with the sword. He said I would need this to round out my
skills as a martial artist and eventually earn my black belt.
One day while sparring, he suddenly struck me on the
head with a shot delivered with an ActionFlex padded
sword. I barely recall the moment, but Abbott said that
when he saw the look on my face, he knew that if he did it
again, I would never come back.
For that reason, several months passed before he sug-
gested we spar again. Of course, I agreed. We suited up
with helmets and gloves, then entered the dojo. What
ensued was some of the most transformational work I
have done in my martial arts education.
You see, for me, there’s nothing more shocking — and
at times enraging — than being hit by a man who’s faster,
stronger and more skilled. Abbott clearly wasn’t working
at full speed, but I couldn’t even get in a shot. I felt like I
was trying to move through wet cement.
Whenever my teacher’s sword cracked across my
head, my ears rang from the impact — even though we
were wearing helmets. In the beginning, I sometimes
fell apart. Tears rose up despite my efforts to keep them
at bay. I tried not to let it show, but those tears would
often mix with sweat and roll down my cheeks, which
fortunately were hidden by my kendo mask. The little girl
inside me was being beaten down.
In my self-pity, I questioned whether I could handle it.
Would I ever be good enough to score a hit? Would I be
weak and slow forever?
Sparring with a man challenged me in every way —
physical exhaustion, mind games and emotional trials, all
of which were governed by what I considered my wimpy
spirit. At the time, it didn’t occur to me that what I was
experiencing would never happen in a public dojo, with all
the concerns about political correctness and liability. It was
solely the product of private training the traditional way.The Swing of Things
In class, Abbott demanded that I kiai like female kendo
players do in Japan. If you’ve never heard them, go to
YouTube and check out some videos. Their high-pitched
war cries are unique to the Western ear.
I learned that the proper kiai would give me energy
and strength. I learned to use it to set up a shot, to exe-
cute a shot and sometimes to smooth out the aftermath
of a shot. The kiai aligned my breath with my movement,
announced my intention and allowed me to strike harder.
My gaze was often directed at my teacher’s mouth or
throat, but sometimes he demanded that I stare into his
steely, unblinking eyes. He told me to squint like Clint
Eastwood, which was Abbott’s way of describing the
Japanese concept of yama oh miru, which means “to look
far at the mountain” as if one is utterly disinterested in
the other person and is more intrigued by a mountain in
the distance.
Many times, we would spar nonstop for more than an
hour, to the point of sheer exhaustion. There were days
when I would stagger out of the dojo, trying my best not
to show it. I often found myself having to sit in my car for
a few minutes before driving — I felt that depleted.
It didn’t take me long to determine that I’d never expe-
rienced such intense training in a dojo or in a private les-ticing at home. Abbott said that would suffice. I knew
that his wife had some injuries that required yoga ses-
sions so, having taught yoga for 20 years, I proposed an
exchange. Fortunately, the barter was a no-brainer for
both of us.
First Lesson
Our training began. I met Abbott at 7 a.m. several times
a week. After the first year, he introduced me to sparring
OCTOBER/NOVEMBER 2019 BLACKBELTMAG.COM 59