Follow the Love

Slept poorly last night. Woke up stiff, sore, unhappy. I was saying “this is it. I’ve reached the limit. I can’t do the class today.”

But then I remembered that I’d promised myself I’d go. If I am able to get into the car and transport myself to the Dojo, I will. Then, if I can’t do anything else, I’ll watch.

So I was scared, and tired, and sore. And I started going through the motions. When I looked at the clock, it had been a half-hour. I was going to make it!

Afterwards, I was plenty tired. But my spirits were lifted, like they always are.

It was definitely the hardest class yet. I think if I could make it through that class, I could do Karate no matter what, so it just renewed my intention to never miss a class (without a real reason).

I’m back to taking long naps.

Karate takes maybe six hours out of every day that I do it. That’s 18 hours a week. But it’s worth it. On my non-Karate days, I can now make dinner, stay awake longer, and play with my kids. I stand straighter, and who knows? I may get strong enough some day to do Karate and stay awake on the same day. Maybe even do the dishes!

Sensei asked me whether I was sore between classes, and I realized that while I’ve had pain during class, and fatigue after, I haven’t experienced any “athletic” soreness. None of that good kind I used to get when I was healthy, after a good workout.

I’m pushing hard, and I’m feeling it; I don’t know why I don’t experience the soreness. It seems pretty strange, now that I think of it. Wonder if it has something to do with Fibromyalgia?

Didn’t know if I’d get through again today. But of course, I managed. Didn’t even have to sit down today. Took breaks standing up.

And my posture has changed. I just noticed, all of a sudden, that I’m taller. And it doesn’t hurt to hold myself up.

I will walk strong.
When I cannot walk,
I will stand.
When I cannot stand,
I will sit.
When I cannot sit,
I will lie down,
until I can
rise again.

When we’re working with our arms, I often have to stop, and let my shoulders rest. I also sit down, sometimes. But no matter what, I focus and watch.

They keep telling me that the trick is to push yourself beyond your limits, but not to push yourself too hard. What’s that supposed to mean?

It remains difficult to find the limit, but I’m doing what I can, and after class, I am exhausted.

My son and I have been talking about lies and truth lately. (No big shock there.) We had both concluded, independently, that we don’t like “white lies,” or, in fact, any lies at all, and that authenticity is really important to both of us.

Yesterday, he asked me whether there were any circumstances in which it would be ok to lie. As I thought about it, I found the writings of both Mohatma Gandhi and Marshall Rosenberg coming to mind. Here is some of what Gandhi had to say:

I have been repeating over and over again that he who cannot protect himself or his nearest and dearest or their honour by non-violently facing death may and ought to do so by violently dealing with the oppressor.

…

Self-defence….is the only honourable course where there is unreadiness for self-immolation.

Though violence is not lawful, when it is offered in self-defence or for the defence of the defenceless, it is an act of bravery far better than cowardly submission. The latter befits neither man nor woman. Under violence, there are many stages and varieties of bravery. Every man must judge this for himself. No other person can or has the right.
And Marshall Rosenberg tells us that sometimes the protective use of force is called for, but never punitive use, and that the protective use of force is neither a method of communication nor a way to teach a lesson (or help someone learn). It is a way to prevent harm.

I’m not sure yet if it’s a metaphor, or if lying and force are more literally equivalent. But lying is clearly a way to change someone’s behavior or response to match your agenda, rather than her own. The policeman at my door would presumably prefer to follow her own agenda with accurate information about the situation, rather than basing her choices on a lie. The same is true for the next-door-neighbor who wonders how our homeschooling is going.
What I’ve noticed is that there are situations that might well result in harm to me or my loved ones if I were to tell the truth. In the case of a neighbor, personal questions may result in harsh judgements or gossip. For the police officer, there may be a danger of corruption. Then, of course, there is the famous example of the Nazis at the door, asking if you’ve seen the little Jewish girl.

So the answer I gave my son was that in self-defense (or defense of another), I think it may be ok to lie. “Oh, good,” he told me. He’s so cool.

I’ve decided I should go, no matter how I feel. Today, I was more scared than I have been before. The pain when I woke up was strong, and I wondered—again—if I wouldn’t be able to do it today.

Of course, once we got there, I did it. I modified things to match my ability, sat down occasionally, took it slow. But when it was over, I was sweaty and tired, so I worked hard enough, I think.

Anyway, after today’s class I realized that I can’t tell what I’ll be able to do until I get there, so I’m just going to show up every day. I’m going to stop questioning whether I can do it, whether I need a “break,” whether I’m doing “too much.”

I woke up again feeling stiff, as always, and I thought—again—that maybe I can’t do this. Then, when I got there, I did it.

And again, when it was over and I had rested (a lot) and showered, I felt great. I felt exhilarated.

If I’m going to hurt, I might as well hurt doing something that I like, and will help me.

I’m concerned, though. The medical people say not to do “too much,” not to exercise “to exhaustion.” I’ve even heard that we shouldn’t so something if it hurts. (Ha! Who came up with that? Surely not someone with Fibromyalgia.)

So far, ignoring that advice has been wonderful. I guess we’ll see.

When I got up this morning, I didn’t think I could do it. But when I got there, I decided to try.

I made it through a whole Karate class.

When other people jumped, I stepped. When other people did ten punches, I did five. Sometimes, I just stopped moving. Still, it wasn’t as gentle—I wasn’t as gentle—as I expected.

It was hard, and I sweat hard. But when it was all over, I felt great.

I’m going to do it. Karate. I must be insane.