Oh no, I have a class tonight!

On those moments of being motivation-deprived, even as a teacher

Ever feel this way when it was time for class?

There were times when I did. I can recall those moments, especially in the winter here in cozy Canada (brrr…!) when the thought of going out was repellent. And yes, this happened when I was teaching and was even more pronounced since I was responsible for the class. After all, I was there to serve the students who were also facing a chilly winter evening.

So out I trudged through the snow, partially hoping no one else showed up and I could go home. Yet once there, something happens. Almost without fail, my attitude would change in a couple of different ways.

First, pushing oneself when needed is uplifting. I recall walking with my head down while being pelted with snow. Arriving at a warm place to prepare for class was a satisfying relief along with the satisfaction of having overcome a moment of laziness.

Second, since I made sure I was there about 30 minutes before of the students, I would have the room to myself. This was a unique moment in which I could do some ritual preparation. It was a special moment characterized by simple gratitude for being there. This too was a mood changer.

Third, as students arrived I would instantly forget about the last vestige of my reluctance to come here, as the concerns of the students became priority. After all, they had made the effort to be there and my function was to ensure they had a class. “I” become “we” in the sense of being in a deeply personal internal art together.

The times that were most challenging were those in which I was the only one there. This did not happen frequently, but when it did I found myself facing an obvious question - session or no session? Since it obviously could not be a class without students, what was I to do with the empty time now facing me?

This brought me into contact with a fundamental feature of any internal art, be it martial or otherwise. That being the question of in what sense it actually exists. It is not in books, and it is not really in one’s thoughts or words. Those are representations. I realized that the art only exists while someone is doing it.

So, even when alone in the training hall at class time, I chose to practice. This would ensure that the art was actually existing in that space at that time. Certainly it would be a shortened version of the class since no actual teaching was happening. But I would ensure the art itself was expressed in the training space before heading back home.

Finally, there was always something interesting to learn that would've been missed had I not gone to a class. It might have been a particular training idea a student shared with me (yes, it’s often a 2-way learning relationship), or a variation on a practice devised for someone struggling with a specific component of the practice, or a revelation about my own practice that came to me as the class progressed.

The walk back home would often be deeply satisfying for all the reasons mentioned. This time, the snow was merely something to heighten the anticipated warmth of home. And it would be highlighted by the satisfaction of having shared an internal art with others who also made it a priority that evening.

Had I succumbed to that earlier momentary reluctance, none of this could’ve happened.