Tag Archives: musings

Guilting you into it

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Guilting you into it

Ever have one of those mornings when even the cat has her hooks into you?  I mean it’s not even 6:00 in the morning and the day is already all about getting stuff done, and done fast.

“Raining outside?  Oh, that’s okay, use an umbrella to go out and get me my latte!,” say’s he who wants desperately to be obeyed.

Yep, one of *those* mornings where only the premium flaked cat food will do.

My answer other than to take care of the “damn” nonsense of life including lattes in the rain and the last round of studying for my daughter’s make-up science test, always goes back to freezing time for my morning something.  Today that means the daily write and sun salutations and the occasional foray into a tap dance, say in the elevator of where I work where the acoustics make my taps sound perfect.

And later, say at lunch time, I’ll tune out for a few on my iPad and have a think about something other than coming home to sort the laundry.


P.S. – Nothing like the vision of a Starbucks barista in a Santa hat to make the day seems sunny after all!

New beginnings

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New beginnings.

Mondays afford the possibility of new beginnings.  A bit like a new year, Mondays begin the week and hence offer the chance to take a stab at starting over.   This mini-New Year also offers the start of new resolutions such as getting back to the gym, beginning a diet, or waking up an hour earlier to start that novel that keeps beckoning from the keyboard.

The point is that we have that opportunity to take a stab at new things all the time; whether an adventure in cuisine, creative endeavors, physical prowess, or something as simple as drinking one less cup of coffee.

And sure, Thursday can come when cake is the overriding motivation of the day, but you do have Monday or any other day you choose as your start day to look forward to.    That’s the day when you have the opportunity to move yourself along to where ever it is you want to go as a fresh beginning, whether its shadow boxing in the dark as your morning sun salutation or greeting your gym mates at the end of the day having missed their company for a while.

Missing a day

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Missing a day.

When one commits to a daily something as a specific task, missing a day can be a big emotional ouch.

Back when I boxed everyday, whether at the gym or at home, missing a day felt like a betrayal.  I had gone ahead and signed some sort of blood pact with myself to train everyday and then blown it!

The next day always felt awkward.   I found myself discounting the days and weeks of effort and sweat as if I had to start all over again.

Of course, I didn’t have to.  Sure I lost the day, but it didn’t mean having to give up training or all the good that working out in the ring had done for me.  It just meant that I had to work a bit harder to get my groove back; a few extra sit-ups to make up for the ones I’d lost.  Perhaps throwing in an extra bit on the treadmill during the warm-up, or the three rounds on the slip rope I’d been meaning to work into my routine.

The point is not to beat yourself up.

Things happen.  Work, family, a rotten cold, or maybe a jammed feeling that leaves a blue cast over the day that you just can’t shake.  The next day will be there for you to do your daily something again — and really, it’ll be okay.

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The daily something

Day ahead of myself

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Day ahead of myself.

I’m getting days ahead of myself.  It comes of too much on my mind and not enough focus.  Maybe that’s why the pads a trainer uses in boxing are called “focus” pads.

I clearly need some focus or my family might actually follow through on their threats to set me adrift at sea.  ‘Not that I’ve become a Captain Bligh around here, but it’s pretty clear that the problem is me and not with the rest of my world ’cause they’ve been pretty perfect.


Safe space

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Safe space.

I came home from work last night to see my husband and my daughter sprawled on the living room floor doing math together.   My day had been exhausting and I was no less so after seeing them.   The lovely part of it was knowing how safe my daughter was as I excused myself and went into the bedroom to take a short nap.

Having missed out on a lot of that sort of intimacy in my own childhood, it got me to thinking that the boxing gym can offer that same sort of comfort.  My meaning is not necessarily tied into the idea of “Father” / “Daughter,” but “Trainer” and “Trainee.”

As a “student” of boxing one is seeking out guidance and learning from others. That learning encompasses all the usual pathways of acquiring knowledge; however, it occurs as a close physical experience and it is that closeness that can garner trust and comfort.   To sit in a boxing gym is to observe a myriad of small moments of loving intimacy. A sort of safe space for working through the actual problems of how to box; but more so the intangibles of relationship that dog many of us as we go about the everyday work of life.

Of marathons and dreams

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Of marathons and dreams.

Yesterday was the annual New York City Marathon.  Elite runners aside, the NYC Marathon is made up of the tens of thousands of little stories about endurance and heart that see runners  pursuing their dreams of completing the 26-mile course through the streets of the five boroughs.

