Why are you so quiet?

"Why are you so quiet?"

"Why don't you speak?"

When we talk, they don't understand.  They misunderstand, misinterpret and come to their own conclusions, based on their misunderstanding.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"Why don't you speak?"

They interrupt.  They talk over each other.  They're so eager to say what's on their mind that they don't listen.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"Why don't you speak?"

They don't question why something has been said.  They only see what would motivate them to say it, and reason that these were also the speaker's motives.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"Why don't you speak?"

They only wish to confirm their bias, suspicion and prejudice.  They will hear nothing to the contrary.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"Why don't you speak?"

They will repeat what has been said, with their own slant, based on what they think of the speaker.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"Why don't you speak?"

It will be repeated again, further affected by another person's thoughts about the speaker.  The original intent is lost.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"Why don't you speak?"

They don't listen.  They don't understand.  It is better that I say nothing.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"Why don't you speak?"

Time to recharge

I'm taking a break from a few things at the moment.  The things from which I'm taking a break are activities where I'm in a room filled with people.  At the best of times, that's difficult for me.  This isn't the best of times.

A few people have told me how strong I appear.  One in particular said she admired my ability to pick myself up again, no matter how many times life had knocked me down.  There has to be a limit, though.  There's a point where, as much as we try to be strong, we feel ourselves collapsing under the weight of the burden we're carrying.  I think I'd reached that point a few months before I decided to do something about it.

Doing something about it, for me, means disconnecting.  The last time I went to a dance class that I'd usually attend on a regular basis, for example, I had to leave early, and I knew I had to take a break from it.  For a moment, I wondered if the best course of action might be to challenge that part of my personality, to resist the urge to shut down for a while.  Fortunately, I knew myself well enough to realise that I needed to take some time out, to think things through and maybe recharge a little.

I've often pictured myself sat on the side of a hill, watching everything happening below: taking time to breathe, as it were.  Someone recently said that, even though I'm physically present, there's often the feeling that I'm somehow separate from everyone.  Yeah, I feel that too.  That's the point where I really want to be somewhere else.

I admit that I effectively shut people out, and it's easy for them to think that I'm not affected by things, that I don't feel anything.  The truth is that I feel things too much, that I care about people and things too much, and that aura of cold detachment is like my shield.  That shield can be lowered, however, and that's what had happened.

I pretended that being asked so much about my fiancée, our plans and when we would see each other again didn't hurt, that it didn't serve as a reminder that she wasn't with me, a reminder of how much I missed her.  I pretended that the events of the last six months hadn't brought me to a point where I was already struggling.  I guess they couldn't see that I was already wounded and that, though it would normally be taken as a sign that they cared enough to ask, and be appreciated, every enquiry about the woman I love felt like a dagger between my ribs.

I smiled through the pain.  I didn't know how to tell anyone that I was hurting, in a way that wouldn't lead to them feeling hurt too, so I said nothing.  Eventually, I could no longer hold my shield, and felt exposed, vulnerable.  I started to talk about how I was feeling and even - horror of horrors - became visibly upset.

I watched someone who had once been a close friend as she danced, and reflected on how things had fallen apart between us.  What had once been a good, solid friendship had steadily deteriorated to the point where, should either of us dare to lower our shield, we would invariably find the other had inserted a blade between our ribs.  For a time, I was only aware of how badly I'd been wounded.  Now, as much as it's her habit to cover her wounds, to admit no weakness in her defence, I see that my blade struck a number of times.

Empathy is a terrible burden, when we realise we have hurt someone.

I need to find the strength to hold my shield again, and maybe repair some of the holes that have started to appear in it.  The alternative is that people see how vulnerable I am without it, that I'm wearing no armour behind my shield, so to speak.  Needless to say, I'm currently limiting myself, as much as possible, to spending time with people I trust completely, or whose ability to hurt me is limited.

Right now, I'm sat on the side of the hill I spoke about earlier, metaphorically speaking.  It's a warm day, and a breeze is blowing.  Every so often, a trusted friend will come to sit next to me, and ask if I'm okay.  My reply is that I've just retreated for a while because, as much as I've tried to dress my wounds, they're still bleeding, and I need to rest.

Offering our support

Our friends, family and other loved ones may need our help at times.  If we're decent people, and especially if we're able to empathise with those we love, we offer our support without question.  As much as we want to care for others, however, we must also care for ourselves.

