Saturday, January 5, 2013

Karate Kid-ness

Ernie-Sensei stayed two days after Gasshuku 2012. Time is the most precious gift we can give, and he made a difference by staying.

Usually I have pretty severe issues with trust to the end that I fall mute.  But I trust Tony-Sensei so entirely that it freaks me out!  I'm not used to being allowed to not know everything.  He keeps me out of my head, includes me.  No over-thinking neurophysiology, just kick.  Don't stand in the back of the dojo so I can hear, just come up and be with the group, catch up on details later.  Tony-Sensei is teaching me far more than kicks and punches.

At Karate I am completely open and happy, which I haven't been since I was five, before my family situation went south.  Ernie-Sensei said, "We never lose our kid-ness," and I understood for the first time that I was nascent in a new way.  I wrote it down, reflected on it, scribbled it down at work when I was being too serious.

The worst thing one can do to a giving person is not let them give.  I have taken to Tony-Sensei quite fondly, to the point that it makes me nervous how much I care for him.  I want him to be well and happy, I wonder if he's eaten, if he needs help sweeping the dojo floors.  Any gift I can bring to the dojo, I want to give.  But it gets in the way of my training to think about these other things.  The best thing I can do for Tony-Sensei is be a successful karateka.  He's the only one who would give me a chance, and he looks after me so carefully, while not treating me as delicately as I feel treated at all my medical appointments.  But the way to give thanks is to work hard and learn well; Sensei-Tony is giving me knowledge and experience that are brand new to me.

Growing up, teachers and coaches blamed me for getting hurt, and all I wanted was to play.  Swimming, hockey and tennis were my favourite sports, but I couldn't play because I couldn't keep my joints in place, or stave off the exhaustion.  They said I was faking, lazy, wanting attention.  I didn't have a diagnosis or adequate medical care until I was 25, so the experience of mistrust is deeply rooted in every past trial and error.  Tony-Sensei has taken a different approach, keeping an eye out for me in class, pushing me to succeed by accepting my limitations.  Every expression he makes of that acceptance knocks the wind right out of me and I have to fight tears at every class. That's when the practice means the most; it's the first time I've ever been encouraged to push my body in a way that won't cause me physical or psychological injury (save for the wonderful work my physiotherapist has done with me).  I don't think my Sensei has any idea what a gift he is, because maybe he, too, is burdened with the pain of other trial-and-error events of his own.  We all have our burdens to bear, and that's where hope carries us toward better developments of self.

Ernie-Sensei demonstrated ways to pair up parents and their children to encourage play, something my parents gave up on doing because our circumstances had become very stressful.  Last week I did my first roundhouse kicks!  Tony-Sensei held the pillow, and cried out playfully, pretending it hurt.  In a flash I remembered my grandfather, how he used to play with me, pretending he hit his thumb with a hammer, or pretending to startle and putting up his dukes when I'd wake him up (because he'd been pretending to be asleep!).  I finally remembered what it meant to play, and I still haven't sorted out the feelings at work which are trying desperately to reconcile a lifetime of abuse and neglect.  I thought, if my Sensei has been through so much in his life and can still play, then so can I.  With that I let myself be innocent, fun, and in full-force kid-ness mode.  It turns out I have a lot more energy than I thought when I just let it go!

It's so overwhelming how deeply I am affected by my new adventure that I'm in tears as I write this. Here's a peek into the reasons:
-Travesty: Nobody ever played with me the way my grandfather did, and that's a shame.  I miss Papa, who never blamed or hit me, just gave me encouragement in the weird ways he could, taught me life skills that nobody else did.
-Curiosity: Every time I learn something my body can do, all the stuff I can't do comes up in my memory.  The adrenaline of suffering is very frightening!  A little bird told me, though, that right on the other side of that pain is relief.  I want to see what that feels like.
-Safety: No one is going to walk away if I pass out, dislocate, get sick, or anything else beyond my control.  No one is going to hit me if I cry out in pain so that I have "something to cry about."  They're going to help with prevention and response.  And, it's going to be fine.
-Relief: It's been very hard to find community in Maryland.  After eleven years here this dojo is the first place where it's not "every man for himself," but rather, "help your partner be the best they can be."
-Fear: 100% of my day, I am hyper-vigilant and anxious about the next time I will get sick, because I am afraid I will miss my new karate family, and the loss will be terrible.  In reality, that won't happen; they'll stay in touch.
-Joy: Pure, unbridled joy.

6:30am.  It's almost time for karate!  Saturday morning never looked so good.

Be well.

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