Nov. 28, 2016 "The peace that lies behind the punch": Today I found this life essay by Tom Du in the Globe and Mail:
I always thought I knew how to throw a punch. It’s simple, I told myself.
But I was wrong.
Several years ago, I joined a martial-arts school with two friends. We walked in like curious kindergartners, listening to our teacher with a peculiar mix of apprehension and excitement.
We trained hard into the cold winter evenings, repeating countless blocks until our muscles ached and dark bruises snaked across our forearms. Amidst the repetition, we gradually uncovered our own vulnerabilities and strengths.
I vividly remember my third class when another student barrelled toward me with raised fists. I can still feel my heart pounding in my chest and my eyes madly scanning for an exit. Any exit.
I think back to my ruthless bully – Henry, I think – when I was seven years old. In that moment, my mind screams at me to run and be afraid. Because, make no mistake, I am afraid.
The student is now less than two steps from me and I’m still frantically thinking about what I’m supposed to do.
Do I move forward? How should I be standing? What if I just flail my arms clumsily to distract him from my equally clumsy kick?
As his right fist shoots forward, something happens. I suddenly stop overthinking and everything slows down.
The fear is still there. It does not disappear.
But I hold onto that shred of serenity and my hands somehow dart out to meet his oncoming punches.
I have since struggled with this inherent contradiction in martial arts.
A contradiction nestled between an ostensibly violent exterior and the need for a peaceful mindset.
Indeed, the purpose of martial arts is widely misunderstood, twisted by Hollywood and fuelled by misguided stereotypes.
Martial arts is not merely about fighting;
its purpose is profoundly philosophical and personal.
Martial-arts training, then, is like rereading a favourite book.
One can appreciate unseen details in the second reading or the hundredth reading.
One just needs to be willing to open that book with an eye on the journey and not the endpoint.
And the journey is neither easy nor direct.
It is equal parts perseverance, curiosity and humility.
It is about constantly balancing – not suppressing – instinct, emotion and reason.
I didn’t always think like that though. I downright resisted it. I was younger and more rigid then; I wanted to somehow “master” my martial art. I trained up to four days a week and, in turn, I dislocated my shoulder and injured my knee. I pushed myself hard – but with an eye on the wrong goal.
No matter how hard one trains, there will always be someone better. In fact, I have never felt as humbled as the afternoon I was (easily) taken down by an elderly martial artist. Ego slightly bruised, I learned a lot about myself that day.
Perceptions of winning and losing can be distracting.
Comparisons can be self-destructive.
And illusions of knowledge can be the most dangerous of all.
So, perhaps Socrates was right – perhaps knowing you know nothing is the key to self-cultivation and mindfulness.
Imagine trying to maintain that mindfulness after taking two hits to the ribs in a sparring match.
Imagine looking at your sparring partner not as a hostile opponent but as a respected peer.
Imagine stripping away your daily stress to focus on the present, to focus on mindfulness and balance.
For me, that balance is central to both martial arts and everyday life. It brings a sense of appreciation to those Monday morning meetings and urgent deadlines. In all likelihood, I may never fully achieve that balance – and that’s okay – because striving for balance opens the door for less obvious training.
Things such as tenacity, personal awareness and adaptability cannot be taught. These can only be fostered through training – and, more importantly, failure.
When I fail to disarm an attacker with a knife in training, it sparks personal questions such as, “How can I better control my attacker’s wrist without committing my hands?”
Similarly, failing to land a kick does not lessen its value as a kick; failure adds to my understanding of the kick, its applications and myself.
I’ll likely never need to fight in my daily life, but that doesn’t diminish the value of any lesson.
Those lessons have introduced a more focused, balanced and peaceful mindset to my life.
Ultimately, I would not be on this journey without the guidance of my teacher, Sifu Calvin Chung.
There is more to martial arts than physical techniques and I am indebted to the many layers of his teachings. I also appreciate my martial-arts peers for their support and willingness to explore the very purpose of our training.
Because training to punch is more than just training a punch.
It represents an intensely personal journey.
A journey that frees us from the fallacies and fears that too often characterize everyday life and the modern human condition.
A journey that illuminates the value of a peaceful mindset in everyday life.
So, after years of training, I have to admit I still don’t know how to throw a punch.
But then again, that was never really the point.
