Perfect moments

"Why'd you join budo?" My sensei asked me the other day.

I remembered the moment I walked up to a stranger's garage at nineteen years old. I sat in a folding chair set up in the driveway to complete the mandatory observation of a two-hour class before I could be allowed to enroll.

Back then, my current sensei was someone I would call a "senpai." He was, at the time, the senior student of the dojo but not at an instructor level yet.

The senior sensei who taught us both was then in his mid-forties, with a gruff chin and sparkly eyes. To me, he was a never-before-seen mix of stern yet charming.

As I watched the class, he energetically led the group into fundamental drills, showing how it was done every step of the way. Sometimes, in a bout of teacher's passion, he would run inside the house and re-emerge to the garage carrying a human skeleton to show the students exactly which part of the bone they should be breaking in this particular technique.

It was probably weird. Definitely weird. But it was also a nerd's dream come true.

I remember the decision to join being quick but certain.

Within the first five minutes of watching that class, I just knew. I knew that this art would eventually consume me. No, that's not entirely right. Less than an hour in, I was already deep in its belly.

The principles the fundamentals were built upon made good and basic sense. Gravity. Positioning. Natural movement. Physics, anatomy, and poetry all combined into one like a perfectly crafted recipe. It seemed the unanswered life questions I had been carrying could all be sussed out here, within the training.

I desperately scribbled in a red spiral notebook with cartoon cats on the cover, trying to capture every concept before it vanished from my consciousness.

Nothing could have stopped me from training at that point.

And yet, our dojo has a hard time retaining members.

That's why I was asked why I train. Sensei figured if he could understand that, maybe he could find the students who would commit themselves for decades and not just for a few months. I had stuck around for twenty years, after all.

Side note: I never intended to write so much content about martial arts.

I don't compete, I don't work in security. I'm not high-ranking and don't even feel I am that good at it. I don't want to be attacked, and would never seek it out. And yet, I find a pure and spiritual joy in learning self-defense.

When a technique is properly done, it feels effortless. The bones have to line up just perfectly, but when they do, the strikes require no force at all. Opportunities appear as though placed by the divine as long as your vision is trained to see them.

The flow of natural movement syncs with the pull of gravity, and what for you feels like walking two steps with the mountain breeze in your hair, feels to your opponent like being hit by a brick wall before being dumped on the ground like a sack of garbage.

It can be described by no word other than — beautiful.

And once I experienced the possibility of beauty, I started to look for it more often. In my formerly templated life I begrudgingly followed the path that was laid out for me. But after training I began to wonder — what if I could make this moment beautiful? Could I line up my bones just so, coordinate my feet with my spirit, and emerge from this moment with intention and grace?

I suppose one could say, I found my budding agency.

My senior sensei used to say a phrase, paired with his signature wink, at the end of every class. "Keep-a-going!" It was our Japanese grandmaster's rough translation of the word, "ganbatte."

Sensei would remind us that after the battle is won, it is still not time to relax. Now is the time to tighten the chin straps on your helmet, re-tie your shoes, and continue training.

"So when do we get to relax then? When do we 'win'? When are we finally happy and loved and successful?" A part of every human brain complains.

Never, it seems.

And for the students who could not accept that reality, their time in the dojo was short.

So the real art, I learned, isn't about winning.

It's about finding moments of beauty.

Martial arts is about creating those brief instances when things have lined themselves up just so, moments when you can see invisible opportunities before you thanks to your well-trained vision.

The point of training is to live a life that no longer feels forced.

We are training for perfect moments, not perfect endings.

I realize the reason why new students leave the dojo is simple: it's hard.

The concepts break down everything you think you know. You realize your bodily awareness sucks. Drilling is tedious and effortful. There is no set technique, only endless variation and tests of creativity. There are no assured wins. And even when a battle is won, there is no reward.

"But wait!" You may interject — that just sounds like regular life!

And I would agree — you are correct.

Life is hard, it hurts, and you never really "win."

It's just a mess of existing and evading and attempts at positively impacting anything at all.

Aside from the obvious like inconvenient distances or times, maybe the hundreds of students who left the dojo did so because they couldn't accept this very basic reality.

Maybe they wanted their colored belts and gold stars, assurance that accolades would bring them safety or at least some credibility on the street.

But after my twenty years of training and meandering, I know that life doesn't work like that. There are no credentials that guarantee your safety or success. There is nothing that entitles you to even have a tomorrow.

Ironically, learning the ways of destruction has shown me my path to peace. By learning how to destroy and disable, I came to know a dangerous potential that I hope to never have to utilize.

I have also learned that none of us are exempt from moral conundrums.

As the last page of 2023 is turned, I hope that more of us might turn and face our entire selves. Not a single one of us is above the tendencies of human nature. We all carry the seeds for great compassion, but also great evil.

It is a burden. It is never relaxing. It is constant work.

But I hope we find more of those perfect moments in the coming year.

I hope that last year's training pays off and our experience grants us the ability to see new opportunities. I hope we begin to build new networks and structures to replace those that have become corrupt.

I hope for more beautiful moments where moving forward feels effortless, even if it's just for a brief moment in time.