Jon F. Merz

Several years ago, I found myself in a position of having to deal with some distinctly unpleasant “stuff.” Dealing properly with this stuff necessitated me being away from my teacher, Mark Davis of the Boston Martial Arts Center, for an extended amount of time. This was the first time I’d ever been away from training with my teacher for such a long time, and it was unusual for me, to say the least. There was nothing formalized about my absence; my teacher and friends didn’t even know what was going on – just that I was no longer at the dojo; and for all intents and purposes, I was pretty much gone from everything.

I was determined, however, that I would keep training. Even though I was away from my teacher, I resolved to continue my training at any opportunity. I consoled myself with this resolution, thinking that I would be able to return to the dojo and pick up where I left off. So as I dealt with the situations in my life that mandated my absence from routine and normalcy, I found opportunities to apply a lot of what I had learned. I also found opportunities to visit several other dojo associated with the art I study. I thought that was a good thing. And again, I told myself that even though I wasn’t with my teacher, I was still training. And that would help my skills continue to grow and improve. I had, by this time, already earned my 5th degree black belt and felt pretty confident that I could uncover new things to learn and practice.

So I kept training as much as was possible. I honed certain skills, I had my own techniques tested in a variety of ways, and I kept trying to continue the practices that I’d learned under my teacher’s guidance.

Eventually, as do all things pleasant and unpleasant – my time away ended and I returned to the dojo. I still remember vividly the first night back, climbing those steps and smelling the familiar tang of sweat in the air as I approached. I was home. At last.

And I was ready to pick up where I’d left off.

Instead, I got a serious wake-up call.

Foolishly, I’d expected that my time away wouldn’t decrease my skill. That despite being away from my teacher, my skills would at least remain at the level they’d been when I left. And that I’d be able to pick up anything new that had been taught during my absence.

But time didn’t stand still just because I wasn’t there. My teacher had kept on teaching; my friends had kept on learning and evolving as practitioners; and flow of the art itself had never ceased moving through the universe.

I’d been training, yes. I’d learned some rather unique lessons as well.

And yet, I’d been left behind. Far behind.

I was angry with the forces over which I’d had no control for depriving me of the time that I could have spent training with my teacher. I was upset that despite my attempts to retain my training schedule, to retain my level of ability, it hadn’t seemed to matter all that much. I’d been out of the flow; I’d been away from the learning. And I was upset with myself because my ego had once again sabotaged me. I’d conned myself into imagining that as a 5th degree black belt, I was astute enough and accomplished enough to be able to teach myself what I needed to know in order to continue to evolve as a practitioner.

I suddenly learned there’s a HUGE difference between “training” and “learning.”

It’s possible, after all, to go out and punch trees for a few hours and then congratulate yourself afterward for all the hard training you just did. But despite the training, you didn’t learn anything (except perhaps how utterly stupid it is to punch trees). You can, after all, go to different dojo and work out with other individuals and different body types and practice techniques. But that doesn’t mean you learned anything (except perhaps that your technique either works or doesn’t work as well as you thought.) And you can, after all, spend your time away creating excuses and allowing your ego to convince you that you’re still training.

But you’re not.

Throughout the course of the history of this particular martial art system, there have been instances where a practitioner was forced to be their own teacher. The 34th Grandmaster found himself alone when his teacher passed on. He had to spend years trying to find his way through the maze of notes and scrolls and letters that he’d amassed. Eventually, he did. And some would say he is perhaps an even better practitioner for having to pass such a trial.

Not everyone is like the Grandmaster, however. And I wonder if given the chance, would the Grandmaster have preferred to continue to learn under his teacher’s guidance instead of being forced to go it alone?

The path of this particular budo is strewn with traps at every turn. Some of those traps are obvious. But some are so carefully concealed within the very essence of ourselves that only those who have carefully and painstakingly cleaned out every last bit of untruth and mastered their ego will even see them.

For me, coming back from being away was a profound lesson. Despite the amount of training I was able to continue during my absence, despite the things I actually did learn during my time away, I hadn’t evolved as a practitioner. I returned to my home dojo to find that my skills were no longer at the level that I expected them to be because I hadn’t been continually exposed to new training and new challenges from my teacher. I had to acquire a lot of new knowledge in a short span of time to get back to the level of expectation I set for myself.

It’s easy to imagine that after a certain duration in studying this art that we no longer require the guidance of a teacher. There’s something inherently romantic about the notion of going it alone, or being some pioneer out on the edge of exploration. I know. I’ve been there.

