Posture

One of the first lessons I learned in Jiu-jitsu was the importance of posture.  It was drilled into when I first started training all those years ago in that old warehouse somewhere in some industrial area of Portland.  My coach was insistent that all of his students learn to find posture.  He drilled us relentlessly.

I was confused when I first heard the concept—I thought of posture as sitting up straight and paying attention in school.  But, after I had stuck around a little longer, I learned that posture was found anatomically from almost every offensive or defensive position.  In short, posture was defined as the structure where the body was best primed to be functional.  It was a way to use bone structure rather that muscle, because muscle is far weaker and wears down much faster.

I first began to grasp the concept of posture while learning how to pass guard.  Knowing that my opponent’s goal was to misalign my spine and control my head gave me a point of reference from which to start.  I knew that if my posture was compromised, I would be vulnerable to submissions and reversals, so I learned to sit with my back straight and my head up and to keep my spine aligned with my hips.  From that position I was strong.  Over the years I learned to apply similar structure to other Jiu-jitsu positions, and then to fighting in general.  Posture—the fighting kind of posture—became something that others told me I was good at.  Because I had learned the importance of posture so early in my journey, posture had become a thing my body found almost naturally.

I found myself in a frenzy of arms and legs, fighting his very active guard.  It was like fighting an octopus—I would defend one limb only to have another replace it.  I addressed grips as quickly as they came, but he replaced them almost instantly.  His feet posted against my hips, then on my legs, then transitioned to my arms.  I was fighting as if in a blender.

His every movement was designed to disrupt my balance.  I could feel him setting traps and designing submissions.  Some of them I recognized.  There were a few flows that felt unfamiliar—I just knew they were dangerous.  I could feel myself teetering on the edge of losing my center of gravity.  I was fight to not place my hands in places I knew would leave me vulnerable.  His attacks were sophisticated, impressive even.  He was, in fact, far more complicated than me.  So, I resorted to the simple thing that I knew best.

My body knew how to find posture—head over hips, hips over knees, spine straight, elbows tight.  It was a center of gravity.  When I sat in posture I was—relatively speaking—safe.  My balance could not be disrupted, and my limbs could not be separated.  In good posture I became momentarily heavy, anchored to the ground in such a way that made me nearly impossible to move.

As complex as his guard was, my response was that proportionally elementary.  He would grab at my collar, pulling and pushing with opposing vectors of force.  I would feel him start to hunt for my elbow and knew he was looking for the submission.  In that moment I would recenter myself back in posture, back in my safe place that nullified his attack.

This would force him to begin again.  Once more he would stretch for his complicated attacks, leveraging grips and posts to disrupt my balance.  And when he would, I would return, again, to my posture.  I would become, just for a moment, a stone on the mat, unmoving and unshakable.  I could tell that he was growing frustrated.  He started to pull harder, started to push with a bit more determination.  Every time he even came close to success I reset and recentered, defeating his efforts with simple posture and beginner Jiu-jitsu concept.

In his frustration he eventually extended—he overextended.  His foot pushed just a little too hard and his leg slipped just a little too long.  My fingers found the material of his gi pants, shoving his knee to the mat and pinning it with my shin so I could cut through his active guard and into side-control.  Sometimes the basics still win.

I’ve been told that I’m good at posture by both the people I’ve trained with and the ones I’ve competed against.  I suppose they might be the ones with the best perspectiv.  They’re the ones who have experienced what I can do.  I’m good at finding balance.  I’m good at finding my strong center, and I’m good at finding the place where I can be safest in unsafe moments.  It’s a great skill to have and it’s a skill I wish I found so naturally in day-to-day life.

Frequently, life comes at me in fits and tempests, hurling challenges in my direction that I am not prepared to face.  There are some that I should have seen coming—those are often the consequences of my own decisions.  I might ignore them, keeping them just out of sight on the visual horizon so that I’m not forced to acknowledge their existence.  Some trials simply blindside me.  There’s no way I could have seen them coming, but they’ve arrived and now I’m forced to face them.  They don’t care whether I was ready.  Interestingly, quit4e often all the challenges—expected and unexpected—arrive together at once.

During times such as these I have a certain propensity, a propensity that I have only lately noticed.  In seasons of severe challenge when I am contending against difficult things I have a pronounced tendency to run, hide, and isolate.  I cover down and hope that my problems will wash over.  I hide my weaknesses and flaws, working diligently to convince myself that I’m stronger than my problems and I don’t need anybody’s help to fight against them.

But that’s a lie, a lie that I’ve become skilled at telling myself.

