Essays on discipline, presence, and the quiet moments that change who we become. Often something is beautiful because it is impossible.

The First Lesson Of The Dojo

Roppo.

Roppo.

A familiar voice was calling to me from far away.

Opening my eyes I was laying on the dojo floor, drenched is sweat from the hot August day.

Apparently in the break between classes I had fallen asleep.

One of the senior students had come over to wake me up and inform me that I was going to lead the next part of class for the new students who had just joined the dojo.

The second half of class had me instructing three junior students in the first lesson of the dojo, the gokui that the first lesson is the highest lesson.

I had them first walk across the dojo floor from one side to the other, followed by watching me. 

Expecting something martial arts like, they watched wondering where the punches or kicks came into play.

The first lessons was about walking.

Walking.

I explained that for most of us, walking is just something that we randomly pick up as a child. As some point we are able to walk around without falling over, and with that we begin navigating the world. 

At some point we might layer over some movement from sports, or dance, or another physical activity, while walking, and later running is used to get from point A to point B.

And this works for the most part, but not for the martial arts.

Not for budo.

Steps taken out of balance, steps taken far so the weight shifts all to one leg, steps taken with the back bent or feet misaligned.

Walking with opening in one’s movement.

Thus, walking is the first lesson in the dojo.

An awareness of self and how one moves, making corrections to there are no openings, which is the foundation for eliminating openings in future movement. 

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