If we have a history of wanting to appear tough, strong, capable and generally in control, it's hard for us to seek help from others.  In families, there is often one individual who takes on the role of being calm in a crisis, of being a strong, safe pair of hands.  They provide emotional, and sometimes more practical, support to other members of the family.

Some people just have it in their nature to care for others, and that's fine.  Where it stops being fine is when that habit of wanting to appear tough, strong and capable reaches the point where we feel we can never, ever ask for support ourselves.  Rather than feeling tough, strong and capable, we have reached a point where we are trying to be invincible, and the sad truth is that we aren't invincible.

We will almost automatically offer our assistance to those we care about, so it can seem that we're doomed to just keep giving our support and receiving little to none in return.  The reality is that we need to stop trying to be invincible, and recognise that the help we need may have already been offered.  At least one of the people you care about - your partner, spouse, a friend or, more rarely, a family member - cares enough about you in return to want to help you.  Your relationship with that person is what all relationships would be in an ideal world: mutually supportive.

If you have a lot of people who want to offer their support in your time of need, then you are very lucky.  It's human nature, unfortunately, for some to advise, tell you what to do, or even go as far as suggesting that they're the only one who can effectively be there for you.  That's not a mutually supportive relationship: that's a relationship that's bordering on being dictatorial.  In truth, you are the one who is best placed to recognise the person, or persons, you want to turn to for assistance, and maybe that will change depending on the particular challenges you are facing at the time.  If they do offer advice, it's your right to either accept or reject that advice.

The important thing is not to take everything on yourself.  As much as you wish it were true, you're not invincible.

Please, do continue...

Some months ago, one of the ladies at a dance class I attend came to a startling realisation.  She turned to face me, said that she'd told me a lot about herself, and that she'd done so because I didn't say much, so she'd had to fill the silences.

Soon after the above incident, another lady, from the same class, said that she had noticed how I sat and listened to a number of the ladies in the class, and that I didn't say much.  She said that, when a man sits and listens so patiently to a woman, it could be interpreted as meaning that he felt a sexual attraction towards the woman in question.  Later, when I was alone, I thought about what she'd said.  It seemed to be a very cynical interpretation of male behaviour, and I hoped, while it was obviously not my reason for listening, that it wasn't true more generally.

More recently, I was out with a friend, and a woman I don't know so well joined us at the table.  Within a few seconds, this relatively new acquaintace started to laugh, and said that she found the conversation between my friend and I to be strange.  What she saw, apparently, was that my friend would talk, and I would often simply nod in reply.  My friend replied that she often has to fill silences, because I talk even less than she does (she's generally thought to be quiet).

Later in the evening, the woman who had found the earlier conversation so strange found herself sat alone with me.  As she talked, I nodded and used other continuation messages to show that I had heard and understood what she had said.  I got to know her better.  She asked questions about me, and I answered, showing her that the conversation wasn't just going one way.  She sat next to me when she next saw me with my friend, and talked to me again.

I don't talk much, but I'm a good listener.  I'm genuinely engaged and interested in listening to what others say, and it seems to show.  Whether it's right or wrong, it's who I am.

Thought for the day: a good friend

I notice the little things that tell me someone is a good friend.  For example, when you fall out with a mutual friend and, while remaining firmly neutral, they say they were concerned that you'd turn against them too.  If a catastrophic event in your life has led to you not eating or sleeping properly, they may be the only one who notices that something is wrong, and will ask if you're okay.  They might notice that you're feeling lonely, even though you're out somewhere with others present, and come over to talk to you.  If you tell them that someone is saying the worst things about you, they'll choose to see the best in you.  When your fiancée comes for a visit, even though they've never met before, and your friend is not generally comfortable with people they don't know, they'll do their best to make her feel welcome and a part of everything that's going on.

I'm talking about someone specific, and I'm sure I could use many other examples.  Friends rarely tell each other how much they appreciate these things, though.  The strange thing is, I've only known her for a number of months, rather than years.  However, she's one of the best friends that anyone could ever have.  I just hope that I'm as good a friend to her.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to being a lot less serious, and pretending that I merely tolerate her existence.

Thought for the day: letting go of fear, hatred and anger

I'm taking a break from formally practising martial arts for a while, although I'll still be practising in my spare time.  It's a time to reflect on what I've learned in over thirty years of involvement, in one form or another, with the martial arts.  The most valuable things I've taken from this time are nothing to do with learning to fight, but what I've learned about people.

