Fractured Relationships

I had never broken a bone before. I don't even remember spraining an ankle, though that probably happened at least once. So, it took me a few seconds to realize what had just occurred when the other student's foot made contact with my hand. Even upon impact, it seemed to me things were fine, or as fine as they could be. It was not until the pain did not allow me to jump into a 360 degree kick, or to kick or punch at all for that matter, that I understood something had gone horribly wrong. Then I remembered I had heard a snap-crack sound. Then my hand throbbed and I could neither stretch nor bend my fingers. Then I remembered why I usually don't train with lower belts, especially younger ones. After giving the kid (he was about 18) a sound yelling for asking if I was okay, I remember only pain.

If I had had any sense at all, I would have gone to the hospital immediately. But, no, mr. macho had to prove he could take it. He had, after all, fought on one leg and kicked with that same one after his shin had been hurt at that tournament when he was nineteen. But, alas, I am no longer 19, and even if I were, the trauma from a triple fracture is enough to stop the most dogged of masochistic athletes.

Instead, I stayed on and let the instructor massage the injury, trying to see whether the bone had really been broken. A move I now regret, I mean, duh, the bone was worse than broken. As the RNs told me the next day: "Yeah, it's broken; triple fracture. The secod, third and fourth metacarpals were all but slashed. How did you this?"

How, indeed?

As a teenager, the colorful lure of tournaments with their endless displays of showmanship attracted me so much that I would have risked almost anything to win one. And, in fact, did.
Bloody noses, strained muscles, a cut neck, you name it, I went through it. To the point that I almost lost my left eye once because my opponent had neither the decency nor the common sense to clip his toenails. He cut a tiny "y" shape right above my eyelid. For more than a week, my eye seemed to have swollen to the size of an orange. And the bleeding, thankfully stopped by my master's wife, was enough to make me want to cry. But I didn't; I couldn't.

Of course, this had some good points too. After all, I grew stronger than most of my peers and could still boast, if I so wished, about being tougher than many of the other martial artists I've come across, though I don't look it. But I no longer subscribe to the "that which does not kill you makes you stronger" mantra. What would be the point? The arts are not about finding new ways to die. Nor are they about finding new ways to kill. It is in the way that they can guide us toward achieving true mastery of ourselves, true mastery of our character and our own senses that their true value lies.

Breaking my hand did not spiral me headfirst into an abyss of depression or self-pity not because I am accustomed to injuries or because I have a masochistic streak I need to satisfy. Rather, my coping with this time as an opportunity rather than a crisis is due to devoting countless hours of training to both body and spirit in the application of the way. In reality, I no longer care for tournaments, especially as their motivation increasingly departs from the true path. This has a lot to do with me not wanting to get hurt, but also, after seeing what can happen and the kind of damage I can inflict if I wish, it has a great deal with me not wanting to hurt others either.