It is impossible to have a strong practice without a group to practice with. When Sakiyama Roshi decided to completely dedicate his life to Zen meditation, he did not just retire into his room. He sought out the company of like-minded people. With them he entered an atmosphere in which practice was encouraged. A place where a practice schedule was maintained, neither subject to the whims of an individual nor forced upon anyone.
We need to share our lives. We need the encouragement and support of others. We need to see that our weaknesses are not ours alone, and that we can get stronger as we share our strengths. We need to be challenged and appreciated. And when our fervor for training lags, we can enjoy the simple spirit of fellowship and the example of people we admire.
Little by little, instead of a meandering path, our life develops a strong, regular pulse.
Very few people came to my dojo seeking “a life of practice.” They just wanted a few lessons, to learn some moves, to tone up, develop a nice six pack, to feel fearless, or to get focused.
Many people at first assumed they’d train for six weeks or a semester, like the other activities they had done, till they moved on to something new.
They thought of karate in many ways:
I am 26, I haven’t worked out since college and I want to get back in shape before it’s too late… I did Nautilus, I ran, I did machines, and I thought this would be less boring… I always wanted to do it. I am 17, so it’s now or never… I always wanted to do it. I am 35, so it’s now or never… I always wanted to do it. I am 50, so it’s now or never… I know there is a spiritual aspect to it. Do you have that here?… I want my kid to get into it… I want to be more flexible… I want to feel good... My cousin does it, in California. He loves it… I did another style in college, but they don’t have that around here… I want to do some sport with my kids… I saw a movie about it. It looked pretty cool… I’m going through a divorce…
On the sign-up card that people filled out when they started, there was a box where they could put their reasons for joining and their goals. Most people wanted to get a good workout and have a good time doing it. Some mentioned getting self-defense skills. Sometimes people filled out their address and phone number and just stopped right there and looked at the card and looked out the window, and couldn’t tell you what they wanted.
Sometimes they didn’t know. Sometimes their reasons were too emotional to admit to me, or even to themselves. Some felt intimidated at work or at school or in some family relationship, and they didn’t want to take it anymore. They sure didn’t want to write that on a card for a stranger to read. Some felt like they were getting old and wanted to halt the decline. Some had had a crisis, been attacked or embarrassed.
Regardless of how different their motives for joining were, what I asked of the jocks and the nerds, the men and the women, the adults and the children was in many ways the same: To put on their new white uniform. To stand this way. To walk that way. To bow like this. To not talk, just copy what they saw. And so on. It was simple, it was new, and it was the same for everyone, regardless of their frame of mind or experience.
We explained why to people who wanted to know why. We approached training this way because it allowed everyone to shed their personal habits and limits and act freely. They could set aside their status, high or low, their mood, their abilities, their schedule, everything. And, within their capacity, they could simply act.
Some people tried to bring the skills and status they had in their lives outside the dojo into the dojo, in order to feel more secure as a beginner. For them to let go of that status, maybe for the first time in a long time, especially to become an awkward beginner after years of feeling competent as an athlete, a parent or a professional, felt strange.
Some people found it a relief; some a thrill. Some people—students, for example—found it pretty much the same as what they did every day anyway.
Each of the people in our dojo was unique. Their abilities and skills and interests varied, but what karate practice asked of each of them, and what it gave them, was in many ways the same.
Human beings are always on the lookout for something. We may look poised and satisfied, with a happy, stable life. But until we have completed our path, in the broadest sense, we will be permeated with unease, with wanting. And the story will go on and on.
People entered the dojo. They brought their karma. We shared our lives. A college athlete who wanted a challenge she couldn’t get in seasonal sports. An emergency room doctor who got grief all day from people he patched up. A high school teacher who was trying despite the odds. The father of three who needed relief from stress.
In training we added stress, incrementally, and got so much stronger as a result, that often the things we had to deal with outside the dojo seemed modest in comparison. Sometimes people felt pressure not from their work, but from what their work lacked. They were frustrated. Their jobs were not challenging or rewarding. They felt strapped in and stepped on. They wanted to devote themselves to something worthy. They wanted a challenge. Why not stand tall despite it all? Some people felt good and wanted to feel even better.
Everyone had their own life. There were no ‘regular’ people. There was a special class for a group of teenagers who had been involved in violent crime. They were in foster care. Their lives were chaotic. But they liked to come to the dojo to learn and train with a group.
There were classes for children ages 5 to 10. Some parents brought their kids in to watch a children’s class, and the kids didn’t have the faintest interest. Some kids couldn’t wait to start, and they talked about it all the time and practiced every night at home and couldn’t wait to show their relatives every time they visited. Why is that?
All of the moms and dads and grandmothers and grandfathers, sitting on the benches at the side of the dojo, watching their children in class, had their own story. Each one of the little, unformed five year olds had his own story. Nervous or confident, friendly or sullen, not one of the teenagers in the teen class was a ‘type’. If you talked to them, you found out that their story was not like anyone else’s. Often I didn’t hear their stories. Usually the members just joined in with the rest of the group. They were part of it. Disappeared into it. If they were confused or stressed at some point, we helped them. If they were struggling, we encouraged them. If they excelled, we praised them. But generally speaking, we all just trained. Dropped the story. Dropped the burden of our relentless, human agenda. And just practiced.
One woman shyly asked if we would take a deaf child. I said, sure. He went to a school for the deaf. He was getting picked on. She discouraged aggressive behavior, but she wanted him to be able to defend himself. She saw in an article in a magazine that karate could be good. Up until then she thought it was bad. A neighbor recommended our school. She came and watched. People showed respect to one another.
It is beautiful to watch, she thought. This is something missing from our lives. For a year, from the benches at the side of the room, she watched her son’s classes. He loved it. Again and again, she said she pictured herself in the class. She joined. She had been a painter before her children were born. She did aerobics, went jogging. She had two children 12 years apart. Both unable to hear. Her life became taking care of them, taking them to therapy, loving, praying.
Now she was wearing a white gi, practicing every day and wondering if she could be doing this. “Me?” Her son asked, “Are you going to keep going until you are a master, Mom?” He said he would definitely keep going until he was a master.
At our dojo everyone who made an effort could succeed. Everyone who had been practicing for a while had an opportunity to teach newer people. Everyone who was new learned from people who were more experienced. Those more experienced people were of all ages, all walks of life; their race or religion known or unknown, became irrelevant. All that mattered in that time and place was the aspiration to learn and the intention to teach. The social divisions disappeared, leaving no trace.
Does this mean we made no distinctions? Between young and old, male and female, we did make distinctions. Men and women have different body structures, so the physical conditioning varied. Children had a playful atmosphere in their classes with moments of seriousness. Adults were challenged physically and mentally in every class. Older members were not encouraged to do sparring or heavy body contact. People were free to choose their own level of intensity. They got advice and made their choices. There was no distinction made arbitrarily. Each person gave all they had and got what they needed.
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