Getting taught

I've had some conversations in the last few days about learning. What are we curious about? How do we learn? Is it possible to learn? 

I think about this a lot at the boxing gym. This is not easy stuff, and I'm always so curious to know why people are there. What is it they want to learn? Some listen to trainers an coaches, and some don't. Some people catch on to things immediately, while some people stay for years at about the same level of engagement. Neither is good or bad. I'm just saying...

I'm a curious person. I want to be a better boxer. That's the dialogue in my head every time I drive to the gym. What more can I do? How can I be better? I love this stuff. I'm not afraid to put myself out there--not like I once was, anyway.

I feel like I wear two hats: I want to learn, and I feel a responsibility (an earnest, heartfelt one) to teach others.

But I make assumptions about what getting taught means. It's not always my agenda. No, I'd say it's almost NEVER my agenda. And that's a pretty wonderful lesson for me in and of itself.

But I don't think we see what it is we're truly there to learn. You don't realize that you're not turning your foot when you throw a cross. You don't realize that tired right arm is dropping down and away from your face leaving you dangerously exposed. Even if you're watching the pros to see what they do, are you watching for what you should be watching for?

I need the people at the gym to remind me, and show me. That my lesson that day is patience. My lesson that day is listening to a young fighter trying to be a role model for even younger fighters. My lesson is to remind someone that he's risking my wrists by not paying attention to how we're working together. My lesson is to remind me that I'll never know what each person is bringing with them to class that day, and that matters. Listen. Ask. My lesson is to ask more about what the business of running a gym involves. To remember what it felt like the first day I walked in.

Things don't happen on my terms. On my schedule. My way isn't "right." I need to see this play out--regularly, by people I love and trust, to really learn. I've spent a lot of my life thinking there's a pattern, that the answer's in a book, and the answers come from people with society-approved credentials. Not anymore.

But I don't know that these are my lessons. I really depend on these people around me to be active trainers for me--even in a passive way. They--in a way--decide what I learn or don't learn. What a powerful thing it is to be influencing and to be influenced in such important ways, and sometimes unintentional ways.

Unearned

You don't know what's going on behind the scenes.

Lately I've heard--and heard myself say--many times that people aren't paying as much attention to you as you think. The world isn't about "me."

But sometimes you're surprised by the extra attention someone you hardly knows gives to you personally. Not just a friendly comment, but a sincere interest and medium-sized investment in what you care about. 

People at my gym know that I'm working on a side project that's not directly related to boxing. Someone I don't know well--whom I'd consider a friendly acquaintance--has taken a sincere interest. Seeking out more information. Actually taking it in. 

This same person surprised me with flowers when my mom died.

I barely know her. How are we connected other than commiserating over pushups and squats at the gym? There's an unexpected tenderness there. 

I tend to see the heartlessness and self-centeredness in the world. This is a reminder of the people. The individual people who I don't know or don't understand that aren't heartless. I don't feel like I've earned these small gifts. This is different than the kindness of strangers--which is less mysterious somehow.

Happy Birthdays

It's not my birthday. It's my coach's birthday, and there's something wonderful yet wrong about a massive pineapple upside-down cake at the check-in desk in a gym.

But soon it will be my birthday, and I'll be 50. I'll spare you the familiar "oh, that's feels so old" and "only other people are 50 years old, not me" comments.

Turning 50 makes me feel powerful.

For 10 years I've been acquiring various kinds of boxing-related courage. People who are surprised to learn that I box ask, "Aren't you scared? Won't people hurt you?" There's a risk of that sometimes, but courage starts long before you spar with anyone. Even training can be intimidating. Shadowboxing, for example, is a typical warm-up activity. You stand in front of a mirror and throw punches. And it looks pretty cool, but the first time I did it I felt like a complete idiot. When you're shadowboxing, you're not usually getting coached and new people don't really the punches or how to move around. You have to decide for yourself what do throw and how to move while you're watching yourself in the mirror--and looking out of the corner of your eye to see if people are laughing. (They aren't.)  This is a good example of boxing courage training-wheels. It's not going to feel comfortable. Stop thinking that anyone else is paying attention to your rookie-ness.

My life now takes a different kind of courage. I've resigned from my corporate job. My body is more prone to injury ("they" say) and more prone to wrinkles (actually true). People who I've known and loved for fifty years die.

I've never done this before, but I'll figure it out. The people around me will offer help, probably not laugh at me, and will mostly be caught up in their own stuff. Feeling like an idiot doesn't last forever.

Being seen.

Someone asked me about coaching last night--if it really made a difference to know that someone was cheering you on, or even just "with you" as you did something in the world.

Yes. It does.

This was in the context of eating a different kind of food, but I see it everywhere. At the gym, at my office, after a class where a few people linger to talk to the teacher about...anything.

Do we need this? Some people argue that we do. I don't think we need it, but that most of us want it. There may be a few extraordinary, remarkable people who can live independently, internally, quietly without hearing that others see the mark they're making on the world. But these people are rare. 

Most of us, I think, are starving to be seen. It almost like when you're chronically dehydrated but don't realize it's thirst that's compromising how you feel and how you think. "Being seen" is a drink of water.

At my gym is one of the few places in my life where I've felt truly seen. Not because I'm a great fighter, or I'm the strongest (because I'm not), but because I'm a person in the world doing what I can--and that much matters. Whatever it is that day, it counts. 

When this is given to you, it's truly a gift. When you've been given this gift, you can do it for other people. Imagine the person on the treadmill next to you, or in the cube next to you, or on the bus as someone who could be crawling across a confidence/self-worth desert. What would a drink of water mean to her? To you?

Why?

Tina -- graphic designer & fighter

About ten years ago, I was working and teaching at a neighborhood gym when they posted a sign-up for Intro to Boxing. I like a challenge--especially something that would push me physically. And, honestly, I'm built more like a boxer than, say, a runner or a yogi.