When Master Jihan Jae asked me to come to San Francisco and insisted that I drive instead of fly, I wasn’t reluctant to do so. I had known of Jihan Jae’s grandmaster status, the highest in the world of Hapkido, for a very long time; and when I had finally convinced him to train me, I was already a Black Belt.

It was the first time I would train with an Asian instructor as well. To that point, all my instructors had been Americans and I felt a bit more pressure training with someone native to the culture that created the martial arts. I felt as if I would be required to reach greater heights than any of my other training.

Pressure aside, I knew there was more to learn, so I drove eight hours and paid him $100 an hour for three hours of instruction, in advance. That was more than 15 years ago; and, then, $100 was an even more exorbitant rate than it is now. For three times that much, I expected some high-quality instruction.

After I arrived at the grandmaster’s dojo and completed my warm-up routine, we went onto the mat, and began the lesson. Ten minutes into the lesson, the grandmaster asked me to perform a sidekick, which I, of course, did. He then informed me that my toes were “up” during the kick. As you probably know, your toes are supposed to be down during the kick. I was aware of this mistake in my technique and responded to his criticism with a flippant, “I know.”

Upon hearing this remark, the grandmaster bowed to me and replied, “Good, then you don’t need me,” and walked away from the lesson. That’s it! It was over! Enraged at my lost money and time, I packed my car and headed home, cursing the name Jihan Jae during my eight-hour drive to L.A.

When I arrived at home and had cooled my heels, I realized, however, why he had made me drive to San Francisco. I called the grandmaster later and apologized for running my mouth, and he agreed to train me again. The time I spent reflecting on my behavior during the drive, luckily, led to an apology and a mended relationship.

The lesson I learned was not to talk back to my teacher. His point was that if I knew my form was wrong, then I truly didn’t need him. I had made a comment without really thinking it through, disrespecting his role as a teacher by telling him what I did incorrectly. I forgot that my role as a student was to listen and learn.

At that moment, Jihan Jae became my teacher as opposed to my instructor, or a personal trainer, whose motivations lie mostly with the physical aspects of training and not with my character, with which the grandmaster was concerned. During that initial meeting, I had proven to him that my character needed a little shaping, and he had proven that to me through the school of hard knocks.

Now, he could have overlooked my little outburst and continued to train me. In fact, his method was far more immediate and intrusive-and I learned that lesson quick, let me tell you. As students, it’s important to remember that it’s not our place to question what our teacher tells us, or why. As instructors, we’re required to teach lessons effectively, sometimes with or without tough love, but always to teach the lesson.

Jihan Jae taught me that lesson, and, after I called him with my apology, he accepted my request to train me. From that point forward, I didn’t talk back, and I was a good student, and the grandmaster was a great teacher.

As I approached the end of the pier, I noticed a large barrel by the door of one of the restaurants. As I moved closer, I could see that the barrel was full of live crabs-clawing, clanking, crawling all over each other. I looked around and saw no one near the barrel, and I thought to myself, “How could anyone leave a barrel full of crabs outside? Wouldn’t more than one of them with aspirations of sweet freedom crawl from the barrel and take a headlong dive into the deep blue sea? This was bad business practice,” I said, so I went inside to tell the manager my thoughts.

I found the head honcho and began to explain. What were you thinking? A bucket full of live crabs near the water? I told him he was a fool to leave so much of his business to chance, and at the sound of these words, the man replied emphatically, “You’re the fool,” he told me calmly. “Go outside and watch those crabs!”

I wondered what he was exactly saying. Perhaps, there was someone outside watching the beasts to make sure they wouldn’t escape; some young teenager, perhaps, in need of a summer job to pay for his martial arts classes. Perhaps, there was a clear lid on top of the barrel I had missed during my earlier observation.

