Febuary Newsletter 2016.pages

VOL 2 NO 1
February 15, 2016
WEST WIND NEWS
Welcome to the Year of the FIRE MONKEY
Celebrating New Belts
White
Mr. Goffin - Hua
Mr. O’Brien - Hua
Mr. Yabusaki - Hua
Ms. Montes - Dahal
Ms. Pineda - Michel
Mr. Ignacio - Dahal
Yellow
Mr. Jack MacIntyre - Wong
Mr. Almsaid, A - Dahal
Mr. Almsaid, M - Dahal
Mr. Bonta - Dahal
Mr. Blackman - Dahal
Ms. Cohen - Michel
Ms. Grant - Thomas
Mr. Nguyen, Nam - Dahal
Mr. Vigay - Michel
Ms. Xu - Dahal
“LET IT GO
OR BE
DRAGGED”
zen proverb
It is time
to clear the
clutter in
your
physical
and mental
lives, grab a banana and start swinging! Don’t
look back, don't look down, just use momentum
to take you where you need to be. It will be
good to keep a sense of humor this year as
monkey’s are playful. Number 9 plays a
significant role this year , also the colors ; blue,
gold and white.
Orange
Mr. Ramos - Leon
Blue
Mr. Arnold, Asher - Baker
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Preparation for West Wind’s New WEBSITE
Last year at this time we launched our new APP. That
was an exciting step forward for our previous ‘old
school’ style , so keep checking because we will revamp the APP soon to make it more direct plus easy to
Mrs. Thompson
returns to the mat
Who is Mrs. Thompson and why
do we care? She’s not just ‘the
wife of’ Mr. Thompson, West
Wind’s Chief, she is a Black Belt
and former Instructor who rose
through the ranks fast over 20
years ago, steel headed a path
for woman and families and
continues to work incredibly hard
behind the scenes to train the top
Instructors and push like a gale
wind the business into modern
times while upholding the
fundamental beliefs of Mr. Lee,
the Founder of West Wind and
her sole inspiration.
use. We hope you’ve downloaded it, enjoyed it, and
find it fun!
This year we are even more excited to finally and
officially have a new website, with thanks and gratitude
to Mr. Fukunaga, a student of Mr. Olaes from Alameda
who wholeheartedly offered to create this for West
Wind. It will be ready to view for the Lunar New Year,
simply go to westwindschools.com and enjoy
scrolling through to see the magic.
Whats compelling here is that she
will now be seen back on the mat
sporting her Black Belt uniform or
sometimes her business wear or
her party regalia, and even her
stretchy clothes to come put
some Yin in West Wind’s Yang.
She has a series of group classes
she wants to introduce and offers
private training in what she calls
“health for happiness “ a one to
one training on balancing your
life .
The first group class will be
offered starting March 2016, it
will be a Qi Gong class called
“The 8 Brocades” . The cost is 20$
per class and I’m sure you will
enjoy her teaching, especially if
you seek calm in your life.
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As Mr. Baker demonstrates pure form, his strong sets punch a
hole in the wall. Gotta love this teacher! Below you’ll find him
in his relaxed fly guy state of mind, what a super-man!
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President’s Message
For the Year of the Monkey President’s message, I will share a part of West-Wind
history that has been kept a closely guarded secret taught only to our elite
Instructor’s Training Candidates for four decades: Master Lee’s Special-Squad
Shaolin story.
This epic tale chronicles the journey of a poor farm boy as he travels to the Shaolin
Temple and trains to become a Shaolin Monk. Master Lee used this tale to inspire our
Red Belts to persevere through the grueling Red Belt Program. I first heard this story
from my Sifu Master Flint in 1985, when I was a White Belt attending Instructor’s
Training. I’ve finally put their inspirational tale into writing, for all students to learn
from and enjoy.
We’ll share a chapter or two every month, until the journey is complete! I hope you
enjoy this tale as much as I did when I was a White Belt thirty years ago.
SHAOLIN
Chapter One: Two Times Down, Three Times Up
Long ago, in a poor village in ancient China, a young peasant boy was hard at work
in his family’s field. He was so intent on breaking the clods of dirt with his father’s
worn-out spade that he didn’t notice the intruders until their shadow fell across the
dusty earth at his feet. Looking up, he wiped the sweat from his brow and squinted in
the bright sunlight at six rough-looking men smirking down at him.
“Hey!” the meanest and toughest looking of the strangers shouted at the frightened
boy, “Is that your farmhouse over there? We’re hungry! Maybe your father or older
brothers can spare something to eat!” “My father died two years ago,” the honest boy
said, “And I don’t have any brothers. It’s just my
mother, little sister and me.”
