RingoI asked about religion today. I read about people’s beliefs. I heard them talk about their rites. They shared how they practiced and what was special, why it mattered, and how it moved them. In reading it I realized I too have religion.
My god is the Fight. My church is the list, the mat, the cage. My practice is just that, my practice. My rites are my rights, but also my left. Every minute on the bag is a prayer. Every sparring matches a meditation, on success, on failure, on pain, on loss, on victory, on glory. My offerings, my sacraments, are the blood and the sweat that I pour out in training.
I long ago left behind faith in a higher power, but this, this I can feel. This is real to me. I have faith in myself and my training. I can feel the power in the moments before it kicks off and I lose myself in the energy once the first blow is thrown. There is no connection like that of attempting to utterly destroy your opponent. There is no release like violence, not sex, not joy at seeing your family, not crying at the loss of a love, not any prayer, not any communal exerperince that can compare. There is nothing as centering as getting punched in the face, nothing brings you into the moment like the pain and the fury.
I worship combat. I am a peaceful man, who cringes when he causes pain. And yet I am drawn to the idea of war and can never not stop for a fight. The draw is no mere addiction, but a mystical pull. Every session is a lesson. Not just physically but spiritually.
Every loss is a psalm about pride and humility. Every victory is a hallelujah and a miracle teaching faith in myself. There is not a practice that is not a parable, on observing, on acting first, on patience, on trust. The fasts of weight cutting, the trials of the iron, teach a dedication needed in all things.
And the empathy. I cannot go through a match with learning my opponent, without feeling every hurt they went through, every injury, every momentary success. I cannot step out without knowing them, sharing with them the victory or loss, even though I am their opposite, the reflection of their shame and despair or the inverse of their joy and glory. In that moment we are one and in that moment I learn that all of humanity is one, that we all are fighting, different battles, in different arenas, against different opponents. But each day is a combat with the very world itself and in that we are all sharing the ring and are all the same.
There is no structure to my worship. No spiritual dedication I put out consciously. Just the lessons I learn and absorb as I grow in my fights. Someday I may start trying to define this more. Someday I may make my practice deliberate. I may offer thanks verbally with every strike. I may have a prayer that matches my combos or a meditation focus for my footwork. For now though my god remains unnamed and my religion is a vague notion that there is nothing that speaks to me like the flow of my blood in the moments between blocking or landing a blow.
Worship well and I’ll see you in the lists