Wednesday, April 27, 2016

The Worst Four-letter Word



Language has been on my mind quite a bit lately.  In today's society, what we say and how we say it are at the forefront of everything we experience.  This surrounding brings a lot of important questions with it:  Are we too thin-skinned?  Maybe so.  Are we too politically correct?  Maybe so, but there's bitter irony in one person telling another not to find something hurtful or demeaning.  Do you ever recall being worked up as a child or teenager and being told to "calm down?"  Drove you crazy, didn't it?


Here's something that drives me crazy.


Let me first be clear; I don't have many issues with language, foul or otherwise.  Like the philosophical musing that defined George Carlin's career, there are words that others find troubling, so it is important to respect and honor other people's reasons.  But, in the end, words won't hurt you.

For the most part, I agree, but there is one word in life, and in karate, that will hurt you as sure as any physical barrier.


That four letter word is C-A-N-T.


I hate that word.  It has defined stages of my life when accomplishments seemed impossible, and I feel strongly that any successes I have been fortunate to experience have been in direct opposition to that detestable concept of "can't."


The big problem with the word is that it implies permanence.  "I can't keep my guard up."  "I can't get that form right."  "I can't fight as well as he does."  None of this is useful.  These sentiments are defeatist, and they run counter to the defining principles of karate.


As practitioners and teachers (and, to me, everyone who advances can be a teacher, if even just by example), we must avoid the negative in our language because as quickly as we form them, our words become the thoughts of those that hear them.  "Can't" spreads faster than smallpox.


Of course, as instructors we must be very cognizant of students' real limitations.  Failing to do so can be just plan cruel.  But, for the most part, the kinds of limitations that I'm referring to are clear if we pay close enough attention.  As for the rest, we must expect excellence, and we have to squash "can't."  "Can" lies at the very center of our ethos, and when our students inevitably face the "can't wall" and feel that there isn't hope for them in the art, that it when the lesson of "can" is most empowering.

The WYKKO's motto is "Rikki Hitatsu," "make effort and you will achieve."  It's not a conditional.  It isn't "make effort and you might achieve."  WILL achieve.  WILL triumph.  WILL be fulfilled in this great discipline.  To define OSU again:  "PUSH ahead; NEVER give up."

I don't have take much stock in absolutes, but I am all about "never give up."

We live in a time where quitting is seen almost as a human right.  What I mean is this:  someone who doesn't feel like achieving can simply quit and shut away from scrutiny.  This isn't new.  Ever since the acquisition of skills became recreation rather than avocation, we've been bombarded with the idea that something must be fun all the time.  Karate is not fun all of the time.  I find there are days when the last thing I want to do is suit-up and come to class.  I do, however, because if I don't, then I deprive my students of the choice to come to class and achieve.  Without exception, after about ten minutes in class, I'm pumped up and enjoying myself just like practically every other class I've attended.


Before the Glory comes the Grunge.  And "can't" has no place in our Association of Continued Improvement.


OSU!

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Winning Well, and Losing Better: Thoughts on Sportsmanship



I hear again and again that respect is something that must be earned.  "You don't just give it...blah, blah, blah...otherwise you're going to be a doormat your entire life."  I'm hearing it more and more in the social/cultural zeitgeist, and I just don't agree.
 Those worthy of real respect give it freely to all.  The only respect I have to truly earn is self-respect, and that is a process I have to learn every day.

Lately, I've been to several competitions and watched even more streamed online or on television.  I'm struck by the characters on display when it comes to the act of winning and losing.  I saw it a few months ago when Cam Newton, a local hero was praised weekly for marquis theatrics on winning, and then flayed by the same audience when he couldn't bring that same smile to the loss of the big, big game.

It's a simple matter of sportsmanship.  Both public responses were his fault...and ours, too.

We seem to live in a society now that insists that "winners win and losers lose."  Again, I absolutely disagree.  In  any zero-sum competition, there will be a winner and there will be a loser of the contest.  Whether those players are "winners" or "losers" is entirely up to them, irrespective of how we respond.

I've seen overwhelmingly good sportsmanship in my martial arts life, but even that sanctum is now falling to more and more of our culture's sense of "winning" and "losing."  Especially in competition fighting, there will always be a winner and a loser of the individual contest.  Most of the time, especially in the two organizations of which I am a member, the contest ends in a hug and congratulations on a good fight, good form, and good competition.

When the tone of the competition moves in the other direction, it absolutely breaks my heart.  Seeing semi-taunting victory, bitter loss, arguing with judges--this is all in dissonance with everything I believe about karate.  I used to see these responses very seldom, but now I'm seeing them a good bit more.  Fortunately, in the martial arts organizations I love so much, corrective action follows those behaviors, and it is clear that they are not okay.  In many cases, these are formative lessons for younger practitioners who are, although responsible for their actions as young adults, still at an age where an emotional response to loss or a perceived injustice such as a judge's call still makes sense.

It's hard to lose.  I've lost a lot in my life, and I've won a lot, too.  Funnily enough, the losses shaped my skill set more than the victories.  After taking a very hard jumping back-spin side kick to the solar plexus (which I felt for days), I spent a lot of time thinking about ways to neutralize that position.  I haven't been hit cleanly by that technique since that important lesson.  Of course, now that I've mentioned it, I'm sure that one of my esteemed colleagues will find a way to get one of them past me, but that's part of the learning experience, too!

The ability to compete is a gift.  I spent the last month preparing for sparring and forms for traditional tournament, but I sustained a minor (but painful) knee injury two days before tournament that severely limited what I was able to do.  Next year, I'm committed to bringing some real competitive spirit to the tournament.  I might win and I might lose.  I'm not particularly concerned either way.  I'll be competing with friends who I plan to know for the next thirty or forty years, and I plan to honor their effort and achievement no matter the outcome.

