Throwing and being thrown

To my martial arts teacher.

You never loved me back.
At least, not the way I loved you.
You were in control of it; I was not.
But, I have no regrets. None!

The first time I fell in love with you
it was February or March.
We were training as usual.
You were laughing, happy.

That was several years ago.
I have watched your hair turning grey
I watch your smiles change
As you age.
I have aged too.

I don’t seek your attention anymore
Except in your teaching.
The art we practise together, I learned to love that
As much as you. More.
I have almost learned not to be jealous.
I have almost learned to not mind
that I don’t know you, can’t know you.

But I have almost known you.
When I throw you, when you throw me, there is a moment
Of complete focus, of harmony
Of balance.
You taught me those things.
It is an amazing feeling - One we train our human bodies
and minds for.

It is only in those moments that I know you.
They are precious to me.
I hope you never stop practising martial arts with us.
The thought of it is suffering.

You showed me:
When we practise, our bodies are not our own.
They are heaven, earth, thunder, mountain.
When the sweat pours from me and you
We are water, fire, wind.
Bodies, minds.

There is magic in it, you know.
The heart crashes into the mat.
It is the heart’s pleasure.
It rises to fall again.