A few days ago I got a phone call with news that my old friend, Keo Power, had committed suicide. I was shocked at first. Less than a day later I was remembering the times he had said that he’d rather put a bullet in his head than…die slowly of some horrible disease or be incapacitated, or whatever condition of perceived hopelessness it was at that moment. It’s hard to say this, but knowing Keo as a man of action—sometimes volatile action—I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked that this is the way in which his life ended. I don’t know the exact conditions that triggered him into killing himself, and I certainly don’t want to play armchair psychologist, but…how hopeless he must have felt. It makes me sad.

Keo loved to create—much of the time for others. He was an extremely generous guy. My world has his handiwork everywhere. I walk in the dojo and there’s not a spot that he hasn’t built or touched in some way—the mat, the weapons racks, the dressing rooms, the frame for the stained glass that he installed as a surprise one night after everyone left the dojo, the old “Aikido of Mission Valley” sign that he carved for me. As I walk through my home I notice tools he gave me before he left for Japan and the stovetop espresso maker he gave me. He was serious about his coffee even when he was living out of his van, and he felt that I should be too. I still use it for camping.

Keo was also an Aikidoist and a student at our dojo for several years. He got his Ni-Dan with us. The fact that he was a close friend before he started training with me was sometimes a challenge, because we didn’t always agree when it came to Aikido. He often had a hard time going in the direction I encouraged while still honoring his previous training, which was the stated reason he came to me. That was a source of both appreciation and frustration for me. With that said, he had his moments of greatness on the mat and he was a model of diligent training. That relationship taught me a lot about being a teacher who’s also a friend, and meeting people where they’re at without compromising my own principles.

It had been a while since I had seen Keo. He left San Diego a few years ago. I would occasionally hear from him, and was under the impression that things were going well for him. I took for granted that I would see him again, and that we’d sit down and share a few beers and talk about aikido, adventures, and women once more. We did that pretty often. Now that I know it won’t happen again, I miss him, and I’m grateful that we were in each other’s lives.