As soon as the peasant boy said these words he regretted it. The leader of the
group’s smirk grew
even wider, and an evil gleam entered his eyes. “So you’re the big man of the
house?” the scruffy stranger laughed and turned to his filthy gang. “If only every
farmhouse was as easy to knock over as this, we’d be rich as the emperor by now!”
The little boy’s knees turned weak as he realized he was dealing with bandits, one of
the many cruel wandering gangs plaguing the valleys and fields of China to take what
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they wanted from the weak and poor. Even though he was only eleven years old, the
boy was tough and lean from his two year’s hard labor since his father’s death.
Making a decision he knew was probably suicide, the little boy tightened his grip on
the dull spade and walked in front of the gang’s leader, blocking the path to his family
home.
“You are not welcome here!” The boy tried to sound tough, but his raspy adolescent
voice cracked, sounding more like a squeaky mouse than a real man. The bandits
laughed, and their big leader slowly walked up to the boy. “Here’s what’s going to
happen next,” the bandit whispered, “I’m going to take that dirty shovel from you, beat
you into the dirt with it, and you’re going to lie down like the worm you are with your
face in the mud until I’m done here!”
The boy gulped down the lump in his throat, spread his feet apart and with all the
might in his wiry frame, without warning, slashed the edge of the spade straight at the
gang leader’s skull.
The next thing the boy knew he was face down in the dirt, his head ringing and blood
stinging his eyes from a gash on his forehead. The bandit was too strong, too fast
and too cunning for the honest farm boy to fight. In the blink of an eye the villain had
disarmed the boy, smashed him in the head and, as promised, beat the child into the
mud. The little boy never stood a chance.
“Don’t bother getting up, worm,” the bandit snarled, “I won’t be as nice next time!”
The boy huddled in the dirt and mud, blinking as the cut continued bleeding down his
face. He wanted to just curl up in a ball and hide. He wished his father were still alive.
He wished he were bigger and stronger.
The gang of bandits walked past the boy, some spitting on him, some laughing, some
kicking him
playfully as they passed. The peasant boy imagined them bursting through the flimsy
door of his poor
playfully as they passed. The peasant boy imagined them bursting through the flimsy
door of his poor farmhouse. He pictured his terrified little sister crying as they robbed
the house. His mother being beaten... or worse. Suddenly, the little boy felt a hot
flame rise in his chest. Without thinking, he sprang to his feet and jumped like a wild
animal on the leader’s back, scratching, biting and clawing like a demon.
“Ow! Get this kid off me! He’s crazy!” The muscular leader grabbed the scrawny boy
and easily slammed him to the ground. As the boy peered up though cloud of dust he
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saw the leader drag a rusty broadsword from a scabbard on his back. “Last chance,
kid!” the bandit shouted, “Stay down, or I’ll chop your flea-bitten head off!”
The farm boy knew he was beaten. He should just cower in the dirt, crying helplessly
until the bandits took everything from his family and moved on to their next victim. But
something in him refused to listen to reason. He wiped the blood from his eyes and
defiantly jumped to his feet again. The gang of bandits doubled over with laughter as
the child walked in front of their leader, firmly blocking the path. The leader was not
amused. The little boy looked into the thief’s eyes and saw violence, greed and evil
he had not known existed before. “You...” the little boy wheezed, still trying to fill his
lungs with air after being slammed into the earth, “Are not...welcome here!”
The leader drew his rusty sword back to strike as the little boy bared his teeth and
crouched like a dangerous cornered beast, ready to fight to the bitter end. Just as the
two unfairly matched opponents were poised for their battle to the death, a calm deep
voice rang out from the roadside.
“Two times down, three times up! That’s a good start!”
Chapter Two: The Teacher Appears
The little boy wrenched his eyes away from his enemy and spied a lean, smiling
Buddhist monk, head shaved and orange robe billowing, calmly striding down the
road with a heavy walking staff thumping the ground. It was impossible to say how
old the monk was; his serene face seemed ageless, filled with youthful vitality and
ancient wisdom at the same time.
“Leave us, monk!” the ringleader hissed, sword still poised like a cobra, ready to
attack. “This doesn’t concern you!”
The monk smiled as the other five ruffians fanned out, surrounding the holy man on
all sides.
“It concerns me greatly,” the monk shrugged his loose robe off and revealed a lean,
hard frame. The boy was shocked to see deep brands scarring the insides of the holy
man’s forearms, one in the shape of a snarling tiger, the other showing the outline of
a fierce dragon. The monk slowly folded his robe and set it carefully in the dust by his
walking staff.
“That’s my disciple you’re threatening,” the monk said. “He has a long journey ahead
of him, and no more time to waste with the likes of you.”
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The boy thought the priest must have mistaken him for someone else. He was just an
ignorant farm boy, not a Buddhist disciple. The gang leader noticed the boy’s
confusion, and turned to confront the monk.
