Automatic

I felt like I had been working hard, but the referee didn’t agree.  He stopped the match, separating my opponent and I, and issued warnings to both of us—for stalling.  The match had started at a brisk pace, digging for underhooks and fighting for grips.  He was a solid competitor and worked hard to obstruct my takedown attempts.  When the ref stopped us to issue his warning, I concealed my annoyance.  I felt like I had been working hard, but he felt differently.  There’s no point in arguing with a referee.

So, when the match started again, I knew there was an obligation to push the pace.

I pressured forward and dug for an underhook.  As I did, I noticed the way his foot stepped when I shifted my feet.  There’s a foot-sweep I like to do, and I started to think that I might be able to hit that if I could set my trap right.  I pushed, I pulled, I looked at his foot again.

And suddenly we were on the ground.

I only just realized that I had landed the takedown when his back hit the mat and I landed on top.  I honestly didn’t know how we’d gotten here.  I didn’t remember making a choice.  I had executed and, strangely, succeeded.

I didn’t even know what had happened.

Later, on my way home, I received a text message from one of my teammates.

“Was that a lateral drop?” she asked.

I didn’t know.  I didn’t remember.

It wasn’t until later when I watched video, that I realized it had, indeed, been a lateral drop.  I had done it without thinking.  I had done it without forethought.  I hadn’t even realized it happened.

It was simply automatic.

When I first started combat sports I had to think about everything.  I had to think about where my hands went, how my feet moved, what sort of grips I needed, and where and how to move my hips.  Every ounce of thought required pounds of effort.  The movements that seem so simple now were purest forms of enigma.

It’s sometimes easy for me to forget when I teach beginners how difficult so much of this stuff was at the beginning.  Things like shrimping, bridging, jabbing, and changing levels were foreign concepts to my limited brain.  I was never a natural athlete.  I’m dyspraxic—I’m clinically clumsy—which meant that even the simplest movements were doubly difficult for me to learn.  I felt like a nature documentary about a baby giraffe, all gangly and awkward.  That was me—gangly and awkward.But I tried really hard.

Trying really hard didn’t get me much.  I would tell myself that I needed to remember to keep my hands up, and I would keep my hands up.  I would focus so hard on keeping my hands up that I would stop moving my feet.  When I stopped moving my feet, it didn’t matter that my hands were up.  The fact that I was standing still made me an easy target, even though my hands were up.  So, I got hit, I got punched, and I got kicked a lot. 

I couldn’t think about more than one thing at once.

I would tell myself that I was going to focus all of my energy into getting the grips I wanted.  But, by concentrating on my hands, I would forget that I also needed to use my feet to retain guard.  My guard got passed, which would force me to pay attention to my legs.  But when I started moving my legs, I would forget that I had hands and things would get worse.

Every little thing was ridiculously complicated.

Combat sports—martial arts—were possibly one of the best hard things I ever made myself do.  I didn’t start with any knowledge or understanding.  My concept of martial arts was based on Saturday morning Kung Fu movies and a generation of martial arts films that taught me I could become an expert if I had the right music montage playing in the background.  I quickly learned how little I understood.

Because there are many things I don’t understand.  They are too lofty for me and too far beyond my comprehension.  I will never understand them.  Every little thing about them is ridiculously complicated.  The only way I can grasp the things I can’t comprehend is to immerse myself in them and believe that if I keep showing up they will reveal themselves to me.

Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and the knowledge of God! How unsearchable His judgments and untraceable His ways!  For who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been His counselor?  Or who has ever first given to Him, and has to be repaid?  For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things. To Him be the glory forever. Amen. (Romans 11:33-36) 

I guess I hadn’t really been paying attention.  That happens a lot.  The stakes were high and I was fighting in front of a couple thousand people for only the second time in my life—the first time hadn’t gone so well.  The stress was high.  I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears and I saw the referee point at me, asking if I was ready.  I nodded, even though I was definitely not ready.  The bell rang to start the fight and I started forward toward my opponent.

I heard my coaches screaming from my corner, “Joel, get your hands up!” 

They were loud.  I can remember their voices to this day.  They were yelling for me to get my hands up and I didn’t know why, because my hands were up—so far as I knew.

I was wrong.

My hands were not up.  My defense was not automatic.  I had been thinking so hard about everything else around me that I forgot to think about what was important.  I never saw the punch as it ripped toward my face and turned my head like a bad chiropractic adjustment (I did later see the punch on video and my hands were not up).  That wicked punch forced me back into the moment and cleared every distraction.

Over the years—not the days that my favorite martial arts movies had taught me to expect—some of the difficult things became more automatic.  I did them without thinking.  I started keeping my hands up because I had learned the hardest way.  I shrimped my hips from time to time, almost as if by accident.  I was taking a lot of beatings, but my body was figuring things out despite the interference and doubts in my mind.

