The air was muggy and fetid in the Long Beach Sports Arena on that summer day in 1964. The air conditioning was malfunctioning and the crowd at the international Karate Tournament was getting restless after watching hours of matches. Then Ed Parker, sponsor of the annual event, took the microphone and introduced Bruce Lee, who was to put on a demonstration of jeet-kune-do. There was an instant hush and all heads craned forward. Before his movie career began Bruce Lee was already a legend among martial arts.
Bruce walked onto the elevated boxing ring wearing a simple, black, tailor-made kung-fu uniform. He spoke quietly for a few moments about his art and then began the demonstration. It is always impressive to watch a large muscular man perform karate, overwhelming the observer with a display of sheer; vibrant power. But to me, it is even more impressive to see a slightly built man executing techniques with blinding speed, his motions as quick and elegant as those of a bird in flight.
Some weeks later a friend arranged for me to meet Bruce, from whom I hoped to take private lessons. Bruce was highly selective about the students he chose to teach, and this meeting was to be kind of audition for me.
Since he gave only private lessons and had no formal studio, the meeting was at my home. He arrived promptly and I went out into the front yard to meet him. At first glance he appeared even smaller than he looked on stage. He was wearing snug fitting, full-length athletic pants and a green tank top shirt that revealed rippling muscles. He was smiling when we shook hands, but he quickly got to the point.
‘Why do you want to study with me?’, He asked.
“Because I was impressed with your demonstration and because I’ve heard you are the best.”
“You have studied other martial arts ?” he asked.
“For a long time,” I answered, “but I stopped some time ago and now I want to start over again”
Bruce nodded and asked me to demonstrate some of the techniques I already knew. We went out to my drive way and he watched intently as I went through the various katas, or exercises, from other disciplines. Then he asked me to execute some basic kicks, blocks, and punches on a bag hanging from a rafter of the garage.
“Do you realize you will have to unlearn all you have learned and start over again?”, he asked.
”No”, I said.
Bruce smiled and placed his hand lightly on my shoulders. “Let me tell you a story my Sifu taught me,”, he said.
“It is about the Japanese Zen master who received a university professor who came to inquire about Zen.
“It was obvious to the master from the start of the conversation that the professor was not so much interested in learning about Zen as he was in impressing the master with his opinions and knowledge. The master listened patiently and finally suggested they have Tea. The master poured his visitor’s cup full and then kept on pouring.
“The professor watched the cup overflowing until he could no longer restrain himself.
‘The cup is overfull, no more will go in’
“ ‘Like this cup’, the master said, ‘You are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?’ “
Bruce studied my face. “You understand the point?”
“Yes” I said. “You want me to empty my mind of past knowledge and old habits so that I will be open to new learning.”
“Precisely,” said Bruce. “And now we are ready to begin your first lesson.”
This does not mean that Bruce prevented me from applying a critical mind to his teaching. In fact, he welcomed discussion, even argument. But when challenged too long on a point his reply was always, “At least empty your cup and try.”
It has been more than a decade since my first lesson with Bruce, and I am now in my mid-fifties. With half a century of life experience behind me, I sometimes get impatient with a new idea or technique. But when I feel impatient or act dogmatically self-assured, I remind my-self of the lesson Bruce taught me, and I try to empty my cup to make room for new methods and ideas.
- an excerpt from JOE HYAMS`s writing collections on martial arts.