I see violence being used to create fear, and I know that fear will lead to anger and hatred, provoking more violence.  I learned this at an early stage of my training, and many still don't seem to know this, including many of the world's governments.  There appears to be a widely held belief that fear will encourage respect, and I have never known this to be true.  I repeat, fear leads to hatred and anger.

What if we fear something or someone?  How do we conquer our fear?  I've found that the most effective way to conquer fear is through understanding.  If we are unable to understand the person or thing we fear, then we must learn to accept those things we don't necessarily understand.

Recently, I've noticed that I've been talking about someone, who was once a close friend, in a way which suggests I'm carrying a great deal of anger, hatred and resentment towards them.  I told myself that it wasn't a true reflection of how I was feeling but, on closer inspection, those feelings are there.  This is someone I have to see, due to a shared interest, on a weekly basis.

Sometimes, we may feel that giving up our hatred and anger makes us appear weak or vulnerable.  The truth is that it makes us strong.  What I have to do, and plan to do from this point forward, is to let go of the hatred and anger I feel towards my former friend.  To do this, I have to lose the fear that they may hurt me again, should I let my guard down.  I have to be strong.

What of the fighting side of martial arts?  What have I learned?  In short, I'm good enough.  Technically, I might never be the most gifted martial artist, but it really doesn't matter.  I've long said that we must practise, practise, practise and then, if we ever need to use what we have learned, we should forget that we have learned a martial art.  Those who understand my point will know that I'm not questioning the value of what I've learned.

When I've been confronted, when the threat of violence has come my way, I've usually been able to stop it becoming physical.  If the situation has become violent, those movements which were so stiff, uncoordinated and so difficult for me to grasp in the class have been performed with little or no conscious thought, in exactly the right time and place to prevent injury to myself and, when absolutely necessary, to cause injury to others.

I take no pride in the above.  I don't see it as a show of skill.  The real skill, to me, is stopping an encounter becoming violent in the first place.  Going beyond that point means I am simply performing actions which have been practised to the point where they are instinctive.  Will I be feared by my opponent?  Maybe.  Will I be respected by them?  That's less likely.  Will I be hated by them?  That's almost a certainty, and I think there's enough hatred in this world.

People have asked me how I learned these things from martial arts.  From my point of view, I wonder how they haven't learned these things.  Maybe I just realised that it's relatively easy for me to hurt people, but also that it's the last thing I want to do.

From martial arts to dancing

"Turn into a doll made of wood: it has no ego, it thinks nothing, it is not grasping or sticky.  Let the body and limbs work themselves out in accordance with the discipline they have undergone." ~Bruce Lee

2016 marks the first year I'm beginning as someone who's learning to dance.  All being well, I should end the year being a much better dancer than I am right now - well, in one style of dance anyway.  I don't know whether adding another style to my repertoire, if it were possible, would help or hinder the learning process.

What I do know is that, from an early age, I learned a specific mode of movement.  At the time of writing, I'm still actively participating in martial arts and, though it's a different art to those I've learned before, certain principles remain the same.  It's these principles of movement which slow my progress in modern jive.

Solo practice

A defining characteristic of partner dancing, as the name would suggest, is the presence of a partner.  Given that I'm not learning line dancing, or synchronised swimming, I'm learning a dance which requires one partner to lead the other through the dance.  I'm a man - at least I was the last time I checked - which means that, unfortunately for my dance partners, I have to lead.  This is where practice would be useful, but there's a catch - to practise dancing with a partner, you need a partner.

Away from martial arts classes, it's possible to train alone.  In disciplines like wing chun, there are set sequences of movements, such as chum kiu, for example.

There are other forms of solo training as well.  If you practise a discipline which lacks set sequences, you might practise certain kicks, hand strikes or other movements multiple times.  The whole point is that you become familiar with the basic movements and, importantly, repetition makes it more likely that your brain will store them for later use.

Outside of the modern jive class, well, there are freestyle dance events.  This is where I get to practise my moves with a series of different partners, should they be willing to tolerate my relatively limited experience of modern jive.  How can I improve at my own pace?  The short answer is that I can't.

Visibility

Let's start looking into the differences between dancing with a partner and practising, particularly making practical use of, martial arts.  When dancing, you have a partner, who should be aware of your every move, so they may respond appropriately.  In martial arts, whether fighting competitively or outside your local fast food outlet, you have an opponent, and you certainly don't want them to be aware of your every move, at least not until it's too late already.

