written about this before; I don’t begrudge my parents any damage that may have been done when I was a child. After all, I WAS a child and had minimal understanding of what had happened to me and it was the early 80’s in a small, rural Northern New Brunswick town with limited medical resources. I’m lucky I survived into adulthood. But that’s a story for another day. The point is, despite the lethargy and lack of energy, I was like most children and usually insisted on running, climbing and jumping on absolutely everything in my path. This was a sore point for my mother, with whom I spent extended time when my father was at work.

It irked her because of her concerns that I could injure myself. Unbeknownst to her, one of her most annoying (at the time) habits was irking me as well; her walking speed. Now, at the time, I simply couldn’t comprehend why my mother would always walk so damn slowly. It drove me nuts and I often tried to urge her along. This carried on well into my teens and into adulthood when I finally left home. In retrospect, I recognize that she was actually several years younger than I am now when I started to notice this trend, meaning that it couldn’t be attributed to old age. As I got older and started to raise this with her more as a conversation than a comment, her only response was, “I don’t have a reason to hurry or rush. So, why would I? This is the speed I walk. If you don’t like it, then don’t walk with me.” At the time, it seemed dismissive and ignorant. The perspective of a young teenager on the cusp of adulthood. But as I’ve grown to my current stage of this life, I recognize it as something more important.

Since I grew into adulthood and took control of my own health and wellbeing, I’ve been what many might refer to as a dynamo of energy. Every job, every karateh class and every workout I’ve ever done has been carried out with maximum effort, maximum speed and no time wasted. This habit carried on into my personal life, where chores, errands and getting things done involved hammering through them with no room or time to delay or move slowly. Certainly, my career in law enforcement has benefited from this perspective, since time and urgency can be very important elements of a police officer’s daily life. But in the past few years and since retiring from law enforcement, my views and perspectives have changed. And some of it happened without my even noticing it. It was quiet, sneaky and insidious, even. A perspective on daily life and one’s own mental health that I had never really come to appreciate or recognize before.

Some of this realization came from earlier this week when I travelled to a neighboring city for a work function. The hotel it was being held at was completely booked and I found myself staying at a different venue. For to parking availability, I found myself having to walk from the venue to my hotel. While this is no big deal, I found myself with some free time during the afternoon and decided to “dry run” the walk so that I could effectively time how long it would take me to get from one point to the other. This was so that I would risk being late for the event. I left point “A” and walked towards point “B” with the chronometer on my phone running to keep time. As I walked, I realized it was more of a casual saunter. I wasn’t rushing, I wasn’t hurrying, and I wasn’t just trying to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible. I was taking my time. I was walking casually. All in all, the walk took less than ten minutes at a leisurely pace, so I was in good shape. But this realization awoke… well, realization…

So much of modern life is rooted in rushing around, or what’s otherwise known as the “rat race.” This is a terrible way to live, considering this rat race is often one of the main contributors of stress, mental health issues and even physical ailments like high blood pressure and cardiac issues. While hurrying and carrying a sense of urgency can be important in some instances, finding the means to move casually and without rushing can help alleviate many of the things I named in this paragraph. It doesn’t mean I’ve grown slow, or age is catching up to me. I’ve simply begun to realize that setting the tone for oneself early on in the day can determine how one’s day will go over all. Slow and steady can allow oneself to remain calm, relaxed, maintain lower blood pressure and reduce stress. This is something I realized about two years ago when my morning routine was drastically changed.

About two years ago, I changed up how my morning routines have run. Prior to this change, I would wake to an early alarm, hit the ground running and could shit, shave and shower and be out the door tub under fifteen minutes. Looking back, I was actually proud of my ability to “launch” this effectively, first thing in the morning and more importantly, often without caffeine in my system yet. But I began to correct this process when I began to realize two very important details. One, this method of starting my day meant that I was stressed and harassed before even setting foot in my office. And two, I didn’t NEED to rush. I was in a position where I could actually take some time, first thing in the morning, to allow my mind to start absorbing the day and make my way to work calmly. The result has been getting to work much more relaxed and prepared to tackle the tasks of the day, as opposed to being a pent up ball of rage without even having started work yet

