(Approx 1 minute 40 second read)

I was up at 5:30 am this morning and popped into the dojo.
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It was so quiet.
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The mats were empty. The only sound was the low hum of the lights and the distant echo of traffic. There’s a kind of stillness here that doesn’t exist anywhere else – maybe because of the noise and movement of people later on.
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Before class arrives, there’s this brief window – no noise, no movement, no pressure. Just space.
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Sometimes I walk the floor, cleaning and disinfecting mats and equipment. Not checking for anything in particular – just moving.
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There’s a line from the film Layer Cake that always stuck with me: “Meditation is just concentrating the front of the mind on a mundane task so the rest of the mind can find peace.”
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I get it.
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Other times I run through kata – usually the more advanced ones, the ones that demand my full attention. When I’m alone, I can go into them properly. Not for anyone else, not for demonstration, just for me. No shortcuts. No noise. Just movement and feeling.
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If I have time I’ll work through some kobudo. There’s something about the weight and rhythm of the weapon in your hands that sharpens focus. It brings everything back to centre.
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Now and then, I glance up into the mirror – not out of vanity, but to make sure what I see matches what I feel. It’s not about looking sharp. It’s about accuracy in the movement. Does it line up? Does it feel right?
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You don’t get that in everyday life. Outside, everything’s faster, louder, busier. But here, before class, there’s room to breathe. It’s not spiritual in any way. It’s just calm.
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This place has seen years of training, frustration, breakthroughs, and repetition. In these quiet minutes, it becomes something else entirely. A kind of mirror.
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Not for techniques, but for where your mind is. For who you are when nothing is demanded of you.
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Then the door opens. Footsteps come in. Greetings from the students and the conversations begin. The rhythm of class builds up again.
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But that stillness – it stays with you, if you let it.
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I don’t know if it has anything to do with getting older, but I cherish the times when it’s quiet. And sometimes, that’s the best training of all.
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Written by Adam Carter
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Photo Credit: Noguchi Michiro. With thanks to James Sumarac