Kung Fu Dharma

Eventually, my fiancé began to complain. Once again Martin had dive-bombed me on the bed, eyes gleaming, and grabbed me to tickle and faux-wrestle. I cringed in fear. “Don’t hurt me,” I shrieked. Well I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me. It was all in the spirit of play. But why did I instinctively react with fear?

It was easy to psychoanalyze. When growing up, despite being younger than me, my “little” brother was about fifty pounds heavier, a foot taller, and aggressive to boot. Once he hit adolescence, all bets were off. He loved to attack, all in the spirit of play, of course, and I learned quickly to run, dodge and surrender. I was a girly-girl. I had no skills in the defensive arts. Once I learned to shake with fear until he took pity on me, I was able to fend off his lifelong desire to tickle, pounce and give me a nuggie.

As I got older, my girly-ness never bothered me much. Why would a Buddhist teacher have to worry about getting attacked? I lived in the suburbs. I avoided dark alleys.  The worst thing my students did was verbally challenge me. Everyone I knew in the dharma world was a wimp, more or less. OK, there were a few black belts in one zendo I frequented, but most of the vipassana world craved pacifism and manifested sweet Non Violent Communication and everything else.

My cowardly terror of the playful pounce annoyed Martin no end. “C’mon, be brave, be strong. Fight back. You know, it turns me on.” I gave him the stink eye. He was always trying to get me to be strong. “How about a martial arts class?” he offered, “model mugging, maybe?” He said it would help my posture, my energy. So after years of haranguing me, one day last fall, for the first time, I considered it. All right, let me look into this.

I searched the listings in the gym’s catalogue offerings. What the hell was Krav Maga? It sounds like something that defeated Superman. (An Israeli fighting technique I later discovered.) There was Tae Kwon Do, Aikido, and Do Si Do (OK, not really). It all looked like gibberish to me. How was I to decide? I mean, what was the difference between karate and hapkido?

I suppose I could have done my research but I decided instead to resort to a more sophisticated method: since they were all the same to me, close my eyes and point. My finger landed on Kung Fu. They had a beginner class. The time worked in my schedule. I, like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, was going to learn Kung Fu.

I have neglected to mention that I work at a university and that the gym I use ($19/month) is filled with testosterone-driven young men and teenage girls in workout clothes that go beyond skimpy. I sort of forgot that these would be my classmates.

On the first day it was even worse. I was the only female. The room swarmed with 19-year-old boys in various phases of fit. I walked into the room and nearly walked out. I can’t do this. I am only doing this for Martin. How can I be here? But I took a breath, and reminded myself that if I could spend a year meditating in a jungle monastery in Burma, I could attend one damn kung fu class. And besides, I’d just use it as an opportunity to watch my mind. Carefully.

The instructors, Rich and Oscar, were two (best guess) 25-year-olds. They demonstrated kicks and punches and a form called Mantis, which one of them told the crowd, was highly illegal, used not in competitions but only in street fighting. We would be taught the form, and also be given the opportunity to “punch and kick the shit out of things.” I could hardly wait.

We started with some shadow boxing. My half-hearted attempts to be aggressive were laughable even to me. But when we broke into pairs, that’s when I lost it. I can’t hit anyone. I’m a non-violent Buddhist. I’ve never swung a punch at anyone my whole life. How could I do this?

Breathe, notice the fear. Just try. My 18-year-old, barely mustached partner suited up. I was to throw the cross and the hook we had just learned at him. I started to giggle. “I’ve never done this before,” I said. “That’s cool. Hit me.” I breathed again, feeling a surge of panic. I went for it. The punch had no power, but punch I did and the world didn’t cave in on me, like I expected. I tried it a few times, learned a roundhouse kick, tried a few of those, then a few more. It’s not horrible. I was nervously giggling. I can’t really be doing this.

But it was actually kind of interesting. My body had no idea what to do, but it was sort of like learning a dance. Left cross, right cross, roundhouse, left…. Keep your hands up, Oscar was forever yelling at me. OK, OK. I guess that will defend me against an attack. Duh. I took comfort from the fact that LA is host to the country’s best plastic surgeons.

I won’t say I got into it. I will say I did have non-stop waves of panic coursing through me that took every ounce of my mindfulness to keep at bay. And I will also say that, in some weird way, I sort of liked it.

I didn’t like when I had to pad up and get attacked by my wildly novice partner, I braced myself and learned how to stand so not to get pushed over. I was sweating. It was probably the best workout I’ve ever subjected myself to. I did it, I was able to hold the pads. I did not get punched in the nose.

The last few minutes of class were spent in those old school boy’s workout (OK, everybody down on your knees, give me 20!). I could barely do two push-ups on my knees, but I did it, I made it through the class. I didn’t die. I figured that was enough incentive to come back for the next class.

