To each his own.
I'm 51 and lazy and I don't like to fight, not even a little bit. I've spent a great deal of my life attempting to learn how to be a good husband and father, a good listener and lover and understander and nurturer of women and children. I cry at movies that aren't even all that sad. I play soft songs on my guitar and develop images from my black-and-white film in my modest darkroom and spend far too much time studying eastern philosophy and religion. I've spent two ten-day stretches meditating constantly at vipassana retreats, have sat zazen at Zen centers across the country, have learned sacred Hawaiian bodywork in Kauai. The list goes on.
I wish only to protect the life and limb of myself and other weak, good people who are under assault by strong, hostile people. I would rather spend my remaining hours on the planet in the joy of deep conversation and intimate relationship with a woman filled with love than doing pushups and hitting heavy bags at the dojo. The laughter of my granddaughter means more to me than the grunt of my opponent hitting the floor.
I reserve one evening a week with my son Ben for "Junto", which has exactly one rule: each of us must create something original, from scratch, and present it to the other. Often it's a four or five page writing; sometimes a poem, sometimes a photograph, sometimes a song. The minimum acceptable offering is a haiku, a short poem in the Japanese style that has three lines, seventeen syllables, with an indirect reference to the seasons.
I could spend that time in my gi, doing shoulder rolls and sweeps and strikes.
But I don't. I've found that it helps me get clear on priorities if I ask myself this question: when I'm 77 and on my deathbed, only a few days left, and am thinking back over my life, and I sigh, what will I be thinking? From most reports of those those who work with the dying, the usual statement of men at the very end of their lives goes something like this: "I had a good career, raised a good family, but ..... Looking back on it all, I really wish that I had spent more time doing X."
What will X be, for you?
For me, this is certain: X will not be "pushups" or "throwing opponents to the ground" or "hitting heavy bags." X, for me, has to do with relationships. Time with my sons, important time where we share with each other our hopes and dreams and truth. Time with my wife, swimming in her love, giving her the sea of my love, no agenda, nothing about her that I want to change. Time with my grandkids, sparkling and full of energy and hope, not yet disillusioned about what can and cannot be accomplished.
That's why CQB works for me, and not BJJ or TKD or Arnis or JKD. I am not a fighter, not a competitor, and I don't like to hit people. Hurting someone else, dominating him, gives me no joy. I avoid it at all costs.
With one exception. If he should physically attack me or one close to me with lethal force, I will put him down.
Dwight
I'm 51 and lazy and I don't like to fight, not even a little bit. I've spent a great deal of my life attempting to learn how to be a good husband and father, a good listener and lover and understander and nurturer of women and children. I cry at movies that aren't even all that sad. I play soft songs on my guitar and develop images from my black-and-white film in my modest darkroom and spend far too much time studying eastern philosophy and religion. I've spent two ten-day stretches meditating constantly at vipassana retreats, have sat zazen at Zen centers across the country, have learned sacred Hawaiian bodywork in Kauai. The list goes on.
I wish only to protect the life and limb of myself and other weak, good people who are under assault by strong, hostile people. I would rather spend my remaining hours on the planet in the joy of deep conversation and intimate relationship with a woman filled with love than doing pushups and hitting heavy bags at the dojo. The laughter of my granddaughter means more to me than the grunt of my opponent hitting the floor.
I reserve one evening a week with my son Ben for "Junto", which has exactly one rule: each of us must create something original, from scratch, and present it to the other. Often it's a four or five page writing; sometimes a poem, sometimes a photograph, sometimes a song. The minimum acceptable offering is a haiku, a short poem in the Japanese style that has three lines, seventeen syllables, with an indirect reference to the seasons.
I could spend that time in my gi, doing shoulder rolls and sweeps and strikes.
But I don't. I've found that it helps me get clear on priorities if I ask myself this question: when I'm 77 and on my deathbed, only a few days left, and am thinking back over my life, and I sigh, what will I be thinking? From most reports of those those who work with the dying, the usual statement of men at the very end of their lives goes something like this: "I had a good career, raised a good family, but ..... Looking back on it all, I really wish that I had spent more time doing X."
What will X be, for you?
For me, this is certain: X will not be "pushups" or "throwing opponents to the ground" or "hitting heavy bags." X, for me, has to do with relationships. Time with my sons, important time where we share with each other our hopes and dreams and truth. Time with my wife, swimming in her love, giving her the sea of my love, no agenda, nothing about her that I want to change. Time with my grandkids, sparkling and full of energy and hope, not yet disillusioned about what can and cannot be accomplished.
That's why CQB works for me, and not BJJ or TKD or Arnis or JKD. I am not a fighter, not a competitor, and I don't like to hit people. Hurting someone else, dominating him, gives me no joy. I avoid it at all costs.
With one exception. If he should physically attack me or one close to me with lethal force, I will put him down.
Dwight
