Asa Space

When I learned you passed, shreds of memory pressed in on my mind.

The feeling of pushing back against your forearm is like pushing against a rock. Decades of tempering your limbs by beating them on bags of sand, then bags of rocks changed your body. You cut apart old jeans and filled them with pebbles, then pounded them to dust. All these years, you never stopped. Your habits could seem normal in a Shaolin temple–incomprehensibly on the other side of the world, poorly interpreted through the pages of weathered, yellow National Geographic magazines–but here in a backwater Colorado town, your lifestyle is mystical. One time, you fell backwards and slammed the back of your head on the edge of your porch. You were in your seventies and you lived alone (with your horse, but he wouldn’t have been much help) but you were OK. You had been beating on the back of your head, too, and you reckon that saved your life.

During your Kung Fu lessons, your sapphire eyes radiate high above me, brightly set against your skin and long hair, which are both bleached by age. Your presence is felt strongly through these eyes that are fierce, yet knowledgable and patient; a little bit mischievous. You may be a Kung Fu master but I suspect that your story is very human; even now, you’re bit of a bad boy; you seem ageless, but I know that your girlfriend is many years younger than you are. You travel through the North Fork valley on your motorcycle. What about your past? I know very little.

Your son, Bobby, stays out of the limelight. After his dominant debut in the world of MMA, he drew back and became a coach, supporting cage fighters that will be remembered in the pages of history, including undisputed UFC champion, Khabib Nurmagomedov. Bobby’s legacy gives credence to the philosophies of eastern martial arts. I wonder about his childhood, and I try to picture you two training together. Who is his mother, I wonder, and where is she now? You mention that you had lived on a sailboat with Bobby, and the idea sparks my imagination. Your way of life was so off the beaten path that it inspires me to question my own goals and assumptions. I don’t want to idealize you; I know things must have been hard for you, too, but I believe you have lessons for me. Since you are gone now, and I haven’t seen you in many years, your influence must now percolate up from my subconscious: I borrow from you, at times, a slight shift in perspective.

You often stop at the health food store where I work and buy a single carrot and a sesame honey bar (halva). I love that you take time to stop for these simple pleasures, want nothing more, and you never seem to be in a hurry. You don’t have too many things and without materialism weighing you down, your life seems rich. Things, I think, are heavy on the heart and distract us from what matters. Does your example help ignite this realization, one that I’ve forgotten so many times? Oft forgotten like another teaching you tried to impart on me: to find the ying to my yang. While that lesson sounds cliche, and I don’t exactly remember what you told me, what I understood is that my temperament is fiery and I burn myself. I would exist more fluidly by settling my mind, by finding my balance. This is a simple way to describe myriad complexities.

I love to hear you talk about Bruce Lee, who you once sparred with. You trained with a disciple of his own master, Ip Man, a grandmaster of Wing Chun Kung Fu, a style characterized by quick strikes that come from the heart and return just as quickly. A woman’s style. You recall that under your pressure, Master Lee transitioned from his new Jeet Kune Do style back to Wing Chun, but that one of his strikes found your center and changed your body forever. You call Bruce Lee a young master because he burned brightly and then his flame extinguished; then you call yourself an old master, and your face is lit with smile that is both lighthearted and proud at the same time.

Sifu, you trained with many masters whose names I don’t know. You learned many styles of Kung Fu, of Tai Chi, and Karate, you also studied other disciplines of eastern medicine. I heard that you treated a paraplegic with acupuncture, allowing him to walk again. This story is incredible to believe and I hope it is true because it makes this world brighter somehow. But there is no doubt that you changed the lives of many. Countless people were inspired by your discipline or found solace in sharing your martial arts practice. These are people from the community where I grew up and many, many others from your past that is shrouded by mystery.

Sifu Cook, for me you were singular, and while you have moved on, I hope that your ways are never gone or forgotten.