February 24, 2008 * 6th Lesson

Poverty… vulnerability… physical discomfort… embarrassment… loneliness… panic… boredom… insanity…

So what keeps you up at night? According to Robert Gerzon, author of Finding Serenity in the Age of Anxiety, panic attacks are the result of too many years of avoiding things that scare you. The end result is a life made up of habits and rituals designed to protect you from yourself.

I’m not too proud to admit that I’ve suffered many of the aforementioned soul-sucking bogeymen. And when you’re fighting this fight, you need allies. Barring a talented therapist, I’ve found Barbara Sher’s material, particularly Wishcraft, to be the most comprehensive, realistic and effective system for discovering passions, facing fears and plotting paths toward goal fulfilment.

So Barbara, this post is dedicated to you. Thanks for being in my corner.

February 17, 2008 * 9th Lesson

Guest blog entry by Dana Plato

“Chomedyboy” has written, so far, about how learning to box at 39 is a liberating struggle for a former bully’s target. As Joe Jackson used to sing, “It’s Different For Girls.” Girls don’t bully in the same way (or at least, they didn’t when was a kid). Just watch the movie Mean Girls and you’ll have a sense of the psychological warfare that can go on. Growing up as a Jew, and a somewhat geeky girl, I managed to avoid being bullied in any serious fashion by using humour to deflect — and this is has its own “tough-guy” kind of shell. In life, however, I prefer to be neither on the offense nor the defense — people should really just talk. (That’s not to say I don’t find boxing to be an absolutely beautiful sport). In terms of true violence or bullying, physical or emotional, I don’t see the point.

But others sure do. Even as an adult, the “Mean Girls,” (and guys) are out there. The interesting thing about boxing is that it’s helped me view something positive about the act of the fight itself. I find myself, in life, “getting a punch,” and “giving a punch,” — rather than my tried and true strategies of diversion. Humour goes a long way, to be sure, but sometimes you really have to throw a straight right, even if it’s a metaphorical one.

February 10, 2008 * 4th Lesson

It appears to come naturally to Monica (the woman in the photo). It being the suggestion by Survivor to embody “the eye of the tiger” and “rise up to the challenge of our rival”. You’d think a woman, being at least half a foot shorter than I and, well, a woman, would be intimated by my hulking frame (ahem) and gender. Yet she threw the harder punches, and was able to contain her giggles.

Giggles… at funerals. Giggles… at a serious lecture. These damn things always appear at the most inopportune moments. In boxing, you’re instructed to look your opponent in the eye. You want to look at his glove, his shoes, your shoes, anything but his (or her, as the case may be) eyes. Why? Because it’s difficult to be both nice and mean at the same time. We’d rather believe, and would like others to as well, that we’re polite and peace-loving folk. And yet, here we are face to face with a primal part of ourselves that is a tad intrigued by the violence of it all.

My instructor pushes me to “face the music” and allow Monica to connect. I obey, and then…”THUD”, my defending hand and chin absorb the force of her blow. This seems to wake me up. For a moment or two, my giggles are cured.

Thanks to Monica for agreeing to be part of this entry, and to Dana for the photos.

February 3, 2008 * 3rd Lesson

I was 13 or 14 when I was rushed to the Jewish General Hospital in Montreal, for what my parents thought was appendicitis. It was not. Rather, it was another night of razor-sharp stomach cramps resulting from incessant anxiety. Some might say the cramps were all “in my head“. The cause? Most probably bullying.

At 39 the cramps are gone, but the hypervigilance and fear remains. Only the triggers change. One day it’s the kippah on my head that might ignite the ire of an antisemite. Another day it’s the “wrong place at the wrong time” concern while walking past any number of alleyways in Toronto or Vancouver.

And so today, like the past two Sundays, I show up for my boxing lesson. I marvel as I push my body further and further, causing beads of sweat to drip down my face, creating a puddle on the floor. The puddle is a sacrifice for all the years of cowering, hiding, and making nice.

I dedicate this post to my instructor for pushing me, emotionally and physically, and being the catalyst for healthier cramps.