It comes so slow, the letting go

"...willing to sacrifice what must be sacrificed to achieve your goal."

Want to know what the hardest thing to give up is? The one that makes people quit most frequently?

Negative self-image.

People hang onto that one tooth and nail.
The hardest thing to let go of is doubt and fear, particularly to do with your ability to succeed. Doubt that you can, fear that you won't.

I think it's a crutch.

So instead of having to face "I could have done it, but I didn't" you get to say "I knew it all along, it was fate, it's not my fault, it was just something I could never have done no matter how much I tried..." or somesuch.
I also think people put themselves down so it doesn't hurt so bad when someone else does. The "silly hat" defense.

Anyhow, it's the hardest thing to give up- and the thing that gets most in the way.

One thing I was taught way early on is how students are always willing to believe something bad about themselves, but may refuse to accept any praise as legitimate. Tell them they did something well and they'll almost always say "not really" or "it could have been better." Sometimes even "no it wasn't" or the currently in vogue "I suck."
So part of the teaching process is to teach people how to accept positive feedback.

Trouble is, a lot of people use positive feedback dishonestly.
And people catch onto that, which is why when you teach, you must NOT do that.
All feedback must be legitimate, or there will be no reason for the student to trust you, ever.

And if they don't trust you, they won't believe what you say, they won't accept feedback, and if they don't accept it, it won't guide them, they won't learn, and you'll both be wasting your time.

At the same time, some positive feedback is not so much "that was perfect" as it is "that is what I wanted you to do right now" because beginners aren't going to be perfect, but they CAN take steps in the right direction. You have to be sure the student understands the cyclical nature of learning, so they can accept praise for an action as legitimate and true, even when it isn't perfect.

Accepting feedback, like anything else, takes practice.

Giving constructive feedback... even more so.

Being Naked

Now for the apprentice part...


It isn't "do as I say."
It isn't "do as I say, not as I do."
It's "do as I say, and eventually, you might be able to do as I do."

It's about trust.

Trust that he can, in fact, convey his knowledge and expertise to me.
That he will do so in a safe manner. That he will push me, expand my limits, my "comfort zone," but he won't actually kill me.
That any information I give him will be used to help me reach my goal, and not to attack me or belittle me in any way.
That if I do what he says, it will lead me to where I want to go.

Learning to fence, and to teach fencing, is not like anything else I have done in my life. (Except for the ways in which it's all the same stuff, but I digress.)

In order to fence, you must first be able to control your own body, and then, to control the weapon. In order to fence well, you must also be able to control your opponent. And in order to do that, you must be at a level of awareness that is not often reached by anyone for anything. It is all counter-intuitive, and much of it is at the level of instinct and reflex.

Like an onion- and an ogre- you have layers.

And fencing, really, takes place at the innermost layer.
REACHING that layer is at the heart of everything I am training to do.

I can't reach it by myself.
I don't know where it is, how to get there, or what to do with it when I do.

I need the daily, constant, guidance of a master.

And.

The only way to do that, to have that guidance, to benefit from it, is for me to be absolutely honest and open about everything about myself. To be transparent.

To be naked. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually.

This is quite difficult to do. :-)

The dominant culture is driven by the fear of, and avoidance of, embarrassment. People seek approval, acceptance, affection. They avoid, at almost all costs, any situation that opens them up to being seen as lesser, imperfect, or mistaken, equating that with stupid and worthless.

I have to do the opposite.
I have to purposely ferret out and expose every weakness I have. Every doubt. Every fear.
I have to seek out opportunities to work on the very things I can't do, or am afraid of, and embrace those.

At the same time, I have to have absolute trust in my master, to respect my fears, and to go ahead and push me off that cliff, out of the nest, if need be, so I can learn to fly.

It would be lovely and poetic to say that I trust him to catch me if I fall, but it isn't exactly like that. In a way, I have to trust him to LET ME FALL, so I can learn to pick myself back up when I do.

This is an ongoing challenge, this effort to go against what is most natural. To continually open myself, layer by layer, so I can learn, so I can improve my skills, so I can get closer to being centered and balanced.

I won't pretend it isn't difficult, and sometimes painful. It is.

But once in a while, I get a glimpse of Nirvana.

