Karen and I have started doing yoga again in the evenings. It has been pleasant to get back to reintegrating mind with body after the buffeting storm of the previous year. While my mind is willing, my body protests the increased activity in a way it hasn't for many, many years. Some of you may think that stretching and holding a position, posturing and posing, couldn't be much of a workout. It is. At least, it can be if you remember to breathe.
The instructor of the program we watch is about our age, perhaps a few years younger, and more flexible than any man has a right to be. Watching him run through the positions with such ease reminds me of my fencing instructor from college.
During the spring quarter of my freshmen year, the electrical engineering curriculum gave us our first and only free elective. I'd always been intrigued by fencing, so I thought I'd give it a try. My roommate, a stoner from somewhere in middle Tennessee who wouldn't return after the summer, also ended up in the class wanting something more physically than mentally challenging for a few hours each week.
The first day there were a couple dozen of us, all guys, all between 18 and 20. Going in most of us thought we were in fairly decent shape. And we all had the same visions of fencing, dashing swordplay and Errol Flynn.
The instructor soon disabused us of these notions. She was short with blond hair dulled by gray and had a rich, Slavic accent. Her name was Sophie. No last name, no "coach," just Sophie. The introduction seemed reassuring, all very low key and relaxed. Believing the class would follow that example was our first mistake. We found out later that Sophie had been on the Polish national fencing team in the Olympics when she was younger. We also learned that she was fifty, mostly from her taunts.
For the first week, all Sophie did was try to get us into something she thought resembled reasonable shape. While we thought of ourselves as sturdy oaks, she saw us as shallow-rooted palms easily toppled in the wind.
She started with wind-sprints across the width of the gym, one quarter, touch, one half, touch, three quarters, touch, bleacher to bleacher, touch, then the reverse as fast as we could. When she thought we were not giving our all (which was most of the time), she would run beside us, sprinting faster, tagging deeper, pivoting quicker than any of us ever could, and taunting us the entire time about being teenagers outrun by a fifty year-old woman. Most of us were amazed that she could harangue us while outdistancing us and never sound winded. When she was particularly disgusted with our progress, she would run backwards in front of us, daring us to catch up.
For a break, she would have us assume a fencing position and heal-toe our way across the floor. For those who don't know, the fencing position consists of putting your feet about shoulder distance apart, right foot and leg facing forward and bent at the knee so your shin is perpendicular to the floor and your thigh is at about a 45 degree angle. Your left foot and leg are pointed to the side at a 90 degree angle with your thigh bent at about 45 degrees, but your heel beneath you. Ideally, this gives a very stable distribution to your weight, a balance point where you can move either forward or backwards with equal ease. You extend your right arm almost all the way out with your elbow pointing to the side and slightly bent, your wrist loose. Your left trails out behind and is hooked slightly above your head. Your chest is in profile toward your opponent to give a smaller target.
Once you have that posture set in your mind, picture moving your right heel up to where your right toes are with all your weight on your left foot. Plant it and accept your weight then move your left foot up about the same distance, keeping it pointed to the side, all with your knees bent and arms out. Distinct steps, don't drag or shuffle either foot. Pivot and rock like a teeter-totter moving forward on bent legs. Got that?
Get up and try it, right now, even for a few steps. I would join you but my left knee sounds like a pepper mill when I do it. Your thighs will burn within the first five steps if you are doing it right. Ok, now imagine doing that forward and backward across the entire width of a college gym, changing direction at random for twenty minutes.
After that we practiced the lunges. If I thought my thighs were smoldering before, now they needed a fire extinguisher. By the end of forty-five minutes, my arms felt as though someone had injected them with molten lead. My breath came in ragged gasps despite being told that, like in yoga, I needed to control it. It took me the day between classes just to recover enough to do it again. All this before we touched any equipment. If you are thinking "wax on, wax off," you have the right idea. I don't think we picked up a foil or donned a mask until two weeks into the course.
By then my roommate, who was broader shouldered and more muscular than I was, had dropped out. His southern male ego couldn't take being harassed by someone thirty years his senior and in better shape, a woman no less. At least that's what he told me when he stopped showing up for class. But he wasn't the only one. By the end of the first two weeks, we were down to about half our original number. Most of those who left had started in better shape than I had. If I learned one thing from Sophie, it was that it's not always the strongest who survive.
I still remember most of the exercises, parry 2, parry 4, parry 6, parry 8, all different positions to divert an incoming foil. And the routines, beat, attack, parry, lunge, riposte. Always maintain your distance even if you have to pull your chest concave from your shoulders to do so. Never drop your guard. Valuable lessons on or off the line.
Once I learned the techniques and positions, there was a detached balance between mind and body, almost a meditation on the line. Fencing, like yoga, is a discipline. If you have ever watched a match, points are scored in a blur, often too quick for the eye to follow. You can't react on the line. If you think about what you intend to do, it will be too late. You act without thinking, without allowing your mind to become distracted by your opponent or yourself. To do that, you have to breathe and live in each moment completely. Another lesson I carried with me, perhaps more practical than the rest.
The balance in yoga is more like everything in middle age, slower and more measured. Each night, we run through routines with names like the sun salutation, up and down dog, the warrior, the bow. I think a lot about Sophie as my shoulders shake while I try to balance sideways on one hand with my legs rigid and my other arm sticking straight into the air, like a cross resting on its base and one arm. The trouble is I'm no longer 19 so what the mind envisions, the body can't always execute with the grace it imagines. But it's beginning to remember despite the protests.
At the end of each session we assume a final position to cool down and center. As I lay there, I begin to feel a little better grounded, like a tree sinking its roots into the earth. I feel reintegrated and rebalanced in a way that I haven't for many years. From the porch I hear the sound of the distant traffic that drifts through the leaves with the wind. The wind chimes strike a single note that resonates until it fades, then strikes another with the deliberateness of our breathing. There is a peace carried on the wind with those tones. Whether in motion or in stillness, I hope you find a moment to breathe and listen to its song.
© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III