That's what makes tournaments great, and I'm hoping next year will be a big one.
 
OSU!

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Why do you train?



I've been thinking quite a bit about my martial arts training lately.  Since the New Year, I've been in high intensity mode preparing for rank tests in Yoshukai karate (testing last month) and Kyuki-do (potentially testing around the end of the year).  When I put large amounts of effort into something, it permeates almost everything I do.  I'm walking through forms while performing mundane tasks at work, composing combinations and self-defense material in my head on a drive, and generally taking my thought processes to what I would consider "the next level."


As I mentioned in the previous paragraph, I recently tested to nidan (2nd degree black belt) in Yoshukai karate and received word yesterday that I passed.  Unlike my shodan test, the training for which was well-documented in this blog, I didn't make a massive workout plan and dedicate a whole summer simply to training.  At this point in my life, there wasn't time to be completely single-minded about my training.  But, I did turn up the volume on everything I did.  I lost the same amount of fat weight as I did for the last test, I did high-intensity forms and weapons work in preparation for non-stop testing (which ultimately didn't happen in the same way--we had too many people to run everything at once), and I focused my thoughts in preparation for my next training milestone.

For me, shodan represented a sense of overall accomplishment.  On the other side of a martial arts student's first black belt test, he/she becomes a black belt, and on some level, that distinction (if approached with any amount of reverence at all) remains with him/her for a lifetime.  The students become black belts, and their actions from that point determine what kind of black belts they will be.  Will they be the black belts that fall off of the radar after a while, celebrating their mark of achievement and then moving on to new goals and interests?  Will they focus on a single aspect of their art (fighting, forms, history, teaching) and move to excel towards that one major goal?  Or, will they surrender to the art itself, understanding that black belt is a mark of a new beginning, dedicating time to the full realization of what the arts can do?


In the last two years, a large portion of my training has been on my own.  Not alone, mind you.  I have a lot of support in my martial arts life, so the day to day training activities have been self driven since I must travel about 130 miles to the nearest practitioner.  But, when the day to day activities are solo, it tests individual drive every day.  After a long day at work, will you take an hour to hone that particular form under you iron out a few irritating issues completely, or will you veg out in front of netflix and take a rest?  On your (much too infrequent) day off, will you do something diverting or do about 500 kicks to keep the technique precise?


To me, nidan represents a much more tangible level of dedication, which moves beyond the "this is a fun activity I do" aspect of training.  From shodan, the view is mostly backward--"Hey, look how far I've come."  Starting nidan, the view I'm finding is, "I have so far yet to go."


The most important question I'm asking myself right now is, why do I train?  What specifically is it that is driving me, and how does that inform my values and my martial arts?  I believe strongly that question is one we must all ask seriously, and I am positive that my answer is always going to be evolving.


I've been training now for five years and six months, which compared to my black belt colleagues, is really very little time at all.  I initially got back into martial arts because I've always had a fascination with them, and I wanted to have something outside of my regular work to build upon and strive towards.  Martial arts gave me that in spades, and it continues to inform what I do.


One thing that has surprised me about my training is that it has reworked aspects of my personality from the inside out.  I have a temper, and sometimes it still gets the best of me.  But, that doesn't happen as much as it used to.  In fact, I'm almost never driven by my temper anymore.  Every interaction I have becomes an exercise in what I've learned in martial arts.  Deflect verbal aggression with respect, redirecting the conversation to something productive.  Approach difficult tasks like learning a complex form or technique, sometimes breaking down to one bite at a time, while sometimes taking a holistic approach, feeling my way through the entire sequence before going back and beginning again from a specifics-based approach.


History still drives a lot of my fascination.  One day, when this transitional period of my life becomes more regular with regards to work and my weekly schedule, I'll refocus my efforts on the large karate history project I have planned.  At this point, now all I really need is the time to travel and meet with those who've gone before me.  I strongly look forward to that day, and I know it's coming.


I'm older now than I was when I started, and certain physical things are creeping up on me.  I'm starting to have some issues with my knees, and at least for the short term, I've had to shorten stances a bit to keep the joints stable.  In the upcoming years, I want to build more flexibility to ameliorate that particular issue so I can enjoy the full aesthetic of the art.  I don't want to use injury as an excuse for mediocre performance, so it will take a lot of extra effort to build the surrounding muscles to take some pressure from those ligaments that are weakening.


I want to attempt some of the traditional martial arts "feats of strength" like a bat break and defensive feats like doing a break in shime, which I've seen colleagues demonstrate by having a dowel broken over their chest from a defensive posture.  I want to test my body in these ways to attempt something new.


I want to continue to experiment and build engagement in my teaching.  I want expansion within my school, and I want to impress upon them the great joy that a bit of travel can bring them by engaging with the WYKKO at large.


I want to build stronger relationships within the two major organizations with which I train.  For some, I'm sure that I'll need to be around a good bit longer before they'll see the kind of dedication that they consider "lifetime" dedication to the martial arts.


I want to take my fighting to the next level.  Or, to be frank, the next three levels.  I'm ok at it, don't get me wrong, but I want to be formidable, and it will take some serious focus to do that while training on my own because having a partner in sparring makes the experience so much broader.


Ultimately, I want to continue moving forward.  I think, given the last few years, that is a reasonable expectation, but I think it's important to write down in order to set the goals for myself, for my own personal accountability.


In short, I want to step it up.  This is why I train.


Why do you train?