It felt like a long training session at the ju-jitsu dojo. On this night, the focus was on practicing the hip throw (O Goshi). I was physically exhausted and my muscles were drained of energy. The person I was partnered with was close to my size, and even so, I had struggled to execute the throw. I felt defeated. I concluded that I wasn't capable of doing this technique. 

After the class was over, I approached the sensei and expressed my concern. I told him that it was difficult for me to throw someone my size. So, it would be impossible for me to throw someone taller and heavier than me. 

Sensei looked around the room. His eyes stopped on the tallest and most heavy-set man in the room. He called him over to where we were. Sensei turned to me and said, "Throw him."

I hadn't expected this. I looked at Sensei, at the man, and then back at Sensei. I said, "I don't think I can do that." Sensei repeated his command. I said, "I'm not strong enough to throw him." Sensei repeated his command a third time.

My first attempt was dismal, a complete failure. I was straining my muscles, using every ounce of my strength, and my opponent stayed where he was. He wasn't resisting. He just stood there, an immovable object. This confirmed what I knew. I could not do this technique.

Sensei gave me corrections about the positioning of my feet and my hip. He told me to do it again. The corrections continued after each of my attempts. I was tired, frustrated, and cranky. Sensei didn't care. His command became reduced to one word, "Again." He was relentless.

It was the longest half hour of my life. I was worn out, ready to throw in the towel. Then it happened. There's a moment in the learning process, after countless repetitions, when everything comes together. It happens when you're too tired to think anymore. You experience an AHA moment with your body. 

It turned out to be one of the best half hours of my life. I learned what I was doing wrong. Previously, my understanding had been cursory at best. I lacked the details and refinement. Once I had those, I was surprised at how little effort it took to execute the hip throw. 

I repeatedly threw my partner over my hip and onto the mat. Now, when Sensei said 'again', I was a willing participant. The ease and flow of my movements felt right. I could see the beauty of this technique.

The lesson ended when Sensei was satisfied that I knew I could execute the hip throw, regardless of the size and weight of my training partner. All three of us had big smiles on our faces.

Years later, at Teachers College, I learned the term for what Sensei did. He took advantage of a teachable moment. Such moments are unplanned and can have a profound effect on a student's learning.

A good sensei will believe in you, especially during those moments when you don't believe in yourself. He or she will push you to question and expand your belief system, about yourself and the world. 

Never tell your sensei you can't do something, unless you are willing to stay on the dojo floor until you can do it.

Next week: Proper Technique

                                              © Debra J. Bilton. All rights reserved.

Before I trained in the martial arts, I was not 'athletic'. I wasn't toned or flexible, and I had enough coordination to make it through day-to-day activities. I had no sense of body awareness. None. Nada. Zilch. Looking back, I was always one step away from being an accident.

After we learn to walk, we go through life trying our best to not trip and fall. Falling and hitting the ground is a subconscious fear we carry with us through life. Intentionally and willingly throwing yourself on the ground feels unnatural. And yet, in the ju-jitsu class, that's what they were telling me to do. 

The purpose of a break fall is to evenly distribute the impact of your fall so that nothing breaks. There's a science behind it, and thousands of years of history. In theory, it sounds great. The actual doing of it, the first few times, is intimidating.

First, the technique is described to you. Then someone demonstrates it. They make it look easy. Their movements are fluid and coordinated. You hear the loud slapping of the body and open palm hitting the padded floor. It doesn't look too bad, and they seem to be enjoying it.

Then it's your turn. All of a sudden, your body feels like a foreign object to you. There's so much to remember, and it's all new information. You hope to get all your necessary body parts to do the right thing at the right time. On your first attempt, your hope quickly fades. You receive corrections, watch more demonstrations, and do it again, and again.

You have to start low to the ground. That way, it lessens the fear factor. Gradually you work your way up to greater heights. At first, you hesitantly let yourself fall, as gently as possible. Over time, when you've learned the proper technique, the gentleness goes away. You throw yourself onto the floor, or you jump up and land on the ground.

Regardless of which type of break fall you are doing, you want certain parts of your body to make contact with the ground at the same time. Your head is never one of those parts. For the side and back break falls, you have to remember to hold your head up. And for the front break fall, it's important to turn your head to the side. In all martial arts, it's important to protect your head.

There's also the option of doing a forward roll. Personally, if I were to fall forward, given a choice between the forward break fall or the forward roll, I'd take the roll. It has a flowing and continuous movement, whereas the break fall is an abrupt stop. Also, with the roll, you end up in a kneeling position, which gives you greater options for your next move.

After a lot of practice and hard work, you experience that moment when everything comes together. It feels right. No one has to tell you that, not even your sensei (teacher). You know you've got it. Then you can throw yourself onto the mat with abandon. Better yet, other people can throw you down. Now, it's fun.

Break falls aren't just for in the dojo (training hall) and self-defense. They also come in handy during Canadian winters when you unknowingly step on snow-covered ice. As much as you try to regain your balance, there is the inevitable moment when you have to accept that gravity has won. That's when it's best to completely relax your body and break fall. 

Next week: Never Say This to Your Sensei

​                                              © Debra J. Bilton. All rights reserved.
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She was a nurse who lived a few blocks away from the hospital she worked at. She had lived all her life in the city of Toronto. She was single, in her thirties. She had finished her night shift and was walking home to her apartment, as she had done many times before. This time, she didn’t make it home.

I read the newspaper article over and over, searching for details. She was sexually assaulted and then murdered. There was no suspect.

It happened the summer before my last year of high school. After graduation, I was planning to live in Toronto while I attended college there. Now, I was left with a feeling of dread, knowing I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of surviving there.

Up until that point, I had lived a sheltered life. I grew up in a small village, and then later lived in a rural area. There was no internet yet, so what I knew of the world was through reading and the news on television. There wasn’t the opportunity to meet new people, new situations, or new ideas. Also, strangers stuck out like a sore thumb, so crimes weren’t an issue back then.

I thought about it long and hard and decided I needed to learn how to defend myself. I pulled out the phone book and searched the yellow pages for martial arts schools. There was only one listed, a Jiu-Jitsu school. I didn’t know what type of martial art it was. Since it was the only one around, that’s where I went.

​The training was difficult at first, as anything new is. Over time, as the newness wore off, I found I enjoyed it more than anything I’d ever done before. It was more than physical exercise. It was learning to move your body in ways that required concentration, controlled effort, and self-discipline. For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable in my own body.
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It’s been over four decades since I read the article about her death, and I still feel a sadness in my heart for her. Other than what I’ve written here, I don’t know anything else about her. I don’t even know her name. And yet, learning about the suffering and senseless death of a stranger changed the course of my life. Every time I step onto the dojo floor and rei (bow), I honor her memory. 

In this blog, I’ll be sharing many of the lessons I’ve learned, and the experiences I’ve had over the years. The martial arts opened my mind and my life in ways I could have never imagined. 

Next week: The Break Fall

​                                              © Debra J. Bilton. All rights reserved.