Time and a Word

There's that word again.

Master.

It's a word full of meaning, full of promise, and full of misunderstandings.

It basically got a well-deserved bad rap when connected to "slave."
Tell someone you have a "master," or refer to someone by that title, and people get very nervous and uncomfortable.

Right up front, I'll tell you that's not what I mean by it at all. I'm not talking about a "power-over" relationship where one person has no say, and no choice. I'm also not talking about a BDSM thing where people are playing with the master/slave power structure.

Apprenticing to a master is full of choice. And it isn't play, or pretend.



What I'm talking about is someone who has mastery of a skill, who embodies that, and who is able to teach that skill, that way of being, to an apprentice.

Not an easy task.

Being a master is two-thirds of a very specific trust relationship, with a huge responsibility. Being an apprentice is the other two thirds.

Yes. I know. And we'll talk about math a lot more as time goes on.
But it's exactly what I meant. Each person has to give more than half.

First of all, the master has to actually have the skill. Has to be able to do the thing, not just talk about it.

But it's more than that. Being a master is about teaching, and it isn't always the most highly skilled practitioner who is the best teacher.

Some other necessary qualities:

1. Honesty- especially in evaluating performance.
2. Sensitivity, and the ability to discern subtle changes in the student.
3. Communication. This should have been first on the list. Should be the first ten, really.
4. Good listening skills.
5. Patience- but not for bullshit.
6. Willingness to learn.
7. An understanding of how people learn.
8. The ability to model, and to inspire
9. The ability to be whatever the student needs in the moment in order to facilitate learning. Sometimes, this is the toughest part, when there is a need to be stern or demanding with someone with whom you have a close relationship. You must be able to do this without anger, staying in control of your emotions, especially if your student is not.

There's more, but that's a decent start, and enough for now.

One last bit... what kind of master are we talking about?
The name of the blog includes "swordmaster" but I've also referred to him as my "fencing master," so what's the difference? Are they the same thing?

The answer is "it depends."

In general, most of the time, no, probably not. There are a large number of people out there today who have the title "fencing master," but who are not really masters. The "authority" to give that title originally was only in the hands of other fencing masters. But for a variety of reasons, it currently is not so, at least not in the US, where that title is given most often by the United States Fencing Coaches Association. A coach designating someone a master is a lot like having EMTs giving out medical degrees. Coaches are only qualified to designate another coach- and that's basically what the USFCA does. They CALL them "fencing masters," but they are coaches. They also call what they are doing "fencing," and it isn't, but that's another story.


For our purposes, with this particular person, yes, they mean pretty much the same thing.
Part of that has to do with the fact that my master is trained in more than the modern fencing weapons, and was trained by a master in a long line of fencing masters. And part has to do with what skills and knowledge he is able to teach me, what I'm trying to learn from him, which isn't only about the three modern weapons, or about sport competition. It isn't only about fencing, even. And part has to do with the fact that he is trained to teach, to develop mastery in another person, not just to help someone win a game.


That's his part.
Next time, I'll talk about my part.

Assuming, that is...

One of my favorite quotes from the master...


"Fencing is the ultimate fighting art. It offers a clarity like no other, a completeness unsurpassed. A scientific reliability that suggests that there are inescapable laws at work to hold the fabric of creation together. It demands every shred of muscle and nerve, a balance of sensitivity and strength, decisiveness and flexibility. It will teach you things about conflict most people never learn, teach you things about human beings that most people never understand- and teach you things about yourself that most people would rather not know.

Assuming, that is, that you learn it from a real master."

Quick Guide to Becoming a Fencing Master's Apprentice

Things I think anyone considering such a thing should know

1. It's a process, not an event.

2. If you think it's only about fencing, forget it.

3. It requires both commitment and change. Real change. It is not just the gaining of new skills, but the replacement of old unproductive thought patterns and habits. Changing how you see and relate to most everything and everyone. These changes will not necessarily be easy. And that's not only for you, but for other people in your life- they may find the changes difficult.

