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Rest days.  I have seven children and it was Thanksgiving weekend so the phrase is an oxymoron but I've rested from martial arts for 5 days.   Not even in my living room.  I restrained from side kicking my 15 yo in parking lots. That's a long stretch and there were a lot of parking lot opportunities this weekend.

I have walked, quite a few miles.  Over the holiday break my husband and I started looking up a coffee shop that's operated out of a trailer.  They change locations almost daily- it felt subversive- like we'd also need to know a special handshake.   If we could walk to it without having to walk on a highway we went for it- even if it was a 7 mile stroll.

I was hoping the time off and gentle walking would quiet the odd pain I picked up during jujitsu last week.  -The strain from trying to hold a spider guard while being slowly stacked/squashed.  Pain in a location that's awkward to massage in public.

The result?  I feel dusty and not quite awake and a little too old; like I could pull something if I moved too quickly.  I ache from sitting so much but for the first time in months my shoulders don't hurt.  Who knew that resting would make me so very hungry, and my spider guard pain?  It's no longer waking me in the night but it's still quietly glowing and sending occasional bonus sparks.

I'm curious to see how I'll feel today when I get back on the mats.  I need the dust blown off and my muscles warmed up.  I want to make sure I can still kick.  After all, what 15 yo son doesn't need to receive a loving motherly parking lot side kick?

I just wonder- at 49 maybe this many rest days in a row is counterproductive?


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Yesterday, I got to free roll quite a bit.  My main thought was survival.   I watched myself, with brilliant instincts, move in all the wrong directions and in all the wrong ways.  Repeatedly.  I wanted to give up.

Why did I feel defeated?   Because I tapped out?- I'm used to tapping out.
Moving wrong, unfortunately, is nothing new to me.  Moving wrong, being drenched in sweat and feeling exhausted aren't new to me either.

I went home thinking that I've always been a Jack-of-All-Trades-but-Master-of-None; so why am I fighting to change that when I'm about to turn 50?  Ridiculous.  Lots of other negative self talk ensued. Then came the whining.

Sometimes, and it's rare, when I'm free-rolling fight or flight turns to flight but it's kind of impossible to fly when you are caught in s-mount or side control or mount or even with a really weird kimura. Thwarted flight is the epitome of powerlessness and defeat.

In my history class today one of my students read this quote; attributed to Constantine the Great, "Thinking is the great enemy of perfection, The habit of profound reflection, I am compelled to say, is the most pernicious of all the habits formed by civilized man."

I think he was talking about Jujitsu.  In other words; it's time to think less, and wash and dry my gi for another round.

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I've read a few articles on the importance of developing mat awareness while grappling.

Yesterday, while drilling BJJ at a friend's house, who is on maternity leave from the dojo, I realized that we have accidentally found the perfect way to fine tune the skill.  Toys.

Yes, toys.

In addition to her newborn, my drilling partner has an almost 3 year old who plays around our bodies as we drill; sometimes adding dropped action figure toys to the mix.

You do not want to be elevator swept, or elevator sweep your partner, onto a 2 inch tall Mighty Morphing Power Ranger doll.

So, pesky students who don't/won't pay attention to where other students are working?  Legos.  Throw a handful onto the mats.



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Testing Moments

Autopiloting to the dojo
while reconsidering scrap booking.
Suddenly snipping in a living room
sans Master filled panels and bruises
and possible pity is appealing.

Pity,
That perfect hobgoblin
The principle fear.
The question I couldn't answer honestly.
Even to my Soke;
naming it invites it.

To receive pity?
A spectacular fail is a softer mat.
Pity is the sloppy breakfall on your elbow.
that wrenches your gut and
pops something in your shoulder that you should never hear pop.

Pity is a fraction times you;
defining and excluding in a testing hall wreathed with smiles.
The children's table at Thanksgiving
minus the cheer and good food.

Pathos, the Preventer.  The anti-hero who won't try to fly.
And whose spin hook kick sucks.



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Sometimes I think my words might smother me before I can wrangle sense out of them.  I'm bombarded by upper and lower case fonts.  Or maybe I just read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom too many times to my children.

This weekend was a new beginning for me in my martial arts journey.  I thought that when nine month long test was finally over that my overwhelming sensation as a baby black belt would be one of relief and lifted weight, less stress.  But it's not.

My overwhelming feeling, other than absolute bruised up physical exhaustion, is urgency.

I want more.  I want to train harder.  I want to learn faster.  I want to be there when kids in class suddenly get a move right and the look on their face changes.

I want to ride my bike down a curvy hill without my hands on the handlebars and feel the fall breeze whip around me.  