Mar. 23, 2017 "When push comes to shove": Today I found this life essay by Florence McCambridge in the Globe and Mail:
I’m lying in corpse pose at the end of my vinyasa flow; eyes closed, trying to breathe calmly in and out through my nose. But my eyebrows are furrowed and my jaw is clenched. I’m not reconnecting with my breath or feeling any of the benefits of this final relaxation. Instead, I’m thinking about the girl who shoved me last night.
I’m lying in corpse pose at the end of my vinyasa flow; eyes closed, trying to breathe calmly in and out through my nose. But my eyebrows are furrowed and my jaw is clenched. I’m not reconnecting with my breath or feeling any of the benefits of this final relaxation. Instead, I’m thinking about the girl who shoved me last night.
My yoga teacher tells us to slowly make our way out of savasana and up to sitting, but I don’t hear her.
I’m too busy replaying the events of the night before in my mind. A complete stranger walked up to me on the street and asked me for money. I ignored her – and then she shoved me.
By the time we bring our hands together in prayer position and whisper “Namaste,” I am pissed off. Not just that this stranger pushed me, but that I did nothing about it. My instinct was to not react, to just keep walking.
I didn’t sleep the night it happened.
I was afraid that I’d have the dream I’d had many times before. Someone is chasing me and when they reach out to grab me, I try to scream but nothing comes out. I wake up sweating, but I can always reassure myself: it was just a dream. And I fall back asleep knowing that if it really happened, I’d scream. I’d do something.
Only now I knew that wasn’t true. I did nothing.
I bow to my yoga teacher. This is her fault. She’s done nothing to prepare me for being attacked on the street.
Yoga teaches you to be present, to focus on this moment.
It teaches you not to worry about what comes next because you can’t control or change it.
But if I’d done something to prepare for being assaulted, maybe I could have defended myself. Maybe I would have pushed back.
That’s how I found myself at a Krav Maga class.
Through some frantic Internet research, I’d discovered that this form of martial arts, originally developed for the Israeli armed forces but adapted for use by law enforcement and civilians, was probably my best bet for learning to defend myself.
The instructor gave me a rundown of what to expect. The focus of Krav Maga isn’t just to learn how to fight, he explained. “The techniques you learn in this class could save your life.”
He went on with his best sales pitch and I was convinced that this would become a new way of life for me.
No more noodle arms. No more yoga class. I’d keep my pastel-coloured breakfast smoothies, but I would damn well add some protein powder to them.
By the time the instructor pressed play on the angry-rock playlist, I was ready to learn how to fight.
I regretted the colour of my shirt immediately. Everyone else was in black, or at least sombre grey. My partner for the day would describe my bright purple T-shirt as “peppy.”
So now in addition to the sparring gloves and groin guard that I’d have to buy for my new, kick-ass life, I’d also need to pick up some more serious workout attire.
For the next hour, I hit with everything I had. My knuckles turned bright red and burned. My arms felt like jelly after only the first round of punches. My partner told me I was doing a great job. I thanked her while drilling my knee into the padded shield she held in place for me.
“Groin kicks!” The instructor commanded, reminding us to use our shins not our feet. I made a mental note.
I caught on faster than I thought I would. It’s easy to see how the moves would become instinctive with enough practice.
I left the gym with sore knuckles, an aching back and the overwhelming desire to keep punching. I walked home going over what I’d learned:
jab fingers into eyes;
aim for the bridge of the nose;
kick kneecaps hard.
I heard footsteps following a bit too close behind me. I crossed to the other side of the street. The man didn’t follow me. Turned out he was just in a rush.
But what if he had followed me?
It would take me years in training to increase my odds of survival in a serious attack and even then, when faced with the real thing, would I be any better off?
I had done the right thing in crossing to the other side of the street. It’s what I should have done the night that girl shoved me.
If I had taken a better route home, which I normally do, and if I’d been more aware of my surroundings, which I normally am, I could have avoided the whole thing.
I should have done what yoga taught me to do. I should have been present. Then I would be coming home from yoga class feeling grateful for what my body is capable of, instead of coming home from a self-defence class feeling terrified of what it isn’t.
I didn’t go back to Krav Maga.
Instead, I’m back in corpse pose at the end of my vinyasa flow; eyes closed, breathing calmly in and out through my nose. My eyebrows and jaw are soft. I’m reconnecting with my breath.
I’m still thinking about the girl who shoved me, but with one final cleansing breath, I decide to let it go.
Florence McCambridge lives in Toronto.
My opinion: I probably would have kept walking too. Probably thrown in: "Don't touch me!"
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