It’s a lie that I’ve been telling myself for a very long time.  I’ve built an entire façade around presenting myself as the tough guy who is willing to come to the aid and rescue anyone who needs it.  But I will never admit to needing to be rescued—that would be a form of weakness.  I don’t need anyone’s help.  I’m fine on my own.

My self-assessment is so terribly wrong.

I find myself echoing in my mind as I seek ways to assault and assail the challenges being presented to me.  I look toward them as if they were a spazzy white belt intruding on my competition training rounds—they are a thing to be addressed and moved to the side.  I engage them with an anxious fervor, analyzing and intellectualizing all of the possible solutions.  And, when I can’t find a fitting solution, my anxiety transforms into avoidance.  I retreat into isolation.  After I have stressed and coalesced over a problem I can’t solve, I simply conceal myself from it.

Those problems don’t go away if I ignore them.  They’re still there and, often, they are growing stronger while I pretend to pay them no mind.  When they reach a point where they can no longer be avoided—whether because I’ve acknowledged them or been forced to look them in the eye—that is the point where I remember that I’m not created to run.  God didn’t design me for cowardice.  God built me for the fight.

May the LORD, my rock, be praised, who trains my hands for battle and my fingers for warfare. (Psalms 144:1) 

Knowing that I can no longer avoid that fight—that I can no longer ignore or hide from the challenges presented to me—I am forced to seek my strong center.  I am forced to find my posture.

I don’t really enjoy sparring with the froggy guys who care nothing for their own safety, especially when they seem to be fueled by ego.  Or…maybe there might be a part of me that enjoys it.  I just know that he was one of those guys and I couldn’t tell if I was having a good time or not.

I was more skilled, for sure, but he was far more…intentional.  I’ve seen more than one fighter lose by being overwhelmed by a lesser opponent who just wanted the fight more.  And this guy was treating this “friendly” spar like a death match of some sort.

He touched me three or four times with solid jabs, then stepped in behind a hard left straight (he was fighting as a southpaw).  That straight left landed flush on my chin, turning my head and shifting my jaw in a way was going to make chewing food painful in a few hours.  That punch sparked something like a panic in me.

He kept coming, probably sensing that he had touched me and had a chance to finish the “fight”—I have no idea why he was trying to finish me during practice, but he apparently believed it was necessary.  He came faster and harder, throwing tight, sharp punches followed by a few kicks.

He had hurt me just a little bit—I had no choice but to acknowledge that.  But I had a reputation for having a pretty strong jaw.  I’d been doing this stuff for a long time, and there are times when experience matters.

He wasn’t pulling any punches.  He was throwing with malice.  I felt my ego (maybe it was my ethos) boil up from inside.  It wasn’t going to allow me to stop and tell him to slow down.  It wasn’t going to let me stop.  It was only going to let me fight, for better or worse.

I found the place I knew I needed to find.  I found my posture.  Boxers and kickboxers often call it a shell.  My hands rose to cover my face and my chin rolled forward onto my chest where it was protected—I wasn’t going to take a shot like that again.  I centered my hips and began moving my feet, shuffling away at various angles that forced him to chase after me.

He was not discouraged by my posture—he just wanted to rip a few more mean punches at me.  He was doing everything he could to destroy me with more punches and kicks.  But I stayed stubborn in my posture, hands up and chin down.  I faked left then moved right.  I faked right then moved left.  I faked a fake to the right then faked back to the left to fake right…

…I slowed his response footwork.  He still wanted to put hands on me—he wanted it really bad.  He launched another of those hard left hands, stepping in and firing for my chin.  My feet and hips were set in good position and I simply slipped, just a bit to the side.  I felt the breeze of his straight punch as it barely missed my ear.  He had stretched just a little too far as he missed, presenting to me the perfect target.

I turned my hip, digging to his lower body with a short shovel-hook.  I felt the rib and soft tissue compress—every fighter knows how badly a good liver-punch hurts.  I felt the contact as it rippled across his body like Jello.  I turned my feet and angled away as he slid past.  I knew I had landed before he did.

There was about a 2-second delay before the pain registered.  I had crushed his liver cleanly and it hurt.  He was in the process of pivoting toward me when the pain suddenly arrived.  He crumbled before he could finish the turn, dropping to his knees.  There was still nearly a minute left in the round, but he never stood back up.  I enjoyed my rest until the next round could begin.

My posture—my strong place—is not only designed for offense.  I can’t just throw up my defenses, sit still, and hope for the chaos to pass over.  That’s passivity, and that’s not the same as defense.  A true defense is designed to turn offensive the instant an opportunity is presented.  Certainly, there is a time when it is quite appropriate to retreat into a defensive shell so that I can preserve and survive.  But I can’t stay there.  If I remain still I become stuck.  My posture will eventually decay—gravity is a real thing, both in the physical and in the spiritual world.