The second and third classes involved learning some defense forms. I now learned when someone was coming at me with a right punch how to poke their eyes out. I figured this would be an extremely handy skill at a meditation retreat. I learned how to foil punches. Then we did the sparring. One partner with pads and the other punches and kicks. We learned that kick you see in the movies when Jackie Chan breaks the door down. It was very inspiring.

Still, each time, I was overcome with terror, waves of panic started up again, the nervous giggling picked up steam. Today I was partnered with the instructor. For some reason the adolescent boys did not want to partner with me. Was it my uncool T-shirt that commemorated the Insight Meditation Society’s 30th anniversary? The possibility that at 41, I was probably their mother’s ages? Or the fact that I was in total terror and could barely punch, and they knew it?

A word about my instructors: I couldn’t have asked for two better Zen masters. They were calm, encouraging, equanimous. They dealt with my terror by smiling and saying, “Yes, you can do it.” When I grew discouraged they laughingly pushed me, but not too hard. They always supported me. I couldn’t believe how loving they were. Of course they didn’t know I viewed them like this. They were just doing their job.

By the fourth or fifth class I was able to be mindful of my terror and still punch without all the giggling. I kinda sorta started to like the kicks. In fact something was beginning to happen inside. I started to feel a kind of exhilaration, in spite of the panic, in spite of the terror and the internal prohibitions, I was starting to experience a little bit of physical power I had never known before.

I came home to Martin and demonstrated my punching and kicking repertoire. Left cross, right hook, roundhouse kick, side kick, undercut. The funny thing was, he started to look scared. “Honey, don’t do it at me. Just show me.” When I practically kicked over the lamp on our side table, he murmured, “I’ve created a monster. You’re like a ten-year-old with a loaded firearm.”

Slowly in each class the nervous laughter lessened and the power feeling increased. I noticed I didn’t need to use my mindfulness to manage the fear response; it was just lessening on its own.

The pivotal class came in the seventh week. It was during the punching partner sessions. I was hitting with a right cross and suddenly, time stopped and there was only me and the punch. The force that came with it surprised me. It was like my body knew what to do and I was just standing back for the ride. I had reached “kung fu jhana,” utterly absorbed, everything else had disappeared. Rich came over, “Hey, you really got into that one.”

Wow, I did, didn’t I? That was amazing. I felt into my body. I sensed a deep centered physicality I had never before felt. My stomach felt expanded, ripe. My arms rang with fatigue but I sensed a kind of rooted-ness in my legs and a branch-like feeling in my arms. I also noticed a little bit of pride. Wow, I hit the shit out of that thing. At the end of class military workout, I breezed through the push-ups and rolls, although I made some classic girly adaptations.

I told Martin the story later at home. “I was one with the punches!”

“Very good Grasshopper! Now if you can only stop talking in clichés.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but clichés are clichés for a reason. They speak to deeper truths.”

I’d like to say from then on I became a champion kung fu fighter. I went on to win numerous competitions and one late night when attacked in a dark alley by a mean looking mugger I was able to respond with my bag of tricks: gracefully maiming but not too severely hurting the attacker, who was so wowed by my fighting skills, he converted to a life of pacifism and dharma practice.

But that didn’t happen. Not yet anyway.

I’ve thought from time to time about the ethics of being a dharma teacher who is into fighting (although I’m not really into fighting). I am into expressing power through this incredible physical body, not denying myself because it’s threatening or taboo. I’m actually in good company with the long historical tradition of Buddhist-based martial arts.

However, in the contemporary insight meditation community we tend to dismiss aggressive acts as inappropriate action. It may be linked to a general Buddhist perspective, fearing and demonizing anger. Many Buddhists tend to cut off that energy, and unfortunately it can come out in odd and unexpected ways- passive aggression, backbiting, superiority, slander… and a denial of basic power that’s within all of us.

Often in vipassana circles we teach that it’s okay to be mindful of any emotion. However, anger, because it’s violent and potentially so destructive, seems the trickiest to apply the teaching to. People don’t want to feel anger. It’s way too scary. Of course non-harming is the bottom line, but what if we can stay with our anger, with awareness in the midst, separating the content level of the rage that actually has a unique vitality and power to it from the sheer aggressive energy? This is at the heart of my kung fu lesson.

I’m not suggesting we all take martial arts classes. However, the energy of aggression, when expressed in healthy ways and with a good dose of mindfulness can open new areas of power and a capacity to take our seat in the world.

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I plan to take the class second semester. I love what it’s doing for me. Martin, as usual, was right. I do feel stronger in my body, less afraid. I enjoy contact in a different way. When he pounces on me I tell him, “Watch out sucker, I can beat you up.” And my energy has shifted and I know it’s healthy. Most importantly, it’s a place of less fear for me. For that I bow to the Zen masters, who often arise in unexpected places.