The point is, there is suffered in life. And with that suffering comes stress. At some point, we all come to realize that doing whatever we can with the tools we have available to reduce that stress goes a long way towards reducing our respective suffering. When it comes to my everyday life, I’ve come to realize that when I don’t need to rush, I SHOULDN’T rush. Will it be life changing? Probably not. Will it potentially revive some stress and help make me somewhat happier? Without a doubt. And in the end, that can make a great world of difference. Ask yourself, what is your slow walk? What can you do or what can you change, that will help you to reduce the stress in your life. And less stress means a happier, healthier life. And ultimately, that’s all one can truly hope for. Food for thought… ☯️

My Black Belt Is Not For You…

I’ve never been much of a sports guy, which has surprised most folks through the years by even more so when it comes up that I study the martial arts. “So, you ARE into sports…” No… No, I’m really not. But the distinction between martial arts and sports is a discussion for a different day. At this point in my life, I’m slowly starting to forget a time when I didn’t study karate and use it in my daily life in some way, shape or form. Karate, along with its consistent training and lessons, has sustained my health, made my Type-1 Diabetes more manageable and allowed me to defend myself and others, both in my personal and professional life, more times than I can measure. But the irony, especially when my studies come up in conversation, is that there’s really only one aspect that people always seem to focus on; my belt. For the most part, the same question is posed by everyone I cross paths with, even if it’s just conversation. “Oh, so, are you a black belt?”

A karate black belt is a quasi-magical thing for non-practitioners. For the most part, they believe that a black belt is the pinnacle of mastery, the top level, the “be-all-and-end-all” of karate. In truth, a black belt is really only just the beginning. The many, many years of training that preceded achieving black belt level was really just the beginning. And don’t kid yourself; it should take many, many years. And testing for your shodan is traditionally, a student’s way to formally ask their Sensei to teach them karate. But when people hear or know you have one, they assume you’re deadly, you’re a master at your respective style and that no one should rock your proverbial boat, for fear of gettin’ an ass whoopin’. I mean, the latter could have some element of truth, I suppose, if one has little or poor control over their temper. But again, this is a separate issue.

But most of that is smoke and mirrors. For the most part, and even if you train traditionally and hard, there will gaps. An important lesson to life, in order to remain humble AND because it could potentially save your life is a self-defense scenario, is that there’s will always be someone with more skill, more speed, more strength… The key is to be the best YOU can be, and continue to build upon yourself and improve. Your progress is no one else’s but your own, and holding a standard based on to color of your belt may hinder you more than help. For myself, promoting to black belt was one of the best days of my life. But it would prove to be just the first step in the next phase of my martial arts training. Many aspects of my training quickly turned to the philosophical, examined the why, almost as much as the how. I began looking at why we do techniques the way we do and learning how to impart that development on others, as opposed to simply mirroring what’s been done by Sensei for all the years that preceded my black belt.

Becoming a black belt is about more than status, prestige and the various “oohs” and “ahhs” you may get from folks. It’s about genuinely learning the art, researching the background, the material and the specifics behind how things were developed and why they continue to be used in the manner they are. The history of one’s style and how it came about, is at least as important as your ability to throw a punch or block a kick (although by black belt, you won’t last long if you can’t do those particular things). And in truth, I’ve seen and trained with many people who wore a black belt who could barely keep up or hold their own. And that’s kind of the key takeaway and the point of this post. It’s rarely about the rank. It’s almost always unilaterally about the drive and skill you develop. Unless you’re in a damn McDojo and you’re looking at someone who’s trained for two or three years and already has shodan around their waist.

People love the concept of a black belt and usually see it as the achievement to strive for. This is true of non-practitioners and practitioners alike. But the reality is much more difficult to accept. The belt around your waist says nothing of what your actual skill level is. Do you know what does? YOUR ACTUAL SKILL LEVEL!!! You, and only you, know how your training is going, what level you’re at and what improvements you need. And no doubt your Sensei. They should likely know what level you’re at, too. But when someone expresses fascination at your black belt, or asks how good you are, it’s important not to feed the perception. Typically, when I’ve been told comments like “Wow, you must be pretty good, huh?” Or, “You’ve been training that long? You must definitely be a black belt…” My usual response will simply be that I am what I am, and I am only as good or skilled as I will allow myself to be.