Get up, for this matter is your responsibility, and we support you. Be strong and take action!" (Ezra 10:4) 

He had cracked me hard in the first round with a big overhand right that nearly ended the fight. Somehow, I had managed to survive—I later read an article about the fight that praised me for having an iron chin, but it did not feel like iron at that moment.  I had managed to survive the first round despite being staggered by that punch. I was able to find way to my corner when it ended. 

Everything in my self-preservation brain told me that I didn’t want to get hit like that again.  When the bell rang and I reported once more, I was going to have to fight my natural inclination to get on my back foot, lift my chin, and flinch a lot. That's just what human nature does. It's not natural for us to lean forward into the fight. Posture is not something that comes without intentional practice. So, I had to ignore every lizard brain part of my screaming psyche. No, I didn't want to get hit again but I couldn't act like I didn't want to get hit. I had to find my strong center. I had to find my posture. Fortunately, the team in my corner had been there throughout my training camp and the previous years of training. They prepared me and told me exactly what I needed to do:  find my posture, find my shell, and take the fight to him. The more I cared about getting hurt the more I was likely to get hurt. Getting hurt is part of fighting, just like it's part of life. So, if we're going to get hurt let's go get hurt on our own terms rather than trying to run away like a coward.

When the bell rang for the second round, I was well aware of my vulnerability. He had hit me hard and there was no doubt he could do it again.  I heard my coaches in my corner continuing their previous advice, yelling at me to get my hands up.  This time I listened (that’s not something always do).  I reminded myself to keep my hands up and my elbows tight, to move my feet and keep myself in good posture so that I could respond to whatever came next.

It was only the second round, so he had a lot of energy left. He peppered a few jabs and threw a half-hearted knee toward me. I slipped and moved to the side then checked him with the jab of my own. That one felt good when it landed. I didn't hurt him, but I saw the look on his face when he realized that I capable of hurting him. The anxiety shifted in sides.  Now it belonged to him.

He knew I had found my range. That single strike bridged the space between my anxiety and my avoidance—and also injected me with sharp confidence. He knew I could hurt him and I knew it too. I snapped another jab, this time with more intent. It did the job, popping his chin just a little bit off his shoulder. My right hand was already en route and cracked him just below the eye and his orbital. That had been a good punch, probably one of the better I had ever thrown.

I saw him look again, a little fear now showing in his eyes. Next, I tracked a lead hook around his guard and toward the place where his jawline met his ear. His hand was up and absorbed most of that strike, but it was strong enough that it shifted him off balance. I'd made pretty good contact, and he was done messing around with the striking game.  He decided to initiate a clinch, hoping to achieve a takedown and change the texture of this fight.

But I was loose.  My feet were active.  I was almost perfectly balanced.  He dove for the double-leg, reaching just a little too far as I slid out of the way.  His posture was disrupted and mine was on point.  I only had to press his head a little bit toward the mat as my knee traveled upward from where it met cleanly just above his left eyebrow.  He stumbled backward and I saw him blink.

I knew this fight belonged to me.

I honestly wasn’t sure where I was going with this installment when I started writing.  I began thinking about the idea of posture and how to find my strong center.  I know how to do it when I fight or when I grapple.  But where do I find my posture when I’m greeted by life’s demanding encounters?  What is the strong place I retreat to when things go bad?  How do I know when I’m not centered?

Sure, I know many of the basics about my spiritual foundation.  I know that time reading my Bible, going to church, being in prayer—I know that all those things are immeasurably important.  They are certainly a strong center for me.  But there is also another strong posture—a true center—that I was reminded of.

It’s one of the one of my most potent memories that holds place in my mind to this day.  I was sitting in a coffee shop not too far from where I lived. I was not doing well.  I was going through one of the most difficult seasons of my life. I was drinking coffee by myself in the corner and trying to type stuff on my laptop, but my mind would not focus. Two men walked in, both old friends—actually, to call them friends is something of an understatement. One of them had been a man who had been speaking truth into my life since I was in the 6th grade. He had been a mentor and a teacher for all my adolescent years and had always been genuinely interested in my growth. The other was a mentor of sorts, as well, but one I hadn’t known quite as long. I hadn't seen either of them for a couple years.

The first man turned to notice me, and his face lit up.

He exclaimed, “Joel, it's been so long. How have you been?"

I stood up and plastered a smile across my face, reaching for his extended hand. "Bob", I said, "I'm doing pretty well."

