I’ve been meaning to write this piece for a while, but at the same time postponing it indefinitely. Maybe I was fooling myself that, the longer it took me to write it, the less painful it would be in the end.
I don’t know anymore about that, but what I do know is that I can’t seem to find the words to start such a confession. To myself, mostly. To the blank page. To face the fact I feel like I’ve let myself down, like I’m punishing myself, for not having that safe place any more.
Whenever you’re in therapy, or if you read self-help literature, popular psychology books, whatever, you’ll inevitably come across this idea of a safe haven. This is an imaginary place in our heads where everything is just the way we want it. Everything’s perfect, everyone we love is there, and it’s a refuge from the everyday hustle and bustle, from the mundane, from anything we want to get away from. It is an abstract construct in our head, non-tangible, and it’s a place to go to in our thoughts whenever we need to get away from our lives. Like a fantasy world, in a way.
Well, I was wondering what my safe haven was, and why I can’t visualise it even though I tried so hard. Now I know. I had my safe haven, but it wasn’t in my head. It was and is a place I used to frequent 3 times a week in the beginning, then almost every day, sometimes even on weekends, then twice a week, then three times again, then never. Thought thick and thin and through all the problems I’ve experienced, rain or shine (literally and metaphorically), the only place I could go to and forget about the world outside, and the failed relationships, the problems, the stress, the jerk bosses, colleagues, friends, family, the ups and downs, the highs and the lows, literally everything, was my dojo.
In the beginning, I remember how bad I’d feel when I missed my session because of being sick. Not going to work, even with not getting paid, was not as hard as skipping a karate session. Simply feeling guilty conscience for staying indoors instead of sweating my brains out.
There were days when I felt so great physically I’d go there every day.
There were days when I’d hurt myself, or get hurt by others, during our practice, and then skip a few sessions to allow my body to heal. Even that felt good, in a strange way it still felt good getting hurt during practice.
There were days when I’d skip practice because of a guy. One of the worst feelings, that pang of remorse afterwards, for skipping something so important to me for someone who didn’t even appreciate it.
During the last 6 years, I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of occasions I was late to the karate lesson, or when I’d forgotten my belt. Most strange feeling.
Because, that was life. That was my life. Not in the sense of a freak addiction, just a healthy way to cope with the burdens of life. The only place where I felt truly safe, truly me.
Getting ready, putting on some sports gear, the sweatpants, the running shoes, carrying that huge sports bag with my kimono, dry clothes, a water bottle, my flipflops. It never felt heavy on my shoulder. It felt just right. There were even days when I’d carry it to work and not pay attention to the gazing I’d get for looking like a PE teacher when I wasn’t one.
Just walking there, in the rain, in the sun, in the snow, made me feel right. Made me feel like me.
One guy once ran away from our exam claiming he got sick from the scent of heavy sweat in there. Funny, I never smelled it.
What I saw in this dojo was a place where I was just who I was supposed to be. The place which, once you enter it, becomes the whole world, at least for the lesson you attend. The place whose entrance served the purpose of a safety net, a portal to a different world, where nothing else matters but you giving your best shot at practising whatever it was at that specific lesson. You may not be a professional karateka, your punch or kick or your stance or your block or your kata were not the best ones you’ve got, but you were not there to impress anyone. You were there for how it made you feel. You gave it your best, and that was what mattered the most. People around you were there to push you when you needed it, or to leave you to it when you didn’t feel like pushing at all, helping you just get by. Next time would feel better. A place to express your frustrations on the punching bag; a place where you could paint the walls or clean the dust or vacuum if needed; mop the floors; shine the mirrors (wax on, wax off, anyone?); a place to run to and a place that always felt right. A place where no one ever did you any wrong, unlike any other place in the world. Truly, the only place where what mattered was that you try and try and try and never give up.
