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I always thought I knew how to throw a punch. It's simple, I told myself.
But I was wrong.
Several years ago, I joined a martial-arts school with two friends. We walked in like curious kindergartners, listening to our teacher with a peculiar mix of apprehension and excitement.
We trained hard into the cold winter evenings, repeating countless blocks until our muscles ached and dark bruises snaked across our forearms. Amidst the repetition, we gradually uncovered our own vulnerabilities and strengths.
I vividly remember my third class when another student barrelled toward me with raised fists. I can still feel my heart pounding in my chest and my eyes madly scanning for an exit. Any exit.
I think back to my ruthless bully – Henry, I think – when I was seven years old. In that moment, my mind screams at me to run and be afraid. Because, make no mistake, I am afraid.
The student is now less than two steps from me and I'm still frantically thinking about what I'm supposed to do.
Do I move forward? How should I be standing? What if I just flail my arms clumsily to distract him from my equally clumsy kick?
As his right fist shoots forward, something happens. I suddenly stop overthinking and everything slows down. The fear is still there. It does not disappear. But I hold onto that shred of serenity and my hands somehow dart out to meet his oncoming punches. I have since struggled with this inherent contradiction in martial arts. A contradiction nestled between an ostensibly violent exterior and the need for a peaceful mindset.
Indeed, the purpose of martial arts is widely misunderstood, twisted by Hollywood and fuelled by misguided stereotypes. Martial arts is not merely about fighting; its purpose is profoundly philosophical and personal.
Martial-arts training, then, is like rereading a favourite book. One can appreciate unseen details in the second reading or the hundredth reading. One just needs to be willing to open that book with an eye on the journey and not the endpoint.
And the journey is neither easy nor direct. It is equal parts perseverance, curiosity and humility. It is about constantly balancing – not suppressing – instinct, emotion and reason.
I didn't always think like that though. I downright resisted it. I was younger and more rigid then; I wanted to somehow "master" my martial art. I trained up to four days a week and, in turn, I dislocated my shoulder and injured my knee. I pushed myself hard – but with an eye on the wrong goal.
No matter how hard one trains, there will always be someone better. In fact, I have never felt as humbled as the afternoon I was (easily) taken down by an elderly martial artist. Ego slightly bruised, I learned a lot about myself that day.
Perceptions of winning and losing can be distracting. Comparisons can be self-destructive. And illusions of knowledge can be the most dangerous of all. So, perhaps Socrates was right – perhaps knowing you know nothing is the key to self-cultivation and mindfulness.
Imagine trying to maintain that mindfulness after taking two hits to the ribs in a sparring match.
Imagine looking at your sparring partner not as a hostile opponent but as a respected peer. Imagine stripping away your daily stress to focus on the present, to focus on mindfulness and balance.
For me, that balance is central to both martial arts and everyday life. It brings a sense of appreciation to those Monday morning meetings and urgent deadlines. In all likelihood, I may never fully achieve that balance – and that's okay – because striving for balance opens the door for less obvious training.
Things such as tenacity, personal awareness and adaptability cannot be taught. These can only be fostered through training – and, more importantly, failure.
When I fail to disarm an attacker with a knife in training, it sparks personal questions such as, "How can I better control my attacker's wrist without committing my hands?" Similarly, failing to land a kick does not lessen its value as a kick; failure adds to my understanding of the kick, its applications and myself.
I'll likely never need to fight in my daily life, but that doesn't diminish the value of any lesson. Those lessons have introduced a more focused, balanced and peaceful mindset to my life.
Ultimately, I would not be on this journey without the guidance of my teacher, Sifu Calvin Chung.
There is more to martial arts than physical techniques and I am indebted to the many layers of his teachings. I also appreciate my martial-arts peers for their support and willingness to explore the very purpose of our training.
Because training to punch is more than just training a punch.
It represents an intensely personal journey. A journey that frees us from the fallacies and fears that too often characterize everyday life and the modern human condition. A journey that illuminates the value of a peaceful mindset in everyday life.
So, after years of training, I have to admit I still don't know how to throw a punch.
But then again, that was never really the point.
Tom Du lives in Toronto.