What Grand Master Giambi taught me about snapping out of my ego trance

In my early twenties, I started training in taekwondo. I pursued it weekly for several years at my dojang in the Dallas area. Even competed in a few tournaments, though forms over sparring was always my preferred event. When I moved to Houston, I landed at a school that taught a slightly different style with a stronger emphasis on sparring.

As much as I might aspire to be a tough, ass-kicking heroine, fighting is not my strength. I could spar, but I did so with solid mediocrity.  You’d think with my long limbs and flexibility, I would dominate. Nope. You could see my kicks coming from a mile away and easily avoid them. I didn’t have speed or fighting instincts. Mostly, I just endured sparring.

One afternoon near the end of training, we paired up to spar several rounds. We had an uneven number, so Grand Master Giambi, head of the dojang, stepped in. He paired up with me. Now I was nervous and feeling very inadequate. The grousing started in my head. I didn’t like sparring, and I wasn’t good at it. Why was I even here? I couldn’t breathe. My throat felt like a desert. My ineptitude made the round feel interminable. I drifted, wondering when this torture would end. I glanced at the clock, trying to calculate how many seconds remained.

Then, WHAM. Seemingly out of nowhere, a foot slammed into my stomach and sent me sailing into the wall. We wore padded gear, and the walls had mats on them – it wasn’t as dramatic as it sounds. I landed on my butt in almost cartoon shock and total embarrassment. My distracted mind hadn’t even registered the man-foot coming at me until it connected.

I looked up at my instructor standing over me. “Keep your head in the fight,” he said simply. I nodded and got to my feet. “Let’s go.” He put up his fists in a fighting stance and waited. I squared up and started again. He gave no additional coaching. He didn’t need to. His point had been powerfully made. He had seen my cat-mind off chasing lasers when I should have been laser-focused on the task in front of me.

Whenever God puts something in front of me that I don’t want to do or that I feel inadequate to do, I often catch myself back in that dojang. Distracted, wandering through a mental maze of things I don’t like about the surrounding circumstances, about the people involved, or about the thing itself. Instead of being aware and interested, I make a list of judgments and snuff out all the possibilities God could have for that moment before me. I’m sneaking glances at the clock and hoping for some better, future state to arrive.

Of course, I’ve also caught myself focusing on the opposite where I feel more competent than the people around me, separate in my specialness or superiority. My ego basks in the imaginary glories I’m certain to be showered with over something I will do or say. I’m day-dreaming about the better, future state, equally distracted from what actually needs doing or saying right then.

I particularly lose my head in the fight against my ego with my oldest son. He and I like to argue about which one of us is right – always about something stupid and completely inconsequential. We got into it the other day over whether or not a keyboard with a number pad on the side is “normal” or not. It was a really important point that neither of us needed to make, but we dug in mercilessly on our individual rightness.

I don’t expect my 14-year-old son to see when he’s under his ego’s spell, but I’ve had 50 years to learn this about myself. I can do better. So I must train to keep my head, especially in this kind of fight, and listen for God’s calm, clear voice.

Whenever I can, I try to first notice my lack of awareness in the moment. Then I focus on something physical to break my ego trance. Lots of people will tell you to focus on your breath, and I’m glad that works for them. For me, thinking about my breathing in the middle of convincing my son that he’s wrong about a keyboard isn’t very effective. But I find that tightening my core instantly brings me into my body and out of whatever tailspin I’m in. Then I can take a breath and reset. Plus, rock hard abs, right?

But it’s just exercise unless I also have some kind of mental course correction. So I add words to the physical action of tightening my stomach muscles. My go-to is Lesson 45 from A Course in Miracles, “God is the mind with which I think.” These words remind me to look for the most loving, highest-purpose outcome for my current situation. It might be: stop talking about the damn keyboard and admit to my son that he is more important to me than any position I’m defending.

My personal trio – notice, core, God is the mind with which I think – serves as a mental kick to snap me back to the present moment whenever I catch myself drifting. Maybe I’m mentally denigrating someone whose perspective I find foolish. Notice, core, God is the mind with which I think. Let me shift my negative thoughts about that person to positive ones. Or maybe I’m dreading a project outside my comfort zone. Notice, core, God is the mind with which I think. Let me replace my nervousness with “I have nothing to lose” or squash my hesitation over “what will they think?”

Sometimes, I’m fantasizing about the glowing compliments, the appreciation and even envy some creation of mine is sure to generate. Notice, core, God is the mind with which I think. Let me ask instead how God would work through me in this effort. Or I’m mired in thoughts over a problem I seemingly cannot solve, not without blowing up a whole new situation in my life. Notice, core, God is the mind with which I think. Let me remember that God solves all problems and perhaps I need to give Him this one, too.

I hope I no longer require being slammed into a wall to remember to pay attention. I do catch myself more and more, and every time I stop and think with God, I open up to His divine possibilities. I remember it’s not about me and all my human limitations. I keep my head in the fight, and He shows me what we can do together.

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