Of course there were MANY days when I didn’t feel like practising, when I was tired, when I was running late, with a headache, or stomachache, or just plain lack of will, yet I went to the dojo anyway. Throughout the years, karate has become so deeply engrained in my body that skipping the lesson just wasn’t an option, regardless of how bad I felt. On such days, I’d just drag myself there, do the best I could while feeling the lowest, forcing myself to fake the punch while my arms weighed like lead, and be proud of myself later because I did it anyway, because I beat my demons, and because physical activity is a cure for feeling low, for me at least. Get my blood pumped faster, get high on the happiness hormones, endorphines, whatever it was it worked its magic. It just made me feel better about myself every time.
Karate is not like other sports. It requires no gear other than a kimono and a belt. You don’t change these very often. It is cool wearing a kimono torn into threads as long as it’s been destroyed by your sweat and the hours of practice. You get to buy a new one only when the old one’s become indecent to wear, after many years.
You change belts once or twice a year until you get the black one. That one stays with you for the rest of your life, or at least when the black on it turns white, again from the sweat and the years you’d been wearing it. Even then, it is like kind of a trophy, having lost its original colour. It is no longer black, but weighs even more than a new one.
So, every time you come to a dojo wearing a new kimono or a new belt – it shines. In a group of one hundred karatekas, the one with a new kimono stands out. A new kimono shines bright like sun. Everybody see it, want to touch it, ask you about it, tell you how good it is. It’s like a special occasion, like a birthday or something even more special, yet even more rare. Does not happen often, but when it does – it cannot go unnoticed.
There were three senseis. One of them abruptly died in May. It affected me so much. I never cried as much as I cried for him. He was the one who was partly responsible for me taking the blue belt exam. I didn’t want to take it because I didn’t feel well prepared. I am grateful for his push. For him believing in me. For him admiring my flexibility. For his neck massages, and for fixing my back, relieving headaches. For the first few days after I’d heard the news, the thought that came to my mind whenever I’d think of him was who’d push me to relax my body and to perform the kick or the punch explosively yet powerfully. He believed I could. Even now my eyes are filled with tears when I remember him. Going back would never feel the same without him there, looking out for us. Even when he was not in the dojo yet in the hall, it felt good having him there, knowing he was there. Now what?
There were these great girls that were my kata team. We were horribly unsynchronised, yet I enjoyed every second of practising with them. The most difficult katas we did together were the ones where we were able to synchronise our performance. We won some medals, but I was never there for the competitions or the medals. I was there because it was me. Our age difference was big, yet I never thought of it. We always competed in my age group, but I never gave it any significance.
I wasn’t there for perfection. I wasn’t there for the belts, for the exams, for being the best, for competing with others. I wasn’t there because it was cool, or popular, or the right thing to do. I wasn’t there because someone was forcing me, or because I wanted to impress anyone. I wasn’t there to beat anyone, to prove anything to anyone.
I was there because it just made me feel good about myself, and because that’s what safe haven is for. Our dojo was my safe haven. The only place on Earth, at some point, where I felt inherently good, no exception.
Now, it’s been over a year since I practised. God, I even feel like I forgot it all. Like I am completely powerless. Numb, in a way. I can’t even pull myself to ask my first sensei to join his lessons again. It is never a bad thing to change a dojo every once in a while. Practice with a new sensei, with new people. Learn different styles, learn from other people. But I just can’t get around to it. It just feels off.
I never needed an imaginary safe haven – I had mine in real life.
When I think of moving, I always wonder what it’s going to be like to find a new dojo. Could I do that? Ever? Find a new dojo that would feel as good as this one? Where sensei knows us all by the name, where we’re not just a member to pay the tuition fee or to win a medal on a competition. Where we gather to practice for the sake of our own mental health, where we run away to to feel better, to feel safe. Where it feels strange to have someone other than the two senseis instruct you.
I don’t know.
All I know is I miss it as if I am out of breath, as if I have just stepped out of a cliff, like in a cartoon, and in a few seconds I’m about to fall. Those few seconds may be real seconds, minutes, hours, days, years. But will inevitably end. I don’t know if I’ll be able to recover from the fall. I am not even sure I haven’t hit the ground already. Maybe I have. Maybe that’s why I feel this lost – I don’t have my safe haven anymore.
~
Online Stress Relief 