4. People are going to think you're nuts. As a rule, even those who most want to be supportive will only support you to a point- the limit of their understanding of what you're doing. To most people, fencing is a sport, an insignificant one at best, a game, and what you are doing is learning to be a coach. A coach, mind you, for a sport no one watches, participates in, or understands. At best, a marginalized activity, a part time thing, benefitting very few. So why do you care so much? And if you make any attempt to explain why, to get at the level of personal growth and where that leads you, they'll think you've gone right over the edge entirely, because the concept is not in their worldview, it's a bunch of hooey. (Are you sure this isn't a cult?)

5. It's about teaching, about learning. If you aren't enthusiastically interested in both of those things, this is not the opportunity for you.

6. The level of detail will astound you. Repeatedly. The sheer number of hours this is going to take is huge. We're talking years, not months. A long term commitment.

7. This has the potential to rearrange your entire life. In ways you may not expect. It will change your priorities, change how you relate to people, change what you think and do, change how you make decisions. It may well change your very values- or at least, accentuate them if yours are already compatible.

ps. This scares people. A lot. Do not underestimate this.

8. If you think you understand all this, and you still "agree" and you're rarin' to go, you've got a handle on it, this is the path for me, made my decision, yessir...

you're wrong. :-)

No matter how much you understand of it, no matter how much awareness you have of what is involved, no matter how ready you are for that, no matter how committed you are, you will still have moments of nearly-overwhelming mind-boggling eye-opening "what the fuck?" discovery of yet another level of possibility. It may delight you. It may astound you. It may temporarily (or permanently) overwhelm you with the feeling that you will never, ever, be able to do this. But you cannot possibly, right now, really understand what you are getting into because you simply do not have the ability to understand things that you can't yet imagine exist. You can't see around corners, or into the future.

Did I mention that this is not a smooth featureless landscape?

Perhaps the reason the process takes so long is that it takes years (what is the theoretical number, seven?) for your body to replace every cell- and that, in a nutshell, is the level of change you're attempting. Every cell. Every nerve. Every pre-existing pattern. Every instinct. Every "natural reaction." That level of growth and change. Becoming, literally, a different person.

It's not that it can't be done.

But it can't be done by someone attached to what they've known before, or know now. By someone resistant or reluctant to change. By someone who enters into this with any intention of withholding or being in any way- even the tiniest way- dishonest.

It is about exposing your own weaknesses, not hiding them. Admitting to difficulties, not avoiding them. Embracing responsibility. About understanding, not pretending.

Perhaps the simplest way of explaining is to use something my fencing master has said to me. Simple as it is, I only began to understand it in layers, as I met them, and I'm sure I have not reached the deepest one yet.

You must be willing to do whatever must be done to achieve your goal.
Further, you must be willing to sacrifice whatever must be sacrificed
to achieve your goal.

These are not lofty statements, intended to inspire. They are the literal truth, each word specifically chosen, and equally important. "Willing" is as important as "must." And you can't possibly predict what things these will be, in either direction. They are different for each person, bound into your very self, your life, your beliefs, your experiences. Some will seem small things. Easy enough to let go of. Some, your ego will fight you tooth and nail over.

There. That about sums it up. Ought to scare off any sensible person.

Interestingly, both none of it, and all of it, are directly related to fencing itself.

Be the change you want to see in the world

I decided I wanted to study foil, after all, some of my misconceptions having been rectified.

In addition to the appeal of the sword, itself, I found the environment of the classes to be something I very much enjoyed and appreciated. Good, honest, hard work. Respect and encouragement from the other students. Overall, a time and place set apart from the rest of the world, from the stress and everyday troubles I normally dealt with.

A place I could stop thinking, and just feel. Moving meditation, in a way.

Each class in the introductory series of classes has its own "personality." Certain topics are covered in very specific ways. I began to recognize some of the patterns.

The first class is the set up for all the rest. That's an important thing. Safety rules are laid out. Expectations communicated. Students are welcomed to the art, science and spirit of the sword.

One of the best thing about classes taught by our fencing master is that he often illustrates things by telling stories. And he's a great storyteller.

I remember one particular first class when he talked to everyone about what they were getting themselves into. He talked about the three musketeers. About honor. And about how if you want the world to be a certain way, it is your responsibility to do everything you can to make it that way. Sometimes, there won't be much you can do- but you must try. Sometimes- maybe always- it will cost you, but you still must act to create the good, to stand up for truth.