“You’re lying,” the leader spat, “Why bother protecting some worthless dirty peasant?”
The monk took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “The wise Boddhidharma
teaches: ‘The secret to lasting success is this: Two times down, three times up.’ This
boy already knows, in his heart, the most valuable lesson of all. Boddhidharma
further informs us: ‘When the student is ready the teacher appears.’ My student is
ready. And so I have appeared!”
The bandit ringleader’s brow furrowed in bewilderment as his sword arm started
trembling.
“I’ve heard of you Zen priests! You spend half the day sitting on your butt humming,
and the other half dancing around like monkeys and tigers, pretending to be warriors!
Who ever heard of a warrior monk?” The leader grinned like a wolf while his gang
surrounded the calm monk and slowly drew hidden daggers and cudgels from their
shabby jackets. The thief turned his back on the boy and pointed the rusty blade
inches from the monk’s face. “Do ‘warrior monks’ drink dry water in the summer,” the
bandit sneered, “and make cold fires in the winter?”
The gang laughed at the oxymoronic idea of a man of peace and enlightenment who
could instantly transform into a god of death and war. They drew closer as the air
filled with the electric current of violence. The little boy knew this was his only chance
to run away, while the gang was distracted as they beat the monk senseless, or
worse, killed the holy man. He rose to his feet, took one cautious step back and
prepared to turn on his heel and flee. Then the serene Zen priest’s eyes slowly
opened. Looking past the circle of men surrounding him, the holy man locked eyes
with the farm boy. The little boy remembered the monk’s words: “When the student is
ready, the teacher appears.” The monk’s serene smile grew even wider. His calm
gaze seemed to say: “You don’t ever have to be scared or helpless or left in the dirt
again.” The
farm boy smiled back, no longer afraid. The boy balled his fists up, grit his teeth and
made a decision that
farm boy smiled back, no longer afraid. The boy balled his fists up, grit his teeth and
made a decision that would forever change his life. He took a step toward his
teacher.
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Just then the gang leader gave a small nod. Like a crashing wave all six bandits
surged toward the monk, rusty sword swinging, daggers stabbing, clubs swishing
through the air. The next few moments passed like a blur, seeming like an impossible
dream to the simple boy. The monk flickered through the air, leaping, twisting, kicks
flying, fingers slashing, fists striking. In two seconds the six bandits lay in the dirt,
howling in pain. One bandit was clutching a stump of bone protruding from his
fractured knee. Another was screaming as he pawed insanely at bloody eye sockets.
One was thrashing in the dirt, clutching his collapsed windpipe. One was retching in
the dust doubled over with the pain of ruptured testicles. The fifth gang member
wasn’t moving at all, the side of his skull caved in. The monk was crouched over the
gang leader, gripping the thug’s head in iron-hard claws, twisting the bandit’s neck
painfully to the side. The boy was reminded of the golden hawks that swooped down
to snatch helpless rabbits from his fields.
“You have been a very bad man,” the monk whispered in the bandit’s ear. “But the
Buddha teaches us forgiveness. In all of us there awaits the chance for redemption.”
The bandit watched as his gang member with the crushed trachea twitched in his
death throes. He looked at his surviving band of thieves, sobbing and bleeding in the
dirt.
“Please, spare me master!” the bandit sobbed, knowing death hovered above him.
“I will give you a choice,” the monk whispered. “Your old life is over. You may die
clinging to your former selfish ways. Or, you may choose a new life, starting from this
moment.”
“I don’t want to die!” the thief whimpered.
“Then you may live here, on this farm, using your great strength and cunning to work
these fields as an honest man while my student embarks on a great journey.”
“Y-Yes, whatever you say!” the thief whimpered.
“This is the only life I offer you.” The monk released his victim, and kindly brought the
shaking man to his feet. “If you break our agreement to choose the wrong path again,
I will never rest until I find you and end your evil ways.”
The bandit watched in horror as the man with the compound fracture slowly bled out
from his ruptured femoral artery, dark blood staining the dry soil.
“I will obey,” the bandit said, bowing until he knelt in the dirt at the monk’s feet.
The monk picked up his orange robe and staff, and handed them to the boy.
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“Say goodbye to your mother and sister,” the monk said. “From this moment on I am
your teacher
and you are my student. Even when it seems I am miles away or years apart, I will
always be guiding you. Today you begin your training as a Shaolin Monk!”
“Shaolin? Little Forest?” the boy asked, dumbstruck by the morning’s bizarre events.
“Where’s Shaolin?”
The monk’s kind eyes crinkled up as he bellowed out a rich laugh. “Finding the
temple? That’s a good start!”
End of First Installment: Check in next month as the farm boy’s journey to the
Shaolin Temple continues!
Mr. Hua found the temple
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