Monday 29 October 2018

Breaking the mould

A friend recently suggested that our sense of who we are is entirely dependent on what other people tell us we are. I was about to respond with some of what I've learned over the past four years as a counselling student, but then remembered something important.

As this was mentioned on social media, there was a lack of context. Taking a step back, questioning why I was eager to comment, and who that comment would have benefited, I decided to simply say that my answer would have been a long one (it would have - person-centred theory has a lot to say about who we are and from where our sense of self comes).

Recently, I've been looking at Buddhism or, more specifically, the Gelug school of Tibetan Buddhism. It was during some extra training connected with my work that I finally made the decision to look into this although, strangely, it had appeared on the periphery of my consciousness in various ways in the preceding weeks.

Some of the principles of Tibetan Buddhism have helped me to better deal with some challenges to my emotional health. The important thing here, however, is that looking into this system of belief was my choice. Given that I was raised in a family which was traditionally Roman Catholic, it also felt like an act of rebellion.

The things we choose to do teach us valuable lessons about ourselves, if only we have the wisdom to understand.

Last week, I attended a martial arts class that I've been attending for a number of weeks now. During that class, we had to perform a drill in pairs, in which one person would hold pads and shoot a left jab towards their training partner. In response to this jab, the other person would slip to the outside while countering with a left to the midsection, followed by a series of further punches.

I spent six years learning Wing Chun. I still practise the forms, though not as regularly as I once did. The point is, when I was expected to slip the jab and counter, I was trying so hard not to respond with Wing Chun that I froze and was hit a few times.

When I had finally managed to switch off my previously trained responses to the point where I could slip the jab, my training partner changed the jab to a chop to the side of the head. I complained about this, and the instructor replied that it was better for me to be hit in that situation than out on the street, where they wouldn't be so kind. "Out on the street", they wouldn't have had the luxury of knowing what I was going to do, so the argument wasn't valid. More importantly, my training partner had deviated from what we were supposed to do. I hadn't, but maybe I should have.

Had I responded with Wing Chun or something from elsewhere in my history of learning combat arts, this wouldn't have happened. The last time I did this, however, it led to a situation in which the instructor seemed to feel that he had something to prove. If I'm honest, the irritation I felt regarding my training partner's behaviour and the instructor's response said something of my own vulnerability to the machinations of the ego.

You may be wondering what lesson is to be drawn from all of this. Well, one requirement of the last counselling course on which I was a student was that each of us had the experience of being the client of a counsellor. During those sessions, the counsellor said something I didn't initially understand:

"You've learned to hide your power, because it makes others feel uncomfortable."

My training partner hadn't hidden his power. My experience of the instructor in the class, so far, has been that he's not the type to hide his power either. Both of them have been practising Jeet Kune Do for a long time. Where is my power in that environment? It's a Jeet Kune Do class and, though I have some previous knowledge of Jeet Kune Do, I don't have their experience of practising the principles and movements.

In trying to fit in with what they were doing, and actively suppressing my previous training, I was putting myself at a disadvantage - I was hiding my power. How often do we do this? In an attempt to be liked, accepted, or to gain approval, we take on the rules of our social environment to the point where we hide our individuality. We learn to wear various masks or personas, according to the situation. When we do this, are we valuing or respecting ourselves?

I forgot something important. Returning to martial arts, for me, wasn't about learning to fight. How easily I was dragged into valuing my experience on the terms of others! In that situation, all I had to do was avoid harm. Everything else was, as my recent exposure to Buddhism would suggest, a manifestation of the ego.

The condition of rigidly sticking to what has been taught is, I now see, unnecessary. It is imperative that we listen, observe and learn, but also that we respect and value our own experience. We are the sum of our experience, and so much more. Why, then, should we hide our power?

Friday 19 October 2018

Resistance is useless

It's a strange irony. We may know the things which restore us - the things which make us strong - and yet we resist them. Usually, this is explained to us as a lack of motivation, and various "experts" line up to advise us on how to conquer this lack of motivation. Occasionally, however, this proves to be entirely the wrong approach, because a lack of motivation is not always at the root of this.