As I walked outside, I noticed that there was no one watching the crabs and no lid over them, but what I did see was remarkable. If one of the animals attempted to crawl over the side of the barrel during their orgiastic clambering, then the others around it would latch onto it and pull it into the abyss of crab Hades. None of the crabs could escape because the others made sure it didn’t; it’s in their nature.

There was a lesson to be learned on that pier. There are crab equivalents in my life, I thought. There are those around me that try to pull me back when I have my eyes on the prize; the kind of people who, not always intentionally, draw me from the goals I’ve set for myself.

We all want to escape the bucket; in fact, we go to great lengths to make sure that someday we will. We all have crabs around us, however; boyfriend or girlfriend crabs, mother/father crabs, best friend crabs, and the people (crabs) who invite us to a movie when it’s time to train. Maybe, it’s in people’s nature as well; after all, no one wants to go to a movie alone.

I then realized there isn’t much I’m able to do to minimize my contact with some of those people because they’re so close to me. What I can do, however, is keep my eyes on the prize, stay focused on my vision and follow my flight plan. The crabs may grab my body with their claws, but if my mind is able to escape their grip, then the body will soon follow.

The grip of prying claws may not be easy to escape, but there are great rewards beyond the boundaries of the confining barrel. If you’re able to identify those who are keeping you back and free yourself from the allure of non-action, then you will find a vast ocean of opportunities waiting for you, as well.

Fariborz Azhakh is the owner and head instructor of Team Karate Centers Inc. in Woodland Hills, California, and produces martialinfo.com, one of world’s largest and most prestigious martial arts Web sites.

Often, in the struggle for balance, however, we forget just how much we should be doing. In one of my previous columns, “The Game of Running a Martial Arts School,” I presented the four levels of dedication: 1) Choosing not to play; 2) just playing; 3) not to lose; and 4) WIN, What’s Important Now. Most of us will find ourselves at one or more of these levels; and they relate directly to our struggle for balance in our lives. When you’re fully dedicated to the tasks at hand, the balance of work and play is easy to find and maintain. You will do what must be done and still have time to relax and play.

Many of us, however, live unbalanced lives. We don’t take care of business before pleasure. Our lives are filled with too many tasks and responsibilities. This is a common problem because we often forget exactly what we should be doing and, instead, focus our attention on all the extra activities. This loss of focus is what leads us astray from our goals and, as those who have been lost know, it’s not easy to return to your focused track.

For the most part, however, our inherent feelings or social upbringing helps us to know what we should do to succeed during our lives, and those are our flight plans. Everything else is a distraction.

I’ve known many martial arts school owners who, instead of teaching a basic curriculum from which their students are able to build knowledge, teach less useful, unnecessary course material; perhaps, techniques those school owners have invented, but are counterintuitive to the present curriculum. These confuse students and stunt the learning process. School owners who forget the basics may create Web sites for their schools, but not a basic brochure. In either instance, the school owner is failing to take care of basics first.

From another perspective, if I don’t dedicate sufficient time and energy to my marriage to my wife’s satisfaction, then whenever I buy her flow­ers, etc., she will see that gesture as trite and patronizing. If I’m an inattentive marriage part­ner, then I’ve overlooked a basic part of my life, and all the extras I expect from life become unnecessary and meaningless.

It’s a little known fact that, during a flight from Los Angeles to San Francisco, a plane is off-course 98% of the time. Minor corrections by the pilot, however, ensure the flight arrives at its destination, on time, and with no detours. As soon as the pilot notices that the plane is off-course, he makes a small adjustment. The passengers are satisfied because they arrive on time, and it’s because the pilot sticks to the flight plan.

Too many of us don’t have a flight plan for our lives and sometimes it’s difficult to know when we’re off course. For the most part, however, our inherent feelings or social upbringing helps us to know what we should do to succeed during our lives, and those are our flight plans. Everything else is a distraction.

Fariborz Azhakh is the owner and head instructor of Team Karate Centers Inc. in Woodland Hills, California, and produces martialinfo.com, one of world’s largest and most prestigious martial arts Web sites.

