The last time I saw her, she was throwing some guy to the ground. His bulky frame flipped into the air, doing a half somersault before landing with a thump. Quickly he scrambled to his feet and came back for a counter-attack. She was ready. Instead of fighting against his staggering weight, she lifted off the ground, her body rotating into a half flip and landed lightly on the mat. At the sound of a clap, the two fighters faced each other and acknowledged a good fight with a slight nod. The instructor called the class to a close. The two combatants walked off the mat arm-in-arm.

Guy and Alexia were my comrades-in-arm during the year I studied Aikido in Paris. Aikido is a Japanese martial art that draws its pedigree from Jujitsu, the art of the samurai. As martial arts go, Aikido is more art than martial. It teaches relying on one’s internal power, the chi center, rather than on brawn. Unlike other arts, Aikido practice requires a partner and a mat – preferably a thick one since one of the common technique is a “high fall.” Legend has it that the founder sent his students abroad to popularize the sport. His disciples took one look at Paris and stayed for the duration. Today, there are more dojos (training centers) in France as there are in Japan.

Arriving from the airport in time for the noon time class, with suitcase in tow, I practice with Alexia for the first time. “Bouge, bouge,” she cried. Whatever bouge meant, I knew I wasn’t doing it because her tone became increasingly pressing as she pulled and tugged at me across the mat. It wasn’t until later that I learned it meant, “move!” Language difficulties aside, we became regular partners being two of the few debutantes (novices) at the dojo. As my French improved, we became hangout partners as well. A few weeks later, Guy joined us to complete the trio. Stocky and gruff, Guy worked as an electrician by day and dabbled in the samurai arts at night. We often stayed late to practice, sharing many exciting firsts: first flip, first high fall, and the first test. When summer rolled around, it was settled that we would go to the annual 2-week long seminar together.

For two weeks every July, 400 Aikido enthusiasts from all over Europe descended on the sleepy village of Novalaise in southern France to practice Aikido three times a day. We made the drive in Guy’s car and shared a room at the inn in the center of town. Between sessions we spent most of our time sipping citron presse and les biere pression (lemonade and draft beers) at the café. It is actually those in-between times that I remember best; those lazy afternoons nursing our drinks with nothing more troublesome on our minds than which items to try on the limited menu.

And so it was on one star-filled night, when Alexia had gone to bed early, that Guy and I found ourselves going for a walk on a deserted country road. The conversation, as always, was about Aikido. For the 50th time that week, we talked about our reasons for persevering even when half our bodies were bruised and our bones aching. Perhaps it was the cover of darkness that made it safe, or the exhaustion that made holding back seem too hard, or simply maybe because it was time to say it – Guy revealed his true reason, something he had never mentioned to anyone before.

“I may be stocky so people think I’m strong. But deep in my heart I feel like a coward. I’m afraid most of the time. I took Aikido because I want to make sure that when the time came for me to face my opponent, I will stand my ground and not flinch,” his said.
I knew his confidence needed no response, and that it would never be addressed again. I was simply asked to be a witness of the most basic quest of that half of the species – what it means to be a courageous man. What neither one of us knew on that starry night, was that Guy’s chance to face his opponent would come, sooner than anyone of us expected – but not on the Aikido mat.

I left France at the end of the year for Guangzhou with the promise to be back the next summer. True to my promise, our trio was reunited the following July. We looked forward to another two weeks of glorious fun and pain. The first week sped past as expected.

Then one day, I came back the session to find the room cleared of Alexia’s things. I realized that I hadn’t seen her or Guy all day. Confusion turned into concern as no one seemed to know where they had gone. Finally, long after dinner, Guy walked into the café visibly shaken. In an unsteady voice, he explained where he had been. “Alexia’s roommate called this morning to tell me that Alexia’s boyfriend was killed in a car accident yesterday. She didn’t want to tell her over the phone so she asked me to do it. I’m just coming back from taking Alexia to the train station. She’s on her way back to Paris now,” he explained.

Never having lost anyone that close to me, I could only imagine how Alexia must be feeling, “How is she taking it?” I asked.

“She’s devastated. Can’t stop crying. I don’t know if she’ll be okay,” Guy’s voice seem to fade. He sat for a long time in stone silence. I knew he was upset, as I was, but it didn’t explain the trouble in his eyes or the tremble in his hands.

“There’s something else you’re not telling me. What is it?” I pressed.

He hesitated for a fraction. He did not look at me, but rather straight ahead as if the assorted bottles on the bar wall held special interest. In a monotone he began, his voice barely a whisper, “When her roommate asked me to tell Alexia, I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t know how and I was afraid I couldn’t. And now I think I did it wrong. If I had done it differently, maybe she wouldn’t have taken it so badly. Did I fail Alexia?” he asked.

Life calls on us to fight our battles big and small. Sometimes they come as crippling blows like a prolonged illness. Sometimes they come on steps so light that you’re not even aware of being tested until it’s over. Guy had faced such a moment that morning.

Here was a formidable opponent moving in for the attack. Wielding failure as a weapon, this nameless attacker hovered over Guy’s head. Will Guy face him down or flinch and give in as so many have through the ages?

I had never been tested in such a way myself so I could not speak from experience. What added strength could I offer to aid him in his private battle?

“If you were a psychiatrist, maybe you could have done it better.” I began. “I don’t know if it would have helped. What I do know is that you are her friend, and however you did it, it was from the heart. Alexia knows that. When you act from the heart it is always enough,” I said quietly.

He looked away for a long moment. He mind contemplating the power of this idea. Can it be used to defeat the idea that he had failed a friend? I saw a shudder. Then he turned to look me in the eye, “You’re right,” he said, “I did it from the heart and that is the best I could have done.”

Many of us strive to be perfect in all our quests: the perfect score on a test, the perfect job or career, or to find the perfect love for the rest of our lives. When we fail at perfection, we are haunted by our inability to be the best. Little do we know that courage lies in the recognition and acceptance that we are human. And being human – complete with all its vulnerabilities and imperfections – is always enough.