Robin-do

I was teaching Aikido in Austin when Robin first crossed my path as a student. He was a young man with a full head of hair, an early beard, and a solid build. He had an innocence about him, which I mistook for naivety at the time.

Twenty-two years later, I stand at Robin's memorial, listening to his friends and family eulogize him. They speak of his kindness, compassion, and ever-present smile. They recall his innocent fascination with the world around him, which he carried with him even during his long battle with cancer. For three years, he would get knocked down and then get up. Exhausted and overwhelmed by the cancer, he told his beloved wife that he was not giving up, but that he was just tired. Later that day, he closed his eyes and died at home, surrounded by his loved ones.

I was shocked and angry at his death. Shocked because I expected him to survive. And angry because it was unfair. Underneath the anger was hurt and fear. Robin's passing was an unexpected reminder that my own time on this earth is neither permanent nor perfect.

While Robin's body had died, his soul's residue is all over his world. The love with which he embraced his wife, family, and friends. His rising up every time the disease pulled him down. And his steadfastness and centeredness in the hurricane of his precious life's fate.

The love, his smile, and his courage remain like whispers of an art well practiced. He expressed joy and gratitude, and in the latter days of his life, contemplated death with grace and dignity. He was not naive. It was the way of Robin.  Robin-do.