And then there is jujitsu.    My stupid injured rib keeps wanting to slip but I feel like I don't have a moment to lose; I can't see any progression.    My professor comes in 2 months but default fonts and sparring partners are still arm-barring me with impunity. Over, and over again.  Yet I love it anyway.

It's a new school year and I'm the dorky 9th grader who can't sleep, with my back pack full of fresh notebook supplies, the room full of the smell of erasers, and new school clothes folded at the end of my bed.

On our last mile as a black belt team the 59th Street Bridge Song, by Simon and Garfunkel, popped into my head and I tried to sing it.  Most of the team was too young to know it, not to mention I can't sing... It somehow seems an appropriate message to myself.


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Sisyphus's Slope
Icarus' wings in Tennessee heat.
Sphinx and their riddles.

They have nothing on Jujitsu.  Once the breathing picks up it's hard to remember.  Till the car ride home.

Drilling and drilling.
Rolling and rolling.
Washing the gi, again and again.

The moment I think I have something set- some scrap of knowledge all mapped and nailed to the wall, it slithers away, shape shifts and laughs.
And I tap out.

Then I start over.
But then again, that's the whole fun of it.

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Heels over head
pressed and distressed;
contraction as reaction.

Baiting and evading;
revolution with resolution.

Moving and proving,
over and over;
head over heels.



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From the roll,
thoughts flow from let's go
to no, no, Nooo!

Why am I here again?
Then crap, and tap.

From let's go,
till tilt, mat meets being
and the most existential of questions
rips through your body:

Why am I here?
Then crap, and tap.

From fist bump,
to a human parkour course.
Till the ummph of elbow-self-expressed air.

Why?
Crap and tap.

Till a circle started, finishes
with the sweet expression of
detoured movement, and causes
someone else's:

  Crap and tap.

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 Over the years I've often heard dads speak of gleefully eviscerating any male foolish enough to mess with their daughter.

Do it.  I'm all in, eviscerate away, just don't talk about it in the hearing of your young daughter because I promise you one thing- if you love her that much, she will love you right back.  Loving you right back will mean she won't tell you anything about anyone who messes with her.

Why?  Why would a daughter who knows her dad loves her and wants to protect her not go to him for help?

1. Prison.
2. From feeling like a failure as a father. 
3. Because she will feel somehow less- and not want you (her hero) to know. 
4. She'll be afraid that you will freak out and take all her freedom away.

Instead, teach her to defend herself.  Teach her how to use judgement about her surroundings and her friends.  Teach her that she is valuable and that nothing that happens to her can ever change that.  Teach her to be a good friend and to stand up and protect others.

Spend time with her and listen.  Don't cast her as a princess that has to be saved, that needs a man for meaning or purpose. When she hears you talking about her, talk about how smart and tough she is.  Not how tough you are.

Then try to keep her safe anyway.


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January 1st looms large.
It looms, equal to an echoey Norse hall minus the mead.

A house of mine?  Minus cinnamon baked love?
A house of mine?  Minus stashes of jalapeño sweetness?

January 1st looms large.
A library without books.
Santa without the sack.
A lover without a kiss.
A runner without tights.

January 1st looms large.
It looms quietly, absent the crinkly sound of joy unwrapped:
That inoculator against stress,
That magical deliverer of caffeine,
Portable bliss,
Transporter of mothers.





Sniff.  Sob.
Pity my children and curse my Sensei.



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Our dojo has a fun, healthy attitude toward sparring- great people to spar with and wonderful Sensei.  It's not the setting it's not the support, so I've been asking myself why I don't love to spar.  I love to grapple, I love the Judo I've been exposed to even if it almost entirely consists of me learning ways in which I can be pitched through the air.  But sparring? I'd rather wall kicks any evening.

During sparring or stand up self-defense I often am transported to the middle school dances I chaperone where the main move is simply trying to catch up with the beat without looking too stupid.  Not to mention, sparring is startling, I'm bad at seeing things coming. While sparring I frequently see what just happened and what I just did wrong or what opportunity I just missed instead of seeing in real time.  During stand up self-defense I often start the exercise feeling defeated, just waiting to get flustered and girly and feeling out of control.

Rolling?  It's a challenge but it has a significant difference- you have a hold of your opponent.  You can feel them shift their weight, and fists and feet aren't randomly flying from outside of your peripheral vision.  Even just one hand on my opponent makes me feel more confident and less like I'm about to die.  Afterwards, I replay the roll in my head and still see what I should have done and opportunities that I missed, but they make sense and it's exhilarating; no matter how many times I tap out, grappling makes me feel strong.

My husband joked that if I had spent more time as a kid imagining trajectories of toy rockets and the geometric planes of cars jumping jumps it would have helped my sparring.  If I had, perhaps the visual of a collar bone shifting from its natural horizontal to 30 degrees might mean something to my blocking arm before I get bopped in the head. Too late now; so how to remediate?

