You Give Me Pain

"You give me pain,
But you give me pleasure,
Get out of my life.
You give me pain,
But you give me pleasure,
Don't know what I like"

The chorus to Judas Priest's "Pain and Pleasure" when taken out of context from the rest of the song transports me be back in time to 1989. It was there, in a rectangular room reeking with the smell of sweat, lined with spongy mats and wall padding that my perception of pain altered.

Four students wearing crisp white uniforms and belts of varying color aligned in a row. Behind them a row of four more nervously await instruction. I stood in the second row. New to martial arts and the rituals of class, every day in this room offered hope and anxiety.

I was not new to an underlying theme ever-present in these classes. The theme of pain. Pain was the unseen but omnipresent instructor in the room. It was feared and respected at the same time. It's ironic that pain impaired my enjoyment of football, so much so that I decided to walk away from the game. Yet here in the dojang (dojang is Korean for training hall) pain was as certain as sweat. It might not surface in the first minute of exercise but it would be arriving shortly.

If we unpack the word 'dojang' we find that 'do' means way and jang means 'a place'.  The place where one practices the way. The way of pain. This is accurate. In that room the techniques of a martial art system were taught, some philosophy shared, spirited sparring and training occurred. But the real lesson was in the pain and the wildly successful lessons bestowed upon the students came during stretching.

Stretching the body in ways it was not accustomed to move creates an immediate reaction. Pain is the result.  From the McGraw-Hill Science and Technology Encyclopedia we find this description of pain:

"Pain, especially in its acute form, is usually a reflection of a tissue-damaging or potentially tissue-damaging stimulus. There is a transmission system that conveys this information to the central nervous system. This phenomenon is called nociception. Pain is more complex than other sensory systems such as vision or hearing because it not only involves the transfer of sensory information to the nervous system, but produces suffering which then leads to aversive corrective behavior."

Aversive corrective behavior. What a beautifully scientific description of screaming, a body recoiling, curling up in a fetal position or lashing out in violence. All are common responses to pain in the dojang. At least the onset of pain. What we came to learn transcended that first sensation of pain. Beyond the next agonizing thirty seconds. It became a sauna of misery that engaged a peculiar coping mechanism.

Awash in our seas of suffering, realizing it would not be allowed to end engaged in new behavior. There were tight-faced smiles. Groans transformed into laughter. And lastly, into song. We would sing our way through the pain. One instructor, Keith brought in a small radio with a cassette tape player and during the peak of our suffering hit the button that kicked off what would become our theme song. James Brown's "I Feel Good".
 
"Wo! I feel good, I knew that I wouldn't of
I feel good, I knew that I wouldn't of
So good, so good, I got you
Wo! I feel nice, like sugar and spice
I feel nice, like sugar and spice
So nice, so nice, I got you"
The song played on and we all understood. Pain was our ally. It told us we weren't good enough yet. There were barriers to be broken. Plateaus to cross and peaks to ascend. We were nothing without pain, like a sailboat without wind on a calm sea. Pain would always be there for us, but we must seek it. And it was not our friend. Pain could not be embraced or empowered to the level of friend. No. More like a parent whose interests were split. Instruction. Development. Submission. Obedience.

Buddhism came into my life during this change in my ship's heading and the myriad proverbs supplied by the masters reinforced my acceptance of pain.
"One is taught in accordance with one's ability to learn."
"When the student is ready, the teacher appears."
Our instructors showed, corrected and motivated. Only pain taught. The pure lessons as transparent as water and hard as steel.

On Monday, a headache descended upon me. It was difficult to concentrate so as I left my office and walked the last fifty feet to the door my mind wandered. The moment I exited and stepped into the cold, wind-swept night I stiffened and closed my eyes. A chill breeze slammed into my neck sending waves of pain up to my brain. I staggered for a second but corrected my body and hurriedly stepped to the car. The hour and forty-five minute ride home was excruciating. Every headlight in my mirrors felt like a pinprick to the surface of my eyes. The back of my head pulsed with pain. My eyes were reduced to slits, face tight in a grimace, my entire body tense. When I made it home, I hit the couch, huddled under a blanket and could barely stand to look at the Christmas lights on our tree.

Some student of pain, eh? Curled up in a ball under a blanket, a few degrees of hurt away from sobbing. Sleep rescues me later when I tire from the effort of resisting the pain. Resisting? Yes. That's where pain gains in amplitude. The brain is telling us there's a problem and our reaction to the stimulus is what makes it seem unbearable.

The lesson of the dojang comes back to me the next morning. The moment just before sleep, the pain receded a bit. I entertained the thought of getting up if the headache was subsiding, but I was off to sleep before I could take action. The way of pain is unavoidable. Our reaction to its presence makes all the difference.