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Entry tags:
Rage and karate
I arrived at the dojo tonight in a state of white-hot incandescent rage. I did not smile or say hello to anyone. Not even to the charming and disturbingly handsome Jeba, who is still sporting a hand brace a week and a half after I kicked him in the hand in sparring class. I did a series of yoga sun salutations as I often do before class to stretch out, since I need extra stretching out, above and beyond what we usually do at the beginning of class. They didn't help.
The class was led by a new instructor, Ms. Deasy, who led us through warm up punches and kicks. Yes, I was thinking about punching and kicking someone in particular, and not for self-defense, either. My yells were ferocious. My punches made the pad fly. I have never gone through a lesson like this before, in a state where I really wanted to beat someone up. When we stopped for warm up stretches, I had to fight down tears as I bent over to stretch my hamstrings. I hoped no one would see, so I wouldn't have to mumble something like, it's just personal shit, forget it.
But nobody saw, and I gradually reeled the emotions back to rage. We were doing punch defenses, which suited my mood beautifully. I got paired off with a teenage boy who has a history of mouthing off to the instructors and being told to drop and do ten. He behaved himself tonight. Perhaps he was intimidated by the set of my jaw and the steely look in my eye. I noticed that he avoided meeting my gaze through the whole series. He kept blocking wrong, too.
I did my deadly best to hit him, and was glad of the excuse.
But I didn't start calming down until we started doing slow kicks, and then multiple front and round kicks in the center of the room, not at the bar. I sweated and frowned and fought for my balance, but the energy suddenly switched from kill, kill, kill to careful now . . . balance . . . Which is a very different sort of energy. I was much calmer by the time class ended, and was able to contemplate actually managing to drive the car home without crashing into anything.
I must remember that, next time I get furiously angry: distract the brain by trying to do balance exercises.
P.S. I swung by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
minnehaha's and although I missed K. and B., I got the package left for me in the front door. I was pleased to get the tickets, of course, and I've already thanked you, but ecstatic when I discovered what else the bag held. Thank you so much! The pieces fit just great, and I'm so glad to add them to my wardrobe. K., pass on your thanks (to your mother, right?) for me.
The class was led by a new instructor, Ms. Deasy, who led us through warm up punches and kicks. Yes, I was thinking about punching and kicking someone in particular, and not for self-defense, either. My yells were ferocious. My punches made the pad fly. I have never gone through a lesson like this before, in a state where I really wanted to beat someone up. When we stopped for warm up stretches, I had to fight down tears as I bent over to stretch my hamstrings. I hoped no one would see, so I wouldn't have to mumble something like, it's just personal shit, forget it.
But nobody saw, and I gradually reeled the emotions back to rage. We were doing punch defenses, which suited my mood beautifully. I got paired off with a teenage boy who has a history of mouthing off to the instructors and being told to drop and do ten. He behaved himself tonight. Perhaps he was intimidated by the set of my jaw and the steely look in my eye. I noticed that he avoided meeting my gaze through the whole series. He kept blocking wrong, too.
I did my deadly best to hit him, and was glad of the excuse.
But I didn't start calming down until we started doing slow kicks, and then multiple front and round kicks in the center of the room, not at the bar. I sweated and frowned and fought for my balance, but the energy suddenly switched from kill, kill, kill to careful now . . . balance . . . Which is a very different sort of energy. I was much calmer by the time class ended, and was able to contemplate actually managing to drive the car home without crashing into anything.
I must remember that, next time I get furiously angry: distract the brain by trying to do balance exercises.
P.S. I swung by
minnehaha's and although I missed K. and B., I got the package left for me in the front door. I was pleased to get the tickets, of course, and I've already thanked you, but ecstatic when I discovered what else the bag held. Thank you so much! The pieces fit just great, and I'm so glad to add them to my wardrobe. K., pass on your thanks (to your mother, right?) for me.
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Yes, but both. Both letting yourself be as enraged as you really were, and *then* using the exercises to remember where your center was and come back to it. They go together, don't you think?
I admire you for being able to channel your rage into your practice without inhibition (which doesn't mean without control). I'm glad you had both the opportunity of the class and the ability to make use of it. And I hope things get better.
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Have fun this weekend. If you happen to see a fairy at the festival, please stop and watch her. She is Twig and she is a Fairy.
K.
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Your older daughter reminds me of my older daughter as she was a few years ago. In particular your post about your daughter's letter to Mr. Bush prompts me to tell you that I despaired of my daughter's spelling ("excellent temporary spelling" as her elementary school put it) until she turned eleven - and her spelling dramatically and spontaneously improved. We have no clue why.
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