I'm going to try something new.  A mind game to trick myself into not being startled sparring.  A mind game envisioning connections before physical contact is made.  Think invisible strings that form the edges of the geometric planes connecting feet, elbow, fists and knees.  Invisible strings that I can plan on using and pretend to have contact with.  I don't know if I can see quickly enough during sparring to manage it- but with the slower practice speed of stand up self-defense maybe it will form the beginning of the end of my super-ability to psych myself out.





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I adore notebooks and pens and calendars and writing up schedules and plans and lists.  It's always better dreaming about how perfect you are going to be and act as opposed to getting off the sofa and actually doing something.  This time I have an excuse, a carte blanche for my dreamering; my training at MMA this year requires me to have a personal training plan written up.

The problem is, will I obey my plan?  Will it be so amazing that it stifles and depresses me?  Will it be so easy that I despise it?  and more importantly when the heck am I going to fit it in?

A plan that doesn't actually conform to the realities of time and space usually doesn't work... I know because I've written a lot of non-confomist plans before.  They are my specialty.  But oh, how I shine in my mind in those plans.  Shine and speak a half dozen foreign languages, do daily science experiments in my homeschool, grow all my own food, and benchpress twice my body weight, all while my family rises up and calls me blessed.  My stretch marks even disappear with adherence to those plans.

Crash.  Reality.

I need a 3 day a week plan for strength.  I need to be going over katas on my own.  I need to run- because running is what keeps me sane, relatively speaking.  I need to be drilling jujitsu moves and Thai-combos because my brain is like cheese cloth and info keeps draining away.


How long can I sit here drinking coffee looking through sites of workout plans?  I really should get up and do something or at least stretch.  But maybe I need new, more motivating stationary to write my plan upon.  Or an app.

That will solve everything.  I just have to spend more time looking...

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At last night's meeting for the 2016 candidates for black belt testing I was taken aback by my emotions.  It was our first meeting- just to go over necessary info and dates for the 39 weeks of testing.

39 weeks.  I'm scared spitless.  I really am.

We were all asked to share what scares us most about the 39 weeks; for me this was the de facto beginning of testing.  Saying publicly what scares you most is pretty.... scary.  I felt a water-buffalo-herd of emotions as I waited my turn.  It was impressive to hear even the youngest testers communicating very insightful fears.  It got harder to breathe.  All my doubts about myself were suddenly almost suffocating.

My main fear was easy to identify.

But later I realized that most of all, even more scary than fears I have about the testing itself is that it's very scary to admit publicly that you really, really, really, want to accomplish something that's a little out of the norm.  No matter what that something is.  The sudden feeling of vulnerability took me right back to middle school, where sharing a heartfelt passion or a dream with classmates was as safe and friendly as swimming off Amity Island.  But, there's no room to pretend that this is a vague, sorta interest; at my age I'm either all in, and by definition totally insane, or I wouldn't be testing.

As I sat there I also realized that this feeling of fear isn't bad.  Doing something, trying for something that you can publicly fail at is exhilarating.  Butterflies in the stomach sort of exhilarating.  An enlivening, falling in love sort of fluttering of richness.

I've since determined to enjoy every second of even the fiercest and most fearful martial butterflies.

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After martial arts classes or open mat I like to jot down things I learned or things I didn't understand and I especially write things down that I sucked at.   Note-taking after the fact was always my best learning strategy in college.  Doing a mind dump onto paper solidifies and makes real the subjects I'm studying.

Unfortunately, when I get home from martial arts class and everything is fresh and ready for writing I often don't get a chance because of that pesky little thing called Real Life.

Which leads me to the built in note-taking of jiujitsu and sometimes even karate.  Visible reminders.  Those identical bruises on each ankle? Oh yeah, we worked on ankle locks.  The bruise below my clavicle?  Oh yeah, I tried for a triangle but forgot to shimmy up first and my training partner accidentally got me with their elbow.  The Gentle Art may be gentle but accidental hard knocks are part and parcel.

I find it amusing.  My husband less so.  Especially when people look askance at him because of my "visible reminders".

Last night in karate we were training in self-defense, working on blocks.  I have the amazing  lightning response time of a sloth.   A slow sloth at that.  A slow sloth that all the other sloth relatives consider awkward and uncoordinated.

Our sensei mentioned trying to practice, building reflexes as much as possible; I immediately pictured Cato.  He would be a great aid to my martial arts journey but I'm pretty sure I couldn't afford him or the extra drywall repairs.  Instead, I told my 13 year old son, and fellow martial arts student, to please randomly strike at me during the day.

