Krav Maga

It’s not a sport, despite the physical activity,
And it’s not a joke, despite the constant laughter.
You can see the bruises that bloom on our skin
But the real lessons we learn are hidden beneath,
Are hidden before all the flash and glamour.
Doesn’t matter how fast you can disarm a gun –
You should first learn how to never have to.

No, the lessons we learn are not what people expect.
You come in for one thing and leave with a thousand others.

You learn how to breathe, keep calm, and go on,
You learn on that shouted mantra of ‘keep going’
Until you find the force in the exhaustion,
As you push it away and jump to your feet.

You learn to use your voice, step up, and try,
You learn in the middle of that crushing circle,
Until you find the courage in the anxiety,
As you realize you know something worth teaching others.

And most importantly, most stunningly,
You learn to find yourself, stand proud and tall.
You learn it every day, in every tiring class,
Until you feel the kind pat on the back under the slap
As you find yourself having a second family, a second home.

It’s probably not every Krav everywhere, though I wish it was –
I wish you all knew how it was to have around
Such brilliant instructors, such amazing people.
It’s a strange feeling, when you find the persons
That you would confidently trust with your life,
And it’s an undescribable joy when you discover
That you can easily trust them with your soul too.

That’s what my Krav Maga is like –
A combat lesson for life, not for war;
Self defence against both outer and inner demons.

 

If anybody who reads this is in London and would like to give Krav a try, please let me know. I’d love to show you my ‘family’ 🙂

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Pieces of you

We walk around with pieces of you,
A string of something that connects us,
Usually invisible. It only start to shimmer
With a careless gesture. An automatic word.
They are things that trip up our body,
Making us pause a second after we do them,
At the physical feeling of unfamiliarity.
But they are old friends to our minds,
So we suppose we must have imagined it
And we go on, none the wiser.
They are things that make others blink strange
Because in our place flashes another face
For just a split second of recognition.
But they don’t know why, don’t see the strings,
So they assume they’re just tired,
And they go on too, none the wiser.
I do know though. I’m used to standing back
And watching. Following the patterns.
So I can see it when the strings shimmer
And I can follow them straight back to you.
It’s strange. A little impossible.
Just like yourself, I suppose,
If you could possibly have so many pieces
To have so many to give away,
Plant them inside us, and let them grow.
Wait. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?
Maybe you’re not that impossible.
Maybe every piece grows by itself,
And we only need the seed of one each.
Because I’ve watched you too.
You have other strings, running the other way,
Pieces of other people that make you up,
Some of them that you gave to us too,
Connecting us to people we’ve never met,
An ancestry of similar strangers,
A family of unknown friends.
And surely they – they couldn’t have
Such an infinity of pieces
To pass on to you to pass on to us.
I like that thought. The idea that it won’t stop
And I’ll be passing on pieces of you too,
While I’m passing on pieces of myself.
That you’ll know people before you even meet,
And I’ll understand pieces of strangers
That follow a string of somebody else
That you connected me to in the beginning.
I should thank you – thank you for the chance,
For your strings, and for your pieces.
But most of all, thank you for letting me
Turn them into my own strings, and my own pieces.