Each of us have our own beliefs, values and attitudes. To some extent (probably more than most of us would like to admit), these define who we are as a person, and anything that contradicts our beliefs, values or attitudes threatens, to a greater or lesser degree, our sense of who we are.

I went to my first big dance event in January, and felt at the time that it would be the last big dance event I would attend. The pass for the weekend had been won as a prize in a raffle, and I wanted to fully connect with the experience and enjoy it, but things didn't quite work out that way. The prize had actually been two passes for the weekend, and a number of ladies had thought that they might be the recipient of the second pass. For some, not getting that second pass caused some resentment.

Before the weekend even started, I'd decided to take part in some stretching classes which were an optional way to start each day. As a dancer of advancing years, I reasoned that it would probably be a good idea to get out of bed early in the morning to take part in these stretching classes.

It's my habit to turn up early for everything. The instructor found this a surprise, because her experience had been that dancers generally turned up for the last ten minutes of her classes at these events. Her experience was repeated on this occasion too, meaning that there were fifty minutes in which I essentially had a private lesson in how to stretch.

The instructor talked as we both held various poses, about how the weekend had been for her so far, and asked how I was finding the weekend. I felt something I hadn't felt for a long time - I felt at peace. The same was repeated the following morning and, when she asked if I would like to take part in a yoga class in the afternoon, I skipped a dance class so that it would be possible to be there.

Let's look again at our sense of who we are, and how that is often challenged by our experience. Just a few years ago, I wasn't a dancer. That wasn't something I saw as a part of my identity. That first dance class - modern jive, as it happens - wasn't something I would have chosen to do, although ultimately I did choose to go along. I'd been asked to accompany someone who felt uneasy about going alone and, against my expectations, found that I enjoyed partner dancing.

Salsa also felt like something I wouldn't do. The salsa scene had the reputation of being exclusionary and elitist. I'd like to be able to tell you that it's neither of those things, but I can't honestly do that. Let's say that there are people who are very accepting, and there are those who wish to exclude anyone who doesn't fit their idea of what a salsa dancer should be. Nevertheless, being a salsa dancer is now one component of my identity, however much certain individuals wish that wasn't the case. Apparently, I'm quite good, which further irritates those who think I shouldn't be there.

It's said that grief affects our relationships with others, but also our relationship with ourselves. That's another change to my sense of self over the past few years. Going for my first experience of counselling, as required by my course of study, added to this.

Going back to the things that restore us, the things that make us strong, all of the above has been a learning experience. As previously stated, we can have this tendency to reject the things which restore us and make us strong. We can tell ourselves that they are not an authentic part of our identity.

Attending martial arts classes again, as I've started to do recently, is an acknowledgement of the restorative effects of this activity for me. Taking a break from that was effectively denying a part of myself.

Most recently, a connection with Buddhism became the latest challenge to my sense of self. Yoga, salsa, Buddhism - these all say something about who I am, but they are saying something about a part of me I find it difficult to accept. That difficulty comes from the judgement of others - those values, beliefs and attitudes we unconsciously take on board and allow to shape our expression of our identity. Each in their own way, however, is a source of strength or, in the case of the challenging scene that surrounds salsa dancing as an activity, an opportunity to prove to myself that I'm capable of great inner strength.

I suppose the message in all of this is that our strength comes, ultimately, from being authentic, from shutting out all those voices which tell us that certain aspects of our identity are unacceptable.

Monday 15 October 2018

Jeet Kune Do

I promised that I'd persevere until January, but let's say that my training in Jeet Kune Do isn't going well so far. A large part of that is due to a lack of fitness, and not having attended a martial arts class of any description for two years. Some of the hour is given to physical conditioning, as it should be, and the truth is that my physical condition is quite poor at the time of writing. I'll admit it - I'm struggling.

