Murder Yoga

After practice, I bought a club-branded rash guard and velcro shorts from the main man.

I ordered a gi, a white belt and a mouth guard on the cheap. The gi is still in the mail, but I washed the belt and set it coiled on the edge of a wardrobe shelf, where I can see it. I’ve rolled in a t-shirt and mid-length swimming shorts. My elbows and feet have skin burnt off in several places by the foam mats.

They are tokens of a recent glimpse into a new reality. A reality that can be reached by taking off your shoes, washing your feet and walking onto the mats. Once there, someone 15kg heavier than you will place their knee upon your belly, and commence to slowly twist you into a pretzel. Or smoke your ribs with an overeager jump, because neither of you had any idea what you were doing.

Both are useful lessons.

I have something called contused costal cartilage, which means it hurts to sit up in the morning. When I wake up, I think about levers, frames and posture.

I have an amplified sense of being alive. These feel like good people.

Sincerely,

A Brazilian jiu-jitsu white belt 10 hours in