Fear and letting go in the dojo

Natural Health, Sept-Oct, 1998 by Laurie Berger

I TOOK UP KARATE TO PUNCH AND KICK AND SWEAT AWAY MY MIDLIFE CRISIS. BUT ONCE INSIDE THE DOJO, I DISCOVERED THE SOFTER, SPIRITUAL SIDE OF THIS MARTIAL ART.

My first day in the dojo was the tip-off. This wasn't going to be one of those mindless aerobics classes that I tumbled into after work. After a rapid-fire succession of jumping jacks, jumping squats, sit-ups, bicycle kicks, splits, and jogging in place, my karate teacher, or sensei, John P. Mirrione, barked out: "On the floor for one-armed push-ups." Everyone dropped to the mat.

Still breathless, I tried to obey. Lift, I told myself. Nothing happened. Trying to straighten my arm was like attempting to lift a bag of cement with a twig.

Glancing around the dojo--what martial arts types call a training hall--I confirmed I was the only one still collapsed on the floor. Everyone else, with at least a year of training under their belts, was pumping up and down, albeit amidst grunts and heaves.

I tried again. My puny arm still wouldn't cooperate--and my mind wasn't helping. This is not how I want to spend my evenings or precious workout time, I whined inwardly At that moment. Sensei John turned in my direction. "Let's see those push-ups, Laurie," he said. "I can't," I cried out, hoping he would cut me a break as a new student and a woman. Instead, he responded with the verbal equivalent of a rap across the knuckles: "`Can't' is not a word we use in this dojo."

A Peaceful Way

That was one year ago, when I'd first signed up for karate classes at a local gym. It was just days after my 44th birthday and I had a bad case of midlife jitters. I was hit with fears ... scared of brittle bones ... leery of marital commitment after a divorce... worried about investing for the future. I began hatching schemes for staying young and erasing my fears. But unlike my friends, who were jumping out of planes, getting eyelifts, or having beat-the-biological-clock babies, I wanted something less risky. Karate, a centuries-old Japanese art of self-defense, seemed to fit. It's active, intense, and ongoing. I was ready to trade fluorescent spandex and Stairmasters for a boxy unisex outfit, an unforgiving mat, and a chance at rejuvenation and enlightenment. I set out to reinvent myself--even though that's an awful lot to ask of an exercise class.

I knew little about martial arts when I began to look for a school. My first stop was a local academy of tae kwon do, a Korean martial arts form that emphasizes kicking--something I can easily do after years of dance training. After observing a class, though, I felt empty. This particular school lacked spirit, and its owners seemed more interested in signing me to a high-priced contract than understanding my reasons for enrolling.

I decided to check out the karate class at my gym, Reebok Sports Club New York in Manhattan. Shorin-jiryu, the form of karate taught at the club, instantly appealed to me because of its holistic approach, which focuses on philosophy, fitness, and meditation--not violence. When I met Sensei John, I knew he was different.

"I want to take karate," I told him. "Why?" he asked, with eyes that seemed to stare right through me. I was tongue-tied--I didn't expect to be quizzed on my motives.

"I'm tired of exercise classes," I mustered. He seemed pleased with my reply. Before I could pull out my checkbook, though, Sensei threw another curveball: I would be on probation for the first month. For some, that caveat may have been the deal breaker, but I found it encouraging. Sensei didn't just want my money--he wanted a commitment of body and mind. He wouldn't let any student advance if he didn't see a good attitude and an understanding of the teachings.

The first classes took some adjustment. Because of karate's obsession with respect, we are always bowing--to the shomen (the front of the dojo), the sensei, and each other. We must count out our warm-up repetitions in Japanese, refrain from running to the water cooler--even when our throats feel like a desert--and preface all our comments with "onegai shimasu" (a term of respect that doubles as "excuse me"). In the heat of those early practices, I often forgot this preface, blurting out a question. Invariably, Sensei or a classmate would reprimand me, making me feel like a child.

After about an hour of sweating and heavy breathing, each class ends with an interpretation of a quote, scrawled on a message board near the dojo entrance. "What's the Philosophy of the Week?" Sensei John barks. Inevitably there is a long, foot-shuffling pause. Those of us who forgot to look at the board frantically squint to read it from 30 feet away. Others reach into the pits of their stomachs for an explanation.

During one class, a brave soul spoke up. "Never be humorous at the expense of others." Quickly, Sensei returned, "What does that mean?" "Don't make fun of someone to benefit yourself," the student replied.

Sensei nodded with a poker face and gestured to the next. "If you use someone to advance your own goals, you'll only get hurt," offered another. After listening to each new twist, Sensei gave his own interpretation: "Do not use humor in a destructive manner. Instead, use humor to turn tears to joy." Indeed, discussing goodness and honesty after an hour of sparring seemed silly at first, but I later discovered it's essential to karate training. "At the end of an hour workout, people's minds are clear and they're more receptive to these concepts," Sensei explains. "They can leave in a positive mental state."