But the reality is this: why do you want to go it alone if you don’t have to?

My absence from my teacher was mandated by things in my life I couldn’t control at the time. I had to take that time and be away from him not out of choice, but of necessity.

What’s keeping you from being with your teacher? What’s holding you back from “learning” instead of just “training?”

The longer I train in martial arts, the more I come across people attempting to steal the experiences of others as a way of elevating their perceived ability among those of lower ranks. People claim to own certain notes, or techniques, or that they were present at certain seminars with this teacher or that teacher, or even that they have a certain perspective on things – when frankly, they can’t do the basic material in the first place. All of this bravado and acting is very revealing.

It shows that the person engaged in this behavior is trying far too hard to impress people of lower rank and skill. To what end, that varies. It could be economic: meaning the person could wish to have more people hire them to do seminars, teach classes, buy their “secret” manuals, whatever. (although in truth, they’re simply conning people through false representation.) It could be massive insecurity: meaning the person likely does not believe in themselves enough and has to pretend they’re better than they actually are. It could also be massive ego: meaning the person actually *does* believe they’re better than their seniors and by engaging in this behavior, they are stating to the world that they are numero uno. Or it could be a combination of all three (or more) factors.

It also shows that the person doing this does not truly care about their role as a teacher – that they think very little of the students who look up to them as role models and indeed, pay them for their knowledge. The person in question does not fully embrace the serious mantle of responsibility that goes along with being a teacher. To them, it becomes all about the mighty dollar, so they willfully prostitute the very legacy they claim to honor and respect by lying about their past and their experiences in order to sell more.

As insulting such actions are to the people whose experiences are, in fact, genuine, this type of behavior is also rather tragic.

It’s tragic in the sense that the person who engages in fraudulent behavior is actually stating to the world that they are ashamed of their own past and their own experiences.

So much so, in fact, that they have to pretend to be something they’re not, or pretend they were some place they never were, or pretend they trained with someone then they never did.

What they fail to realize is that their students will be far more appreciative of honest experience more than any sort of set of notes, or secret technique, or affiliation with a certain individual. And even if you haven’t had the same experiences as another person, the experiences you HAVE had are no less valuable for the simple reason that they’re YOURS. They belong to YOU and you alone. In studying martial arts, no two people will ever experience things the same way. Everyone might know the technique, but no one else will have the same experience practicing and training with it. THAT is what becomes more and more important the further you progress in martial arts training. It become LESS about the actual technique and MORE about your experience learning and using that technique.

Clearly, when starting out, you need to know the mechanics of the technique itself. But the life/energy behind the technique is derived directly from the experiences of learning, using, teaching, and reflecting on it. Anyone can open a notebook and pantomime a certain throw or punch. It takes a real teacher – one who is honest, humble, responsible, and still quests to better themselves – to convey the essence of a technique. And it is that transmission of essence that will open up the gateway to mastery of the technique within the student.

If you don’t own your experiences, if you don’t appreciate your past, if you are forever attempting to be something you’re not, then people will eventually see it and go off in search of a better teacher. In the end, you only end up fooling yourself. And in your wake, you leave behind a lot of disappointed students, and any of the honor and respect you might have garnered during earlier years.

Don’t do it.

Each student on the path has their own experiences. They create their own past. And that’s something to be proud of, regardless of the good and the bad. If you can proud of your experiences and your past, if you can admit when you know something and when you do NOT know something, if you can still be a student even when you’re a teacher, then that’s a good thing: not just for you, but for those who look to you as a role model or teacher.

Own your experiences.

Appreciate your past.

They are what truly belong to you – what make you unique – as you walk the path of Budo.

When I was much younger, I spent the majority of my time running away from fear. I was perpetually afraid of doing the wrong thing, appearing out-of-place, or being unprepared. In the 7th grade, I was at a new school with hundreds of people I didn’t know. I didn’t wear the right clothes, talk the right way, or even give a damn enough about my appearance. And then I had bullies to deal with so I spent a lot of time figuring out intricate methods of avoidance. I’d walk out of my way to avoid place I knew they’d be at. I spent so much time rocked back on my heels that I really felt on the defensive for a majority of the time.

I finally realized something when I was about fifteen years old: I didn’t like how my life was unfolding. Being forever tied up in knots of anxiety is not a pleasant way to go through the day – and even as horrible as puberty can be, I was making my own excursion through that time even more hellish. I spent a lot of time looking for some miracle solution that would remove all the fear from my life. I wanted to be bold. I wanted to let troubles bounce off of me. But I didn’t know how to find real courage, or – for a while – even where to start to look for it.