Bob looked me directly in the eyes, saw past my forced facade, and gazed directly into my heart.  “You're lying to me right now," he said. " You're not doing well."

This was a man who had earned the right to speak forcefully into my life, and he was taking full advantage of it. The other man, still a respected mentor to this day, placed a hand on my shoulder. I couldn't hold it together. There, in the middle of a crowded coffee shop during a lunch rush, I broke in half. Every tear I had been holding back suddenly found home in my eyes where they belonged.

Those two men—those two beautiful men—sat at a table with me in the middle of their day and gave me their time.  They didn't give me any advice. They didn't give me any ideas as to what I should do next. They simply asked questions and listened. Those two men, in one of the hardest seasons of my life, became a strong center to me. In the end they prayed with me and left because we all had places to go.

In a short moment of nostalgia I am reminded where I find my posture.

I find my posture in people.  They are my strong center.  I think of the family and friends that I have been gifted with, and I recall what strong posture looks like in my life.  It looks a lot like them.

It wasn't that long ago that I reached out to my brother—actually, he reached out to me. I was driving around at a cop car looking like a tough guy with cauliflower ear and a gun on my hip.  He asked me a couple of very probing questions. Those questions crushed me because they revealed how much he was paying attention to what was happening in my life.  He was genuinely interested in my life.  His love beautifully broke me.  I had to pull my car off the side of the road, because it just wasn’t safe for me to drive.  I started talking—I didn’t necessarily want to, but I definitely needed to.  He listened and he heard, because my brother is one of my strong centers.  He’s my posture.

Carry one another's burdens; in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. (Galatians 6:2) 

I don’t know why I have such a natural inclination for isolation when things aren’t going well.  I don’t imagine that it’s a thing unique to me.  I’m sure there are others who have the same tendency.  When I realize that I’m isolating, that I’m pretending—I think that’s when I realize that my posture is poor.  I wish I could learn to recognize it quicker.

When I find myself assailed and beat down, my first instinct is not to reach out for love, help, and support—even though it should be.  My first instinct is to run, hide, and cover up.  I’m not very good company in those times.  My busy mind finds itself clashing with unstable emotions, and I can’t imagine I’m all that great to be around.  Who wants to hear about my stupid problems?  I don’t want to subject anyone to the misery that is me.  And I don’t have the energy to pretend like I’m OK.  It’s probably best that I stay away and stay on my own.  That feels like a safe place.

I decide I’m going to fake it for a while.  I’m going to hide how much I’m hurting, because I have a reputation to protect.  I’m the strong one.  I’m the one who helps others in their times of need—it’s a significant part of my identity.  I can’t be perceived as weak—who’s going to come to the weak guy for help when they need it?  I’m the guy who helps people, not the guy who asks for help.

God’s really been dealing with me in this area.  I don’t know if I’m being reminded or if I never realized how many true friends (and, yes, my family are my friends) I do have.  Not only do they not think less of me when I’m vulnerable, they think more of me.  More than that, even, they are eager to be people I can lean on in my times of distress.  They long to be a strong center to me as much as I long to be a strong center to them.  They are my posture.  They are the place I retreat to when I don’t know how to defend what is in front of me—sometimes it just takes me a while to remember where I find my posture.

I may want to isolate myself—it’s my natural default.  But my natural default is not strong.  It is a position of weakness.  If the mats have taught me anything, they’ve taught me to never accept a position of weakness.

It's been a hard day. None of what I've been dealing with has been solved and my myriad problems are swirling around my mind like biting insects. I do what is compulsory to me—I drive to my academy, put on my gi, and tie my belt. From there I step onto the mats with my brain a mass of confusion, hurt, and a little bit of resentment. My mind is not a good place for me, but the mats are.  Sometimes, when I’m here, I can put my mind a little bit to sleep.

Then he's there—one of my oldest black belt friends. He's a little goofy, kind of silly in a way that often makes it seem like he's not paying attention. It's easy for me to forget what a good friend he is and how much he cares (this is another of those things that God has really been working on in my life, much to my discomfort).

He looks at me and smiles his silly smile.  "How are you?"

“I'm good," I reply, because it's my nature to pretend that I'm good.

Even with his goofy expression I can tell he doesn't believe me.

He doesn't say anything. His smile just changes shape a little bit.

“Sure," he shrugs, knowing that I'm a liar. "You want to get around in?"

Of course I want to get a round in.  Good rounds tell me I’m loved.  They help put my mind to sleep—my good friends know this.  They remind me of my posture.  They remind me how much my friends love me.

Love must be without hypocrisy. Detest evil; cling to what is good.  Show family affection to one another with brotherly love. Outdo one another in showing honor. (Romans 12:9-10)