It’s a day when runners are cheered on by the crowds of New Yorkers lining the route; clapping and pulling for the ones that seem tired or lagging, and reading all the special dreams on people’s T-shirts.  We recognize ourselves in those dreams; of work we pursue with dogged determination and grit, or friends we know and love who endure hardship.

We are each marathoners in one way or another in how we ply our boards day after day to accomplish goals large and small.  For the boxer, it’s not so much the fight as the pursuit of perfection in each jab thrown in the daily grind of the gym.

To my mind, yesterday was a celebration for all us who push to accomplish something, so congratulations to all of us for getting the job done.

 

 

The power of the vote

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The power of the vote

Yep, it’s that time of year again in the United States:  Election Day.

We mark the date when citizens have the opportunity to exercise their franchise and in so doing take a moment to reflect on the folks who fought and in some cases died to make that power available to all of us.

This year marks three important anniversaries:

– The enactment of the 15th Amendment to the Constitution granting the right to vote all (male) citizens of the United States 140 years ago on March 30, 1870;

– The enactment of the 19th Amendment to the Constitution providing women with the right to vote 90 years ago on August 26, 1920; and

– The Voting Rights Act of 1965 codifying the 15th Amendment and signed into law by President Lyndon Johnson 45 years ago on August 6, 1965.

To honor all those who fought for the franchise, why not take the time to get down to the polls today and vote.

I know that some of us feel that our voices aren’t “heard,” but without the vote, we have no chance to balk about what happens next, and believe me, the “crazies” in the world have sure figured it out which is why they’ll be heading to the polls in droves.

So instead of a “Tea Party,” why not head to the polls for a “Constitution Party” — and “pity the fool” who loses sight of the prize: a better tomorrow for our children and our children’s children.

For those who are interested, here’s the text of the 15th Amendment granting Rights of Citizens to Vote and the 19th Amendment granting Women’s Suffrage Rights.

Amendment XV – Rights of Citizens to Vote

Section 1.  The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the Unites States or by any state on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

Section 2.  The Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.

Amendment XIX – Women’s Suffrage Rights

The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of sex.

Congress shall have the power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.

Of circles and squares

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Of circles and squares

At the end of Frederico Fellini’s seminal film, 8 1/2 , all the varying characters and important figures in Guido’s life (the protagonist played by Marcello Mastroianni) gather on the preposterous set of his latest film project.   In the finale of the scene, everyone walks along a concrete rise as Guido urges them on in the guise of a Master of Ceremonies at a Circus.  The shape of the rise, which is circular, provides the context for the resolution of Guido’s many demons:  his questions about himself as an artist, his mistresses and wife, his early sexual escapades, the death of his parents and finally the meaning of life.

The resolution which is joyous and raucous with all past sins forgiven puts me in mind of how much “stuff” we all carry around inside our heads.  Those of us who bring ourselves inside the boxing ring often are accompanied by our own load of “demons.”  The tease of the ring and the discipline of the training are a boxer’s way of reconciling those disparate elements to find the clarity necessary to fight.

To my mind, the boxing ring is a space set a part from everything else.  During a fight, even sparring at the gym, the rules of the space engender a respect for what happens there.  For the participants, the space is defined by the “combat” set to three-minute intervals and it is only in the one minute “interregnum” between rounds that the fighter interacts with the folks in his or her corner.   As every boxer will tell you, however, boxing is really about one’s ability to keep the demons at bay long enough to truly be “present” in the fight. If not, it’s like boxing with only one hand.  All that junk gets inside to cloud the mental picture of clear thinking necessary to truly box.

A boxing event will have all the elements of a circus.  Crazed hawkers, a boisterous and celebratory crowd addicted to the potential for danger, and “acts” themselves: the boxers who are one part entertainers, one part artists and one part gladiators.  Each has a meaning to the crowd, but more importantly, each has meaning to the boxer plying his or her craft.  The boxing event is a fighter’s way of orchestrating the fight so that the job is done and done well, with all senses in tact, and as with Guido, the chance for a resolution with all demons aligned and playing nicely together.  Would that it were that easy.

No time like now

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No time like now

My emotions are on a hair-trigger these days – sure symptoms of an erratic gym life and I am determined to get in some time today.  When I’m off kilter like that it’s a fine balance between doing too much and killing the muscles, and doing too little which will mean I won’t satisfy the gym itch and more grumpiness on my part.