Then we laughed because a lot of caveats have to accompany that instruction.  I pictured standing in line at Starbucks, sporting some jiujitsu bruises, when my 13 year old suddenly throws a punch at my head.  Not exactly socially acceptable; DHS might be notified, or even worse; I might spill my coffee.

But I am renaming my homeschool.

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If it hurts, don't do it.

Unless you have arthritis.

With arthritis often the less you do the more you hurt. I tried the less.  I avoided shaking hands with people, avoided using my arms.  I lost grip strength, the pain worsened and I felt old and decrepit; my brain began to decay and crumble like dried up school glue.

Now, I'm doing the more; it's been years since my last significant flare up.  This flare up I don't feel old and decrepit... mostly.  Sometimes when my hands or feet hurt, when I've woken in the night multiple times with my shoulders throbbing, on days when I can't quite make a proper fist, I know that hitting or kicking a punching bag is going to hurt like blue blazes or like screaming flying monkeys but afterwards I'll be able to move more easily.  My ankles often hurt more before my runs than after.  Counter-intuitive: if it hurts do it.

Sometimes my elbows ache, a background sort of ache but I do pushups anyway.  Girly sort of pushups but it's the motion that counts.  After I hyperextended my elbow this spring I didn't realize how badly I had mangled my arm.  I kept doing pushup and pull-up practice, it was the motion that counted- this time against me, making my injury take much longer to heal.

I'd rather do and hurt, than not do and still hurt   I'd even rather do and mistakenly injure than not do and still hurt and grow weaker.

I'd really rather my options were a bit more varied, but actually I feel quite blessed.  My pain keeps me moving and though it is sometimes a treacherous-tutor it does keep me motivated.




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On my tour o' dojos across country it wasn't all... normal.

The big black lettered all caps sign on the front door of the dojo screaming:  NO REFUNDS! was a tad bit jolting and unusual, bemused but undaunted I stepped inside.  I found myself in a large lobby full of trophies.  Trophies everywhere, many larger than me; for a split second I thought I had wandered into a trophy shop.  Then I spotted two women in a glassed room practicing a bo kata.  A bo kata I was familiar with.  A bo kata being executed weirdly, like women posing for baton twirling photos; it was like watching an accident happening in slow motion.

As I stood entranced by the weird and pointless bo flourishes a young man came round the corner and stopped, obviously surprised by my presence, "What do you want?"

"Ummm,"  I was equally surprised at him.  Usually in dojos people wear gi or at least athletic type clothing.  He was wearing ratty jeans and a t-shirt that was split from the underarms down to the waistband.  "I'm visiting the area and wanted to pick up a schedule and see what kind of classes you offer."

"Oh. Well the owner took off on his bike.  I don't know- but you can go in there," he pointed to the bo staff room,  "And ask the pretty one about classes."  At this he turned and disappeared around the corner.  I stood there looking through the glass wall pondering which girl was "the pretty one" for a second but on hearing an adult male's voice yelling at what had to be young children doing bag work from around the corner to, "Stop doing it wrong!" I decided to slip out.

That's when I heard the first young man's voice shouting, "Hey, there's an old lady out front that wants to know something."

I was smiling broadly when "the owner" came round the corner.  He had the grace to be taken aback at my obvious and unfortunate lack of deafness.  I was taken aback by his ratty non gi clothing.  He and his younger worker looked like every photo I've ever seen of meth lab arrestees.

He hung his head and said, "I'm sorry about him."

"No problem, I was just looking for a schedule- I'm going to go ahead and go."

"No, wait a minute, I can answer your questions."  I froze on the spot.  It's not everyday that you meet a dojo owner/lead instructor in ratty jeans and a t-shirt too small for his gut who also happens to have no teeth.  Nor is it everyday that said man has a nervous habit of licking his lips coupled with the the habit of talking to your chest.  For a split second I thought perhaps I had wandered out errand-running naked and felt compelled to look down too.  Nope, everything normal... and covered.  Talking with him was like watching window wipers: look at breasts, lick lips, remember to look up for a split second before, looking again at breasts, licking lips, remember to stop, rinse and repeat.

This was getting funnier by the second.  I scrambled for a question, "So what kind of martial arts do you teach here?"  He named a jujitsu system I'd never heard of; I had to ask him to repeat the name a couple of times, finally I admitted that I'd never heard of that type of jujitsu.

"Oh, well, that's the name of our instructor so we call it that type of jujitsu."  Immediately I thought of Rex Kwon Do and started looking around to see if I was actually on a movie set. "Yeah, he continued, as if I had responded, "We like our girls to start jujitsu young, fourteen at the oldest because if you don't get between their legs while they are young, they just won't let you."

Gee, I wonder why.


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