I was in a women’s self-defense class, clad in knee pads and elbow cushions, hidden behind a full helmet with a face cage. We students looked ready for a roller derby, anxious and hesitant; though our soon-to-be physical contact with our teacher, the aggressor, was in no way a sport. Our attire was light compared to that of our instructor, who donned pads and protections over most of her body in preparation for our forceful defense to simulated attacks.
As I stood on the sideline, nervously awaiting my turn, I watched our leader offer her skill, focus, body and determination to give us the chance to learn how to claim our space, our worth, our freedom to be. She lumbered around, bite plate intact, commanding an outfit resembling the Michelin tire man, receiving blows, shouts, head butts and shoves to give us confidence, awareness, insight and options.
Our teacher/aggressor came to this work as a forensic nurse. Having witnessed the result of violent crimes towards hundreds of women, ages 6 months to 96 years, she gathered her hard-earned wisdom to help transform society, person by person. This nurse, whose heart could have fully hardened from the world she observed in her days, opened herself to teach, to face reality and practice hope.
That’s love.
When we gather our vulnerability, our pain, our fear and yet choose to give, to share and affirm others, we manifest love. When we teach because we have learned, when we embrace because we have needed holding, when we welcome our days because they are before us, we are practicing love.
That’s not something I expected to learn that evening. But the lesson was there, and a blessing to behold.
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