A few quiet minutes in the dojo before the familiar rhythm of training begins.

I was up at 5:30 this morning and went out to the dojo. It was eerily quiet.

The mats were empty, and all I could hear was the low hum of the lights and the traffic somewhere in the distance. The dojo always feels different before anyone arrives. Perhaps it’s simply because I know how much noise and movement will fill it later.

There is a brief period before class when there is nothing demanding my attention. I walk across the floor, clean and disinfect the mats and equipment, and get everything ready.

There is a line from the film Layer Cake that has always stayed with me:

“Meditation is just concentrating the front of the mind on a mundane task so the rest of the mind can find peace.”

I have often thought there was a lot of truth in that.

Once everything is done, I usually have time to run through a few kata. Practicing alone like this is one of my favorite things to do. I don’t have to explain anything, watch anyone else, or think about what comes next in class. I can take my time and pay attention to what I’m doing and how it feels.

Sometimes I’ll work through a little kobudo as well. The weight of the weapon and the rhythm of moving with it tend to really help me to focus.

Every so often I glance at the mirror on the wall, to see whether the movement looks the way it feels.

The two do not always agree.

There doesn’t seem to be much quiet left in everyday life these days. Everything is louder and busier, and apparently everything has to be dealt with right now. In the dojo at that time of the morning, none of it feels particularly urgent.

This room has seen years of training. There has been a lot of sweat, frustration, laughter, and occasionally a few tears. People have struggled with the same movement again and again, until that light bulb moment when it finally begins to make sense. When the room is empty, I sometimes find myself thinking about all of that.

Then comes the knock on the door.

The students begin to arrive, bow as they enter, and start talking. Bags are put down, the quiet disappears, and the familiar rhythm of the class begins again.

I don’t know whether it has anything to do with getting older, but I really like those few quiet minutes more than I once did. I enjoy teaching, but I also love the dojo before anyone else is there.

Sometimes that is where my own training begins.