Whenever someone enters the game, his or her dedication will match one of four different levels.

Imagine a square with four sections, each representing one of the four levels of dedication. Each section is a higher level of dedication; therefore, the higher the goals, the greater the reward. At which level a teacher is placed depends on many factors, including how he or she perceives his or her role as a teacher.

The first and lowest level is “Choosing not to play.” This level is for those who, although they entered the game, did so with minimal intent to play the game and become good teachers. Perhaps, these teachers open schools, don’t play and assume their lack of effort will be rewarded. They are not focused on their businesses. They won’t attend conventions or gather statistics on their schools.

“Things will just fall into place,” they may say. Without so much as raising a finger, they will decline into oblivion, forgotten, if lucky, by their students, without making much of a positive impact on their lives.

The second level is what I call, “Just playing.” Teachers at this level let their moods and situations determine their dedication, and are then capricious, changing their minds daily about what they should be doing. They let the mood of the day determine their students’ quality of training. Obviously, the second level isn’t much better than the lowest level; and students suffer most from these teachers’ lack of dedication.

It’s the inconsistency that hurts. One day, a teacher has a good mood and he or she decides to teach. If the teacher has a bad mood because there are problems or crises in the school or his or her personal life, then he or she decides not to teach, and the students suffer.

The third level is called, “Not to Lose.” Those who operate at this level play the game with the sole intention of not losing-not necessarily winning, but certainly not losing.

Third-level teachers will do anything not to lose, and feed their egos. If they are successful and look good, then they don’t care about others. These teachers avoid attachments with other humans, since that may increase the possibility of failure. Because of this self-centered nature, those stuck at the third level haven’t made any improvements compared to teachers at the other two levels. It’s merely a different way to fail at the game.

Third-level teachers are those who believe that their techniques or styles are the only legitimate styles, and they are driven to prove the flaws in all other styles. They teach only to better their names, but, of course, in so doing, create the opposite effect.

The only real way to play this game-and win-is called “WIN: What’s Important Now.” Teachers at this level not only make sure they, but also all of their students, do their very best, and progress as much as possible during classes.

Teachers at the highest level help everyone win. Through vision and altruism, they create a community, not just operate schools. It’s not just my school or your school, but a network of schools and visions that ultimately unite to serve the common goal that everyone wins.

As school owners, we are already players in this game. The question is “At what level do you want to play?” A person who sees himself as a hammer sees all others as nails. Do you want to be the hammer, the nail or neither? I believe that all teachers have a responsibility to their students to be neither and to consider their successes as their own because only then do both teachers and students win.

We sometimes host birthday parties for the younger children and, as part of the party, we cut the birthday cake with a samurai sword. It’s just a bit of fun; the kids like it, and it’s a nice ending to the birthday ceremony.

At one of these birthday parties, a young boy came with his elder Japanese grandfather, who, upon entering the building, sat slumped in the corner and watched the birthday activities without much interest.

At the end of the ceremony, I prepared to cut the cake with the sword as usual, but at the sight of the sword, the old man in the corner began to take notice. His eyes were fixed on me, his back straightened as though his grade school teacher had walked by with a ruler, and he seemed to come alive at the sight of this sword.

I wondered what had made this man so alert and intent all of a sudden, since he followed me with his eyes when I crossed the room with the sword toward the birthday cake. When I pressed the sword into the cake, from the corner of my eye I could see the old man shrink to his old, disinterested self, no doubt disappointed by the meaningless display of the sacred sword.

From the instant that old man shrank in disappointment, I experienced a personal failure, and when I made the decision not to use a sword in an inappropriate manner, I experienced a personal victory. Without a single word having been exchanged between us, the old man had taught me so much. I now have a renewed respect for the sword and its meaning, especially in the way of the samurai. At the heart of this respect, I believe, is the desire to preserve the way of the past. As the world around us continuously changes, most of us who practice and teach the martial arts recognize the value of tradition and the importance of keeping it.