The hard-headed nature of the me that is myself learns best  the hardest way.  I gain knowledge through the process of error and mistake, and I was making effort to make as many mistakes as possible.  In the meantime, as if by some sort of magical intervention, my body was learning to act without thinking, which freed my mind to think without hesitation, and allowed my body to act without fear.

My intellect is always at war with my emotion, and my emotion is always at war with my body.  I think that’s the nature of the way God me, even if it is an impure expression of God’s designed purpose.  I tend to get in the way of God’s purposes.  It’s the unfortunate nature of my anxious mind.

My brain is always moving.  It’s always seeking a solution to every possible problem.  If there’s not a problem to solve my brain will create one.  My mind despises stagnation.  It loves to be on the move and always at work.  It’s my greatest asset and sharpest liability.  It manifests a natural aversion to peace.  It’s a thing that makes me very good at my job but very bad at my life.

I don’t know how to live my life automatically—how not to worry about everything that might or might not happen next if I don’t do everything right or wrong.  It complicates my every decision and my very existence.  Learning to relax, surrender, and open my hands to God is a constant struggle.  It’s not in my nature to find peace.  I find myself so preoccupied with the simple things that I am unable to ponder the complex matters.

"Peace I leave with you. My peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Your heart must not be troubled or fearful.” (John 14:27) 

But sometimes I do learn.  It’s not impossible for me to be taught, even though it might feel that way.  I just kept showing up and the knowledge began to show up as if through some magical osmosis.  My mind never stopped thinking—that’s not a possibility for me.  But my mind assimilated basics, and the assimilation of basics allowed me to worry about more complex concepts like tactics and strategy and gameplans.  The fact that I was not consumed by simplicity allowed me to address complexity.

I knew it was a worthwhile fight because it was tough.  We were evenly matched and both motivated to win—there was money on the line, but the money wasn’t the important thing.  Our first round had been physically taxing, so I was breathing heavily.  So was he.

He had been aggressive throughout the match and he didn’t seem like his intention was to slow down.  He moved assertively toward me, heavy on his feet in a way that made it clear  his intention was to walk my back to the cage.  I was circling and angling in an attempt to counter his aggression.

I wasn’t worried about the small things.  I knew my hands were up and I knew my elbows were tight—there was a time when I had to think about those things, but now they were second-nature.  My chin was down in case he decided to wing something over the top.  The small details were taking care of themselves and that allowed me to see the opening he had provided.

It was a small opening—a seemingly insignificant error—but it was enough that my eye noticed.  My foundational movements had become so engrammed that my mind was free to see his error—a slight lifting of his elbows.  It left his body open just enough for me to launch a hard body-kick.  I felt the edge of my shin bite into his ribcage.

It wouldn’t be proper to call the small things small.  They are not minutia.  They are the foundations of whatever happens next.  They are building blocks of a sort, and when they come together they create beautiful structures.  While I can still find complexity in them, their mastery redefines the meaning of complex.

There is a strange sort of peace that I find in those moments where the foundational things are automatic.  My anxious mind finds an unfamiliar clarity inside of the chaos.  It is a place where I must remain fully present—not anchored to the past or striving too hard into the future.  In those times—those sometimes—I convince my mind and body to abandon to the flow and pace of the moment that is happening in front of me.  I act without worry and without doubt, embracing the challenge placed in front of me rather than inventing challenges that I may never face.

Don't worry about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.  And the peace of God, which surpasses every thought, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:6-7) 

It never ceases to amaze me how often I find God’s presence on the mats.  I think He’s using my time there to train my anxious mind to find his presence in the present.  God exists outside of time—He is in the past, the future, and in the present.  But I exist inside of time, and I exist inside of the now that is in front of me.  This is a place where I might, from time to time in beautiful moments, glimpse the face of my God.

The turmoils and storms bringing chaos are, for just a moment, quieted in the moment as I move without thought inside of the truths that I already know I know.  Secure in the knowledge of the certainty I possess, I am free to contend with God for what matters.  My mind becomes quiet even though my body is loud.  I am moving and exerting, but I am finding joy in the chaos because my mind is clear, but not so clear that is empty.  It’s an indescribable sort of equilibrium.

But then there are the other moments, the ones that come when my time on the mats has come to an end.  My mind is quiet and my body is drained.  It’s possible that my mind is quiet because my body is drained—they are inexorably connected that way.  As my intellect and my physicality reach a tenuous alliance, my emotions choose to follow.  For a moment, all the aspects of me have achieved peace and stark revelations follow.

These moments are fleeting.  My mind, body, and emotions will find a reason to fight again.  So I embrace them and find beauty in their fleeting nature—maybe it’s beautiful because it is fleeting.  And, though it may be fleeting, I will be seeking that peace again.  I will seek peace by engaging the chaos and remembering what is automatic.