My plan for the day is to run some, stretch, shadow box, and then do a few rounds each of the heavy bag, double-ended bag, and speed bag, with a fine finish of some abs.  Hmmm.  Nice plan.

As for its execution, there is no time like now.

 

Post Script:  Gleason’s was great!  Not quite to plan, but good enough.

It’s good to hit things

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It’s good to hit things.

I shadow boxed at home last night.  I put on 16 oz. gloves and boxed around the room for a couple of rounds before I pounded away at my closet door.  “Get this girl back to the gym,” seemed to be the refrain from my family who thought I was crazy.  I kept thinking how good it felt to hit things even though I wasn’t releasing much power or hitting very hard.

Hitting things is always my ultimate secret about boxing.  I love it.  I love how it feels to connect.   I love the physicality of working out on a big heavy bag and pushing in with my shoulder as I practice upper cuts.   The double-ended bag gives me a place to workout as a rhythmic dance.  It doesn’t have that da-da-da, da-da-da rhythm of the speed bag, but after a round or two, the timing is such that it starts to have its own distinctive beat.

Sparring is something else again.  It has its own magic that for me isn’t about the hitting so much as working through the space as a physical manifestation of a chess game.  Each jab is a feint, a loyal pawn that makes its way forward establishing pace, rhythm and control to set-up all the other punches, bobs and weaves in the arsenal.   To spar is to be in a pas-de-deux with my opponent as improvisational as tap dancing or trading eights with Miles Davis’ trumpet licks.

To hit something at the boxing gym is to come face-to-face with the truth.  You can’t hit and hit hard without that commitment or the emotional depths that get mined every time a punch is thrown.

Boxer’s heart

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Boxer’s heart

My paternal grandmother was one for the books.  A great raconteur, she came from a time and place where women were at the back of the pack no matter how hard they tried.  Still she dreamed and dreamed big, if not for herself than for her children, grandchildren and their children.

She was a widow who supported her two kids by working the graveyard shift as a night auditor in one of the big Manhattan hotels starting in the late 1940’s.    Her idea was to be home to get her children off to school in the morning and to be home when they came home from school in the afternoon, “like a normal family,” she’d say.  In many ways Grandma was luckier than most women in her situation because her Aunt also lived with them and willingly took on the burden of watching the kids at night.

One story Grandma always told was how her boss came to say that only the men were going to get raises that year because they had to support their families.  “What was I doing there, taking in the waters?” she’d say of the injustice.  “I’d a mind to quit, but what was I going to do then?”

She did eventually quit that job and worked her way up through the chain at a lot of different high-end hotels.  Still, she worked that graveyard shift for more than twenty years, only switching to days towards the end of her life when she was quite ill.  By then it was the early 1970’s and with feminism on her mind she’d say, “it’s a good time to be alive.”

I bring this all up because while she never set foot in a gym, she had a boxer’s heart.  She worked hard; fought for her family, and always jumped back up no matter how many times life knocked her down.  And while she may not have built the bridges she always dreamed of, I cannot think of a better legacy than ceding us her great spirit, her humor and her willingness to literally walk the extra mile if it meant bettering her family.

It just is

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It just is

My “dharma” teacher, a revered Theraveda Buddhist Nun back at Wat Suann Mokkh in Thailand was always fond of saying “it just is.”   The wisdom of most boxing trainers revolves around a similar refrain.  My current trainer, Lennox Blackmore is a master of such statements.     He has two flavors:  “it is what it is” and “wake-up.”

Thus, if one is training in a crowed ring – it is what it is.  Deal with it.  Get clocked sparring?  It is what it is, move on.  Get clocked again?  Wake-up!

As wisdom for the ages and frankly, as I “age,” I’m actually beginning to see where this all makes sense.  Is my kid, husband, family, cat driving me crazy?  Am I too hot, too cold, tired, hungry, over-worked, under-worked, grumpy, manic, obsessive, distracted, happy, sad, and on and on?  It just is.  Did I trip, forget where my glasses, keys, wallet, iphone are?  Wake-up.

It gets to be a world-wind after a while of “it is what it is” and “wake-up,” but somewhere in the midst of it I am beginning to actually hear the “be-here-now” at the center of the “it just is” and “wake-up” poles of being.

If I am here now, I will likely avoid the punch, or hit the speed-bag with perfect precision or never engage in the fight with my husband or daughter and actually remember where my glasses are.  I won’t be overly anything, but I will not trip on the sidewalk, get hit by a car crossing the street against the light or importantly, miss out on all of the tender moments with my family.   Somehow it’s hard to believe that I can personally go through life without the drama of  engaging riotously and waking-up, but having been “clocked” enough times by life’s travails, I’m beginning to see the wisdom of staying awake as a moment-to-moment way to be.