As martial arts instructors, teaching our students the traditions of martial arts culture is just as important as the training. Our duty goes beyond merely teaching moves; it includes philosophy as well, and part of that philosophy is respecting the tools we use to empower ourselves, among them the samurai sword.

Many Japanese warriors shed their blood on a thousand miles of battlefield to protect what was sacred to them, and the symbol of their dedication is the sword. The Bushido Code itself makes a strong point of samurai keeping their military equipment in working order and high regard, and asserts that Japanese culture is different from others in that “even lower-class people, such as farmers, merchants and artisans all treasure a rusty short sword.”

As a symbol, the samurai sword empowers its owner, and as a weapon, its deadliness is matched only by its beauty. Such an icon deserves respect, and, as such, shouldn’t be used to cut mere cakes at the behest of young students.

Now, reflecting on my past usage of the sword, I see it was disgraceful. Having been taught a lesson, however, I now know that certain things may seem commonplace, but the reason for that is based on a deep tradition, and we should never forget or violate that tradition.

During the course of our travels through life, it’s a commonly accepted fact that what bring us the greatest joy can often bring us the most troublesome worries as well. When my son, Aria, was born, the great joy my wife and I experienced was matched only by the anxiety we felt when he contracted a strong fever. After a call to the doctor and a recommendation to check into the hospital and some x-rays, we found our son was stricken with a bout of pneumonia. Being only six weeks old at the time, we were terribly frightened about his prospects.
After some time in the hospital, the doctor explained that we could take him home if we administered a specific antibiotic because he needed it right away. We rushed to the pharmacy for the prescription, but its stock was depleted. Not one to be deterred, I decided to proceed to the next pharmacy, and perhaps it would be able to fill the prescription.
As I was preparing to leave the first pharmacy, however, I noticed a young woman, perhaps 25 years old, behind the counter. I’ll never forget that her nametag read, “Sarah,” and before I had an opportunity to turn and leave, she asked me, “Are you Fariborz?”

Being preoccupied with my son’s health, I had no time to discern how she knew me, and impulsively replied, “Yes.”

She then told me that when she was ten, she took Karate lessons from me, 14 years ago. After we reminisced about our past, my thoughts returned to my son, so she asked me what I wanted. I explained the situation and she affirmed that, yes, the pharmacy could not fill my prescription for that particular medicine, but she offered to call other pharmacies to see if they had it in stock.

After a round of phone calls that lasted half an hour, she discovered that no pharmacy in the San Fernando Valley had the medicine. In my head echoed the doctor’s admonition, “Give this medicine to your baby within a couple of hours.” Sarah’s meticulous assumption of the task at hand, however, translated into ease for my family and me. It seemed that she had made acquiring the medicine that would save my son her business, and I was thoroughly impressed.

Through her resilience, she paged and talked with our doctor; and, when briefed on the situation at hand, he revised the prescription and wrote us a substitute.

We sometimes don’t know how effective we are, as martial arts teachers. Perhaps, students learn well and accomplish their goals, but we’re not really aware of the full impact we’ve had on them. A Black Belt earned is no indication of how the student will remember his or her teacher.

This was one of those moments, however, when I realized how important it is to make sure that each student is given something, some kind of connection with their teacher that they will carry with them and remember for the rest of their lives. If I hadn’t made the impression I had on Sarah, I don’t know how I would have found the correct medicine for my ailing son in time. By touching someone’s heart 14 years, I ensured that my memory would be recalled with fondness; and even though it took more than a decade for that to come back around to me, it did, and it couldn’t have been timelier.

Making students feel special and creating a connection is how we, as teachers, create the kind of teaching environment that becomes mutually beneficial. When every student is treated as an individual, learning becomes more than a task, it becomes a symbiosis and a joy for both teacher and student to accomplish.

As each student walks into your school, remember that no other student is like he or she; and he or she, in turn, will remember that there is no other teacher like you.