“My heart,” it replied.
“Why does my heart hurt?” I asked.
“My heart is grieving the loss of jiujitsu,” it answered.
“What do you need? What can I do to heal this pain?” I inquired.
“Write a letter. Express your grief over this loss,” came the answer.
So I present to you my letter to jiujitsu as one way to heal my hurting heart.
I intentionally wrote the letter in the past tense as a way to express my grieving. I know that in the future we will be able to start training again, but for now I write in the past tense to illustrate the loss.
This is dedicated to the people I used to see at training every single day that I don’t get to see anymore.
Dear Jiujitsu,
I miss you so much. You were my sanctuary, my church, my home, my breath of fresh air. You were my life blood, my muse, my source of inspiration, my anti-drug, my anti-depressant, my energy, my reason for getting up in the morning.
One thing I’m glad we shared is…
Smiles and hugs. Handshakes and pats on the back. Ass-kicking. Being the nail one day and the hammer the next. Chatter. Shared fears and common struggles. Stepping onto your mat, I never knew what other people might be going through. They could have just had the worst day of their life. But they showed up. And as long we kept the electricity that courses between us alive, then we had a reason to keep going.
The electricity that buzzed between me and my teammates: Whether rolling with my face pressed against their sweaty gi, or talking and laughing on the mat, or greeting someone with a smile when they came in, a current of energy pulsed within and between us. A touch, a giggle, an inside joke, an eyebrow wiggle, a wink. We shared sweat and blood and tears and pain. Those people and that place was my home and refuge. Why? Because it fostered community and connection, which we are all starved for.
Who else can say they have the closeness of gifting your sweat in their eyeball?
Now our world has changed. Sharing sweat is no longer okay. Now sharing skin contact is dangerous and forbidden.
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