You can only affect those within your sphere of influence, which means there will be many things, many people, you can't reach. But those you can reach, you have a responsibility to. Those who can, must, because those who can't, can't. It is the responsibility of the strong to protect the weak.

For some reason, that particular day, those thoughts really struck me, really hit me hard.

I had somehow found this place in the world where people treated each other with respect, where it was a safe place, emotionally and physically, to be, where no one was treated differently because of their age or size or sex or skin color. And I liked it.

While there may be little I can do to change the world at large, this, this fencing thing, this is something I think I might be able to contribute. Maybe I could help, somehow, by keeping alive the spirit of chivalry, by providing at least these students with an environment that is so seldom found elsewhere. I realized that these very people were the ones in my sphere of influence, the ones I therefore have an obligation to.

If I didn't do it, who would? Fencing, real fencing, is fast disappearing from the world, after having been a part of it for hundreds of years. There are things, important things, to be gained from its study that are likely disappearing as well.

I did not - do not- want this to be so.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I went to talk to him about wanting to teach, if he would help me learn how to do that.

Interestingly (though no longer surprisingly), he seemed already to have known I would do so, and was prepared for my questions, and invited me to start assisting him.

I had no idea, at the time, what I was getting myself into, how much effort and dedication it would take, or how profound the changes in myself would be. Not a clue.

That's probably a good thing.

What means solid, traveler?

I've mentioned more than once my early feelings about foils, my lack of respect for them. They reminded me of car antennas. Whippy little things. Not real swords. Toys. For pretending. And there's still that French thing going on.

I'm sure many, many people- especially those who have a romanticized image of swords, as most people do- feel pretty much the same way.

I'm equally sure that they, like I was, are mistaken.

I could go on at great length about what foils are and are not, how they are made, why they are as lightweight as they are, what the practical applications of that are. I could write about how they are safer to use. I could explain how the foil is a practice weapon, never intended to be "real."

And it would be deadly dull and boring.
And it wouldn't convince anyone of anything anyway.

They still don't look like real swords.

Here's the thing: what makes a sword real? Is it the size, the weight, the shape of the thing? Or is it something else?

Way back in the long time ago, when I was just starting to pick up the foil, when I was still trying to reliably find my feet, and when I was beginning to realize that waving those things around might not be as easy as it looked, I finally accepted the invitation to watch a tournament.

Not just any tournament.
A fencing match between two fencing masters.

Can't get any better than that, right?

Until this point, I had seen my mild-mannered fencing master.... oh, wait. That must be some other guy.

I had been taking individual rapier lessons for a couple of years, and had taken some foil classes by this time. I had only seen our fencing master as a teacher. His persona as a teacher was one of strength, focus, balance and mystery, mixed with patience, an uncanny skill in knowing exactly what a student needed to work on next, and an attitude gained from having grown up in Chicago. Not someone anyone would want to meet in a dark alley. Not scary, exactly, but... well, maybe scary, exactly, at least some of the time. Stern, when necessary. And no nonsense, always.

I didn't know what to expect, seeing him fence for the first time, but whatever it was, it wasn't this.

He picked up his foil, and stood on guard.

And became someone... something... else.

A cat.
Playing with a mouse.

Light hearted, joyful, even.

Still the same focus, the same intensity, but with an undeniable joi de guerre.

Effortless grace.

And something else.

That foil in his hand was clearly, unmistakably, a weapon.

No willy-waving here. Nothing silly or frou-frou about it.

Even though it looked exactly like one of those lightweight things I had held in my hand, in HIS hand, it was something else entirely.

It was, in a word, real.
Dangerous.

There are some questions that new students often ask. One of the most frequent is some variety of "If one person had one kind of sword, and the other had a different kind of sword, who would win?"

They almost always expect the answer to be that the longer sword would win.
A few, occasionally, hoping to be clever, expect the smaller sword to win, that somehow there is some "trick" to it.

There's no trick.

I usually ask them this: if I had a rapier, maybe even two rapiers, and the master had a toothpick, who would win?
That gets the point across.

The truth is... he wouldn't need a toothpick.


It is not the sword in someone's hand that is, or is not, "real."
It is the hand- and the heart- that the sword is in, that makes it real.