And that’s the big secret behind karate. It’s not about the specific style or what rank you hold. It’s about how hard you work, how much of your blood, sweat and tears you put into it, and how hard you’re willing to push yourself in order to keep moving forward. One’s martial arts journey is a never-ending one. As long as your lungs still draw breath, the learning isn’t over. So, don’t gush over someone being a black belt. For all you know, their belt may mean nothing, they may lack the skill that movies and mainstream media have suggested that rank carries, or they may have bought the belt at the thirst store and have no training at all. Smoke and mirrors. If you want to know whether a practitioner, regardless of rank, has any reasonable skill, talk to them. Ask them about their teaming, their background, their techniques. The knowledge and confidence with which they discuss it will tell you far more than a colored piece of cotton across one’s mid-section. Am I proud to be a black belt? In some ways. But mostly, I’m humbled that I was able to push myself and make it to this point through. My own efforts. My karate is my karate, and will never change. The color of the belt means little. And at the end of the day, the belt is really just there to hold your gi in place. Good for thought…☯️

Tighten Those Belts, But Wash ‘Em First…

You know, I’ve been doing karate for over 35 years at this point, and have trained in more dojos and locations than I can recall. I’ve seen some really good clubs and met some really solid people. I’ve also been exposed to the majority of cliches that we see in modern martial arts. McDojos, inexperienced senseis, bullies and worst of all, the wayward student who walks out of his dojo and opens his own school without his Sensei’s consent. Brutal. My point is, like every other thing one can join, they come in all shapes, sizes and philosophies. I’ve written on occasion, about the importance of cleanliness with gym equipment and dojo gear. Most people don’t think to clean things like punch mitts, sparring gloves and pads, but everything that can be touched, should be cleaned. This includes a very overlooked item in the karateka’s bag; the karate belt.

I’ve been seeing a lot of online articles about one’s belt, and whether it should be cleaned or not. I’m not clear on why this has come up so much or why it suddenly appears to be the flavor of the day, but the reality is that I’ve now seen it on four different pages through social media, from different sources. Most people recognize the need to wash one’s gi after each use. Granted, I’ve trained with a lot of people who would only wash their uniforms once a week, which often led to some awkward training when you got paired up with them. Nothing like that mildewy scent to distract you enough to let that technique slip through! Hey, maybe that’s why he did it! But I digress… We’re talking about belts, here…

The karate belt, or obi, as it’s sometimes called, is a thick belt that wraps around the practitioner’s gi to help keep their top closed and properly cinched to the body. At some point, it also began being used to signify rank within the dojo, with black being the most recognized rank to most outside folks. This started with the styles that were on mainland Japan. If you look at some of the older, historical photos of retaining in Okinawa, it was usually bare-chested, with shorts or short pants. But in modern times, the belt has become something of an icon in martial arts circles, not only serving the expected function of holding your gi closed, but slid to signify rank, seniority and most cases, experience. I say most cases for a reason, but I won’t get into that here, since it’ll be a topic for a different post.

Most karate belt are made of the same durable, stitched cotton materials that the practitioner’s gi is made from. That being said, some styles and brands have them made from different materials like polyester or, believe or not, silk or satin. I can’t imagine wearing a silk belt. Can you imagine??? How would that fuckin’ thing eve stay tied? Wouldn’t it slip free after a bit of movement? I wouldn’t know because I’ve never worn one made of silk and I don’t plan to start. My point is, they can be made of different materials but are generally made from cotton. Moving on. The issue with the belt, and if the wearer is training the way they should, is the tightness around the waist means the belt is in prime position to be exposed to some of that lovely back sweat that comes dripping down the nape of your back during heavy workouts. Eventually, the belt will soak this sweat up and it’ll dry on there.