There's a more damaging component to my lack of motivation, however, and this may well see me looking elsewhere when January comes around. I wanted to train martial arts again for reasons other than learning how to fight, but this seems to be the focus of the instructor, and that's where it all falls down. See, I've been a martial artist for many years and, for reasons I can't go into from a legal perspective, I know how to adapt this stuff to a live combat situation. Unfortunately, Jeet Kune Do doesn't feel like it's how I want to fight. Put another way, as learning to fight is no longer my focus, it doesn't feel like how I want to move.

I've recently been using my experience as a martial artist, and a further knowledge of the principles of movement gained through dancing, to learn the basics of Muay Boran. I've no doubt that what I'm doing isn't absolutely correct, because I don't have the benefit of a qualified instructor. More likely, a lot of what I already know is getting in there, modifying the forms. The point is, it feels like an authentic expression of where I am as a martial artist; Jeet Kune Do does not feel that way.

There's the opportunity to switch to Muay Thai, which would be more in line with Muay Boran, but I promised to stick with Jeet Kune Do until January. I keep my promises. I'm also constantly examining my reasons for wanting to train martial arts again.

A video, in which I danced with a friend, came up in my memories on social media. Apparently, I posted it a year ago. This isn't as off-topic as it seems. As good a memory as it is, it also draws attention to how much I've changed in the year since. The change since I last set foot in a martial arts class is even more marked.

At an event in January, I took part in my first yoga class and, although my involvement with yoga is still limited, it feels like something I need to do. During training linked to my work, I heard some things about Tibetan Buddhism, and it was something that had been on my radar many times during the preceding week, so I decided to read about it. Some personal issues in the preceding years had changed how I saw the world around me, and also how I saw myself.

It's possible for me to do both. One of the students of the Jeet Kune Do class is also a Muay Thai practitioner. The feeling that Jeet Kune Do isn't an authentic expression of who I am remains, however. It's more likely that Muay Thai and Filipino martial arts would be the combination that I would go for - another possibility. Right now, I'm also deciding whether that will mark the point where dancing is no longer a part of my life. In January, there will be a lot of decisions to make.

Saturday 6 October 2018

Thought for the day: a sensitive soul

I'm still thinking about Thursday. It had been a tough day, and that's coming from someone who's had an awful lot of tough days. I decided to go out to eat that evening. Maybe that wasn't the best decision. Maybe it was poor self-care. As things turned out, eating alone would have been preferable.

I was the only customer for a while, so the restaurant owner decided to talk to me. In no time, she was talking about losing her grandmother over the weekend, and how she felt about it. Whatever it is that people see in me, which leads to them opening up, I wished for one moment where I could switch it off. I don't lack empathy. Seriously, I have empathy by the truckload, but sometimes it feels like a blade that anyone could plunge between my ribs, any time they wish. There are times when I'm carrying a heavy burden myself and sometimes, when people talk to me, it only leads to me feeling more lonely.

There are people who are just more sensitive than others. A part of that is being aware of things that often escape the attention of most people, and probably less aware of other stuff. Part of it is innate, and part of it is an adaptation to the environment in which we find ourselves in early life. You can spend a lifetime either pretending that things don't affect you, or developing defences against the machinations of those around you, but the truth is that you feel everything deeply, and it can overwhelm you. There are times when you need to shut down, isolate yourself or, if you're lucky enough to have one, spend time with that friend who somehow restores you by just being there. The loneliness is crushing, but is preferable to certain types of company.

You are prone to bouts of depression, and this saps your energy, meaning you have little to spare for dealing with other people, and then the self-enforced isolation bites, making you feel more depressed. No one seems to understand and, depending on the culture in which you live, your sensitivity will be seen as a gift or a curse. If you're male, then there are few places where any of this is accepted.

The funny thing is, you're strong. There's no way you could cope with all of this if you weren't, even though it can feel at times like you're not coping with it. There are ways to deal better with it, but others are more qualified to talk about that than I am. What I do know, however, is that learning to accept this part of who you are is powerful. You're a sensitive soul, and you're as deserving of love and compassion as anyone else. First, though, give it to yourself.