Ego can hide in the strangest places. Like behind guilt.
Lately, I’ve been feeling guilty about extending my Taekwondo
teaching sabbatical. At Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute and at East
Communities YMCA, I preached the motto of “Don’t Quit!” to hundreds of
students, and yet I’m on the seventh month of what was originally planned as a
two-month break to heal a swollen foot, aching knees, and a tender back. I’m afraid
others think I’ve broken the “Don’t Quit” Code, and that’s unsettling for me.
I cannot lie, though: This sabbatical has been a much-needed
mental, physical, and spiritual break, and despite feeling frustrated at still
not knowing the source of the swelling in my foot, the time off has been enjoyable.
After 11 years of teaching Taekwondo afternoons, evenings, and some weekends—while
also holding down a day job to pay the bills—I’ve been able to spend quality time
with my family, attend parties, accept last-minute dinner invitations, and,
most recently, drop everything and drive 75 miles to comfort my mother when she
was rushed to the emergency room. She hadn’t been a patient in a hospital since
a miscarriage in the ’60s, and she sure was glad to see my face when I walked
into that emergency room in Llano, Texas .
That day with my mom, I realized that I was present. I
didn’t have part of my brain off somewhere else, worrying about finding a
teaching substitute for the day—or even for the week. I didn’t worry about my
students’ safety (a student was injured one time when I was away at a martial
arts camp) or whether those who said they’d cover my classes would. And that’s
a good thing, because my mom’s heart was skipping beats, her blood pressure was
diving, and a nasty and stubborn infection set in on her right leg. She and I
were going to be at the hospital for a while.
What a relief the sabbatical was in that moment.
When I’m hungry, angry, lonely, or tired, though, I can have
a Negative Nancy mind, so after I returned home, guilt set in again.
For months, I’ve been praying and meditating on what the
next right thing is for me in my martial arts and teaching life. Is it wrong to
take time for myself and leave some of my students teacherless indefinitely? Is
it wrong to take as much time as necessary to heal? It’s been baffling to take
so much time away from something I love. I don’t understand why it’s been so important
that I stop NOW and that the only clarity the universe has provided thus far is
that I will return—just not right now. I don’t know how to tell people who ask
when I’ll return that I don’t know. They look at me strange. Like I’m quitting.
They look disappointed. Of course, this could all be in my head. They could
just have gas.
Despite years of martial arts study, I can be very
impatient. I want to know what lessons I’m supposed to be learning during my
sabbatical NOW. Yet major clarity has been elusive. I’ve been just getting
awakenings, one light bulb at a time.
Like on Tuesday.
I miss the kids in my classes, so these days, every time I
take new uniforms up to the YMCA for Martin and Roberto Hass—twin brothers and
longtime students who have taken over classes during my sabbatical—I suit up
and join in. I’ve always marveled at these young men; they’re awesome leaders
and talented martial artists. It’s from a backseat, sabbatical perspective,
though, that I’ve finally gotten to see how wonderfully Martin and Roberto can
lead youth and adult Taekwondo classes in my absence. They started with me when
they were 8 years old. Now they’re 17. On the mat, they act like they’re 35.
As I watched the brothers on the mat the other day, I
marveled at how mature and capable they had become, how easily and confidently
they transitioned from one drill to the next. And at the end of class, Roberto
did what I always did: He gave a character lesson.
“What’s Basic Rules to Live By No. 1?” he asked the class.
Hands shot up, and a student correctly answered: “We must
respect our parents and family members at all times, sir!”
“Good job,” Roberto said.
Silently, I said, “And?”
“And what does that mean?” Roberto asked.
I nodded approvingly, listening as the class spent the next
few minutes discussing examples of what respecting parents and siblings looked
like. And that’s when it hit me:
They’re don’t need me.
These guys—the Hass Brothers and my students—were doing just
fine without me. The brothers were the new me, and no one was whining for my
return. Amid pride for the brothers, I felt a tinge of sadness as I let go a
little more of my leadership duties. Feelings of guilt gave way to relief and
serenity.
As one class ended and another class began, I changed
clothes and put my street shoes on. I had plans for that evening to do a meet
and greet between a foster dog and potential forever owners. One of the great
things my partner and I have been doing during my sabbatical is fostering dogs.
From the edge of the mat, I watched as students lined up in an
orderly fashion and began warm-up drills. Then the class separated into three
lines to do chun-jin drills—all
except for one young man. The white belt, a young man about middle-school age
with a buzz cut, just stood there. Martin and Roberto immediately walked toward
him, and then they gently and calmly lowered his body to the floor. Something
odd was happening; I didn’t understand what was going on. Other students
gathered around Roberto, Martin, and the young man. I was about to flick my
shoes off and go to them as well, but something told me it wasn’t necessary.
“Turn his head toward the floor so he doesn’t choke on his
tongue,” someone said.
The young man was having a petit mal seizure, but you would have
thought he was just taking a nap by the calm manner the Hass Brothers handled
it. Once the student regained consciousness and the brothers determined that he
would be fine, a probationary black belt matter-of-factly regrouped the
remaining students and led them in chun-jin
drills. They just kicked to the left and right of them.
I was amazed at how the brothers handled the crisis. I had
never been on the mat when a student was having a seizure. I would know what to
do, but I don’t think I would have handled it with such grace and confidence.
Still looking on from the sidelines of the mat, I kept my
shoes on.
They’re fine, I told
myself. I humbly realized that they’re doing just fine on their own. In fact,
they’re blossoming. And it’s OK for me to be on sabbatical as long as is needed
to return to my old, well, and strong self again.
They’re doing just
fine without me.
Instead of sadness and self-pity, I felt proud and at peace.
I knew that part of the clarity I’d been seeking had been unveiled: If my foot,
knees, and back wouldn’t have been hurting, I wouldn’t have stepped away from
the mat months ago. If I hadn’t stepped away, I wouldn’t have seen for myself
how incredible these two brothers could be as instructors.
They’re doing fine
without me.
And now I have a completely different outlook on the “Don’t
Quit” motto. Now I know that when someone asks me how long it will take for me
to completely heal, I can confidently give this simple answer:
“It takes as long as it takes.”
I won’t quit before the healing is complete.