I’d always been intrigued about martial arts. I’d seen the all the Kung Fu flicks of that time. And so I started training – first with friends and then with actual instructors. I still remember walking into my first martial arts school, halfway terrified that I was going to get the snot beaten out of me and never be able to recover. But that didn’t happen. And as I trained, I grew more confident in myself. I was less risk-adverse than I’d ever been. I wanted to test myself under duress. The primal satisfaction that comes from trading punches and kicks or grappling with an opponent and then emerging from that test weary but still alive; sweaty and exhausted but toughened up. I still love that feeling and yearn for it even all these years later.

But at the same time, martial arts didn’t remove fear from my life – and I realized nothing could ever take fear away. Indeed, nothing should take fear away.

Instead, martial arts changed my attitude toward fear.

As I grew more aware of my surroundings and what my body was capable of doing to another human being, I started enjoying the idea of being tested more and more. There’s a certain primal exhilaration in stepping on to the dojo floor and testing your technique. Sometimes, things go well. Sometimes, you find mistakes that need to be improved upon. But that fear that once crippled me, now assisted me in learning to truly live my life and take control of my personal destiny.

I know many people who have dreams. But fear of failure, or of self-sacrifice, or of some perceived notion that society has pounded into their consciousness of what’s appropriate behavior for someone at a certain age…it ensures those things remain just that: dreams.

As a result, these people do what I used to do – they run away from the fear. They go out of their way to self-sabotage their success using excuses or rationale that overrules their desire. They squander bold opportunity in favor of the comfort of mediocrity.

There are precious few who adopt the opposite response and actually run at the fear. These are the people who act in the face of adversity. They are the ones who acknowledge their fear or insecurity but go for it anyway. They refuse to let fear be the crippling entity it can be. Instead, they use it as a barometer of how well they’re steering their destiny toward the success they believe they deserve. If they aren’t afraid, then they’re not trying hard enough – they’re not taking enough risks to achieve their dreams.

This isn’t to say that if you’re afraid of sharks that you should chum the waters and go swimming. Instead, what I’m suggesting is you look at the things you want from life – goals or dreams or what have you. Then honestly look at what might be holding you back from achieving them. Are you afraid? If so, the only way to achieving your goals is to blast through the fear. Run at it. Go through it. Don’t stop. Never quit.

One of the scariest situations I’ve ever found myself in was when I was walking with my wife and one of her relatives through Chinatown. Ahead of us were two men walking slowly and taking up the majority of room on the sidewalk. I made the decision to move ahead of them, but as I did so, I realized that we were being set up for an attack. The two men were the funnel and ahead of them were three more men situated in such a way as to form a half circle perimeter. The realization was one that happened in nanoseconds – only in looking back at it from the safety and comfort of many years later can I even describe it. But I knew – even in that split-second – that if I hesitated or tried to avoid the situation, it would be catastrophic for the three of us.

Instead, as the attack unfolded and the lead man drew the knife he’d been concealing and tried to distract me by asking, “Hey, you got a problem?” I moved through and beyond the arc of his cut and checked his shoulder so he could not cut back, while simultaneously pushing my wife and her relative ahead of me and out of the ambush, all the while repeating, “Nope, no problem. There’s no problem.” I kept us moving – always moving – until we were well clear of the attackers. And thanks to my training, the incident was over so quickly that the attackers simply turned and walked the other way. I don’t know if they were even fully aware of what had just transpired. I was still fairly confused myself.

But I knew one thing: I’d run at the fear.

I moved forward when any other choice would have meant my downfall and possibly that of my wife and her relative. Backpedaling, circling, even engaging – all of it would have been wrong. I would have been trapped in a circle of five armed attackers (I only saw one knife, but you *always* assume the attackers are armed) with two innocents to protect as well as myself. It would have been disastrous.

I use that example to illustrate the need to always keep pushing ahead when it comes to achieving goals. Yes, there will be setbacks. Yes, there will be failures. Yes, it will be uncomfortable and you may spend a night or two worrying about the future. But the payoff – that same visceral exhilaration that I get when I test myself in the dojo – of finally reaching a goal is so worth it.

Whatever your dreams and goals, I hope you run at the fear and never let it cripple you. Be bold, move ahead. Don’t let fear – yours or that of anyone else – stop you from realizing your true potential.