I didn't realise what was happening until I saw various partners losing their balance or failing to respond appropriately.  I started thinking I was doing something wrong.  In reality, I was doing something right, but in the wrong setting.  Years of learning to conceal my movements, to move at a speed at which an opponent had little chance to respond, counted against me when leading a dance partner.  It happens less now, but I still occasionally get the odd confused look, or have to correct a partner's balance (that's where those supposedly lightning fast reactions are actually useful).

The solution actually lay in previous experience of martial arts.  I spent some time learning tai chi, and the way in which the slower form is trained provided a framework for learning modern jive - less swift, less sharp, more flowing.

The application of force

Okay, this one's a biggie.  I don't want to send a dance partner spinning out of control, across the floor, or injure them.  That short, explosive power which I've trained for so many years, and especially when learning wing chun, should not be used here.  The implication is that I hold back somewhat, but the amount by which I should hold back will vary from partner to partner and, only this week, I found myself accused of being an ineffective lead.

I still haven't figured this one out, so I tend to err on the side of being gentle.  I'll take the accusations of being a weak lead, for now.

Predictability

You do THIS move, you catch the lady's hand in your left hand; you do THIS move, you catch the lady's hand in your right hand.  Whatever hand you're using to hold the lady's right hand (usually) dictates what you are able to do next.  Certain manoeuvres are used to change hands; certain manoeuvres end with no change of hand.  Your partner has a fair idea, not only of what you're doing, but of what you might do next, and where you might lead her.

If you use the wrong hand for a move, what happens?  At best, confusion; at worst, you tie yourself, and a partner, in knots.  It's one of the ways in which I have to fight against being trained to be unpredictable in my movements.  My mind rebels, and I catch with the wrong hand, going into something completely unexpected, and possibly not even a modern jive movement.

There is no way to counter this, other than to practise.  More than anything else, this is the issue which has seen me going to every single freestyle dance event I'm able to attend, in an effort to correct this tendency.

Rhythm

Ah, music.  Dancing just wouldn't be the same without it.  Thankfully, I have a sense of rhythm so, in theory, I should be able to keep in time with the music.

In practise?  Let's go back to the issue of predictability, and say that falling into a rhythm is a bad thing in martial arts, as any good instructor will tell you.  Breaking that rhythm is necessary, so your movements can't be predicted.  So, every time I learn a new movement, there is a conscious effort to bring it in line with the beat, and anything other than the familiar "four on the floor" rhythm gives me a problem.

Again, practise will correct this tendency.  That's the hope, anyway.

Proximity (or, resisting the urge to defend, grapple, throw or immobilise)

What's this?  I have to be close to people I don't know?  Can I trust them?  Yes, it's the age old problem of training to neutralise an attack, expecting that attack, and it leading to you having an issue with personal space.  Seriously.  Even in the queue at the supermarket checkout, I feel uncomfortable.  As much as I know the possibility of a knife being stuck between my ribs, or a strike being aimed at specific vulnerable parts of my anatomy, is unlikely, the movements of the dance leave me feeling defenceless and vulnerable.

As I get to know (and trust, to varying degrees) the people in the class, this becomes less of an issue.  When someone new joins the class, I'm automatically considering how much I should trust them, and slightly adjusting my movements to offer at least some protection to my vulnerable points.  Worse, someone that I've known for some time in the class has given me some very good reasons not to trust them, so I tend to dance defensively with them, and I can't see this changing any time soon.

Footwork, balance and leaving yourself open

I try to follow a certain way of stepping, and my mind rebels against it.  "What is wrong with you?" my mind screams at my body, "you could easily be pushed over, in that position, or struck, or thrown.  Stop it!"  An alternative way of stepping takes place, where I don't compromise my balance or my defence, and a confused look from my dance partner is my reward.  Worse, this alternative way of stepping might completely mess up the thing I was actually meant to do.

Absorbing what is useful (or, limiting myself)

Simple, direct, efficient: even before I started learning wing chun, this was how I viewed martial arts and, as a result, it became one of the principles of how I move.

On a practical level, it means the basic hand strikes, kicks and elbows appeal to me.  I've never been asked to perform a jump spinning back kick, but I'm pretty sure my attempt would cause more injury to me than an opponent.  If I can do it easily, it becomes a favoured technique; if I struggle, it may be rejected.

When learning the moves of modern jive, this means I tend to restrict myself to a few of the basic moves.  If they are simple, efficient and direct, I like them.  It means that my repertoire is very limited, however.  I suppose that becoming more familiar with some of the other moves will improve things, and that will come in time.