It is dark here in the mornings now. That, coupled with my persistent habit of staying up late, adds an element of challenge to my Sunday morning ritual of austere practice. These days, I make it a habit to carve out time early on Sunday mornings to drag myself out of bed and practice.

I give myself about thirty minutes to take a quick but bracing cold shower, gather my gear, and head down the road to a local park. My practice usually begins with flow drills using a spear—figure-eight patterns of thrusting and striking paired with natural footwork. This calls my senses to attention, completing the awakening that the cold shower began.

Movement programming follows, starting with my shoulders and neck, then moving sequentially down through my back and