Generally speaking, cotton garments are great for soaking up sweat and allowing your skin to breathe. This is why most trainers will advise their clients who wear moisture-wicking materials or get-fit garments to wear a cotton t-shirt over it, if they’re jogging or cycling outdoors. This is so that the shirt can absorb the expelled sweat, instead of letting it linger on the garment. One does not have this benefit with a karate belt. As I mentioned in the opening paragraph, I’ve written posts in the past about cleanliness, and this has included the washing of one’s gi. Because it’s usually made of cotton, the gi soaks up all the blood, sweat and tears (usually literally) that are shed during the two-hour workout in the dojo (yes, class should be at least two hours). If allowed to sit and dry, eventually and after only a few wearings, your gi will start to smell like that squirrel that fell into your rain barrel and drowned over the summer. This is why it’s important to keep your gi washed and clean between classes, to prevent ruining it, prevent the smell and prevent the inevitable rash you’ll give yourself from wearing something riddled with bacteria.

It’s often boggled my mind how most practitioners never think to wash their belts. This is something that’s come up in quite a few social media posts lately, on some of the karate pages I subscribe to. Most traditional practitioners have heard the story or have followed the belief that you start with a white belt and as it taints and gets dirtier through the blood and sweat, it eventually darkens to a blend belt, signifying the wearer’s experience and knowledge. First of all, not only is that completely fuckin’ disgusting, if you wear a white belt through filth long enough for it to turn black, but it’s also somewhat incorrect. When I was a white belt starting out, I had asked my Sensei at one point if I could just drop my belt into the washer with my gi. I got a slightly different iteration on the story I mention here, but the message was simple: don’t wash your belt. As a result, my original white belt (which I do still have despite almost 40 years passing) is a patchwork of off-white and slightly dingy yellows. While it shows the hard work and efforts I’ve put into my karate training, it’s gross to look at, even now, and still carries a musty odor that no wearable garment should carry.

Once I graduated to green belt and I noticed the green starting to shift colors, I changed up my practice a bit. While I didn’t want to chance laundering a green belt with a white gi for fear of the color running, I also had to contend with the rubberized electrical tape Sensei would use to signify stripes on one’s belt. This meant that tossing the belt in the washing machine would be a no-go, since it would probably cause the tape to peel off. As a result, I got into the habit where at least once a week, I would use a small container of cool water would. Touch of laundry detergent, and I would hand wash my belt using a small nail brush. The size of the nail brush made it ideal to scrub along the length of the belt. The cool water helped maintain the color and the laundry detergent helped wash it out. While somewhat faded from the years, my green belt is in a much better shape than my white belt. I did the same for my brown and black belts, respectively.

One of the social media posts that I read referenced visiting Okinawa, and how the karate practitioners there find it puzzling that Western practitioners don’t wash their belts. Having visited some dojos in Okinawa, I can reflect that comment in saying they don’t believe in the concept of not washing the belt. So, despite the stories, legends or doctrine of your specific dojo, you SHOULD be maintaining trooper cleanliness and hygiene practices and wash your belts regularly, whether by hand or otherwise. It’ll preserve the state of the belt and prevent bacteria, rashes on skin, and the unpleasant odor that accompanies ANY training equipment that doesn’t get washed and/or sanitized. Your karate belt is included in that. The only aspect I agree with and am on board with, is that most senior practitioners wear their black belt until it basically falls of them. Different styles will have different approaches, but my style is consistent in this practice. My black belt shows some of the wear and tear markings of years of training. Those are my badges of honor and I would replace them. Some folks will obtain a new belt every few years as the previous one starts to wear. That’s a preference.

At the end of the day and what the main message to this post is all about, is make sure that you help keep yourself in good health by observing good cleanliness and hygiene practices with ALL of your training equipment, including your belt. It’s part of the process, it’s on you and others will inevitably notice if you’re unclean. Especially in an environment like a martial arts dojo. And it really sucks to train and work so hard at developing and bettering yourself, only to have you get a rash, infection or be shunned where no one wants to train with you because you smell like a mildewy clothes hamper. Not a good look. So wash up, clean and keep yourself healthy. Light knows that during the second hour, the sweat is already flowing enough without your added funk getting into the mix. Food for thought… ☯️