Five Minutes

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Five minutes 

Sometimes all I have is five minutes.  Five minutes to write, stretch, meditate, shadow box, lift weights or as my friend Stephen says, drift.  Those five minutes can be a precious commodity.  Five whole minutes for myself and myself alone.  Sometimes it is five minutes to take a little sleep.  Or five minutes to run downstairs and get an iced coffee.

“Give me five minutes,” can be a refrain when I’m supposed to be somewhere and need to finish something or maybe it’s that I need that little edge.  That moment I use to restore myself and reset my clock before I go on to the next task.

Today I gave myself five minutes to write.  Not unlike the boxer’s three-minute round, those five minutes were my little bit of space that I reveled in as a little secret to myself.  My five minutes to do with what I wanted.

The daily something

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The daily something.

In the last years before my mother’s death this past June, she read from the “Daf Yomi” – a nearly seven and a half-year cycle of readings and commentaries from the Babylonian Talmud. (For the uninitiated, the Talmud consists of the Torah or first five books of the old Testament plus commentaries by learned Rabbis from around the year 400 onward.)

She described it at first as an inquiry into something that had been denied to her as a young girl. Rather like forbidden candy, the mysteries of the Torah were intriguing to her, akin to wearing your older sister’s jewelry or sneaking out after dark (with a please pardon for the religious out there who might feel offended by the comparison).

Over time, the process of her daily readings went from breaking a taboo, to duty and on into a realm of grace.  The daily reading of two pages of text and commentary became a punctuation mark of her twenty-four hour cycle.  Both a beginning and an end, the cycle of readings brought her closer to assuaging the spiritual hungering that had walked along side her most of her life, as well as an opportunity to order the disordered world of illness and increasingly diminished physical health.

In thinking through the idea of a daily something, it struck me that so much of our lives is lost to the constant interplay between the “have to’s” and the “need to’s,” as in I have to wake-up, have to get to work, need to pick-up the dry cleaning, have to make dinner, and so on.  What’s left then for a quiet space of being?  Of dwelling in the mind or the body.  And if not a daily reading of a spiritual work — a Daf Yomi, what then?

It’s a question many of us lose sight of.   And resolvable in a myriad of ways; as a daily dose of shadow boxing in the mirror, a morning run, a meditation or even a daily write.  The point is to find a space — an “n” length of time that can mark a beginning and end of a twenty-four cycle.  A punctuation mark that belongs to oneself and oneself alone.  And maybe it’s nothing more than singing one song every morning, but in the end that span of experience represents a moment unlike all the other moments in the day.  Multiply that times a number of days, weeks, months and years, and one can really be on to something.  A sacred space that is bounded by all the junk out there, but from which one can find great solace and even joy.

Writing it down

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Writing it down

When I first started boxing I kept a punch journal.  There was something very cathartic about keeping a record of my activities.  I was able to measure my progress and relive the nuances of unspoken emotions.

What I was most struck by was my own vulnerability.  When had I ever let anyone give me water to sip or tenderly mop my brow of sweat.  There isn’t much one can do for oneself in oversized puffy gloves – and yet, when I first started I did try to do it all.

Writing down my punch log also led me to write down other things.  How I was feeling that day.  The things that were bothering me.  The things that crossed my mind during the parts of my day’s training when I was on my own.

What you have is the chance to let your feelings flow in the same way that they can in the ring.  And whether those feelings flow out in short punches, or in staccato stats on a notebook page, what you end up with is an abundance of self-expression, that once started is like a floodgate.

I’ve been journaling in one form or another since I was twelve years old, but the focus of my boxing journal has led to a self-awareness I had not encountered before.  The truth is if you’re not honest in the ring, you’re going to get “clocked”.  And what that means is you must put 100% of yourself into what you do – call it being 100% present.  Without that, you will be so busy running in your head between what you think the experience is and the actual experience, that there will be no time to react.  And by then you’ll be on the canvas.  The same can be said of your journaling.  You can be present with what you write down, and find some truths you may not have been aware of or been ready to face.

What I love about boxing is that I never know where it is going to take me.  And whether it is finding a comfort zone for my jab or more self awareness stemming from what I’ve written down in my journal, it makes every day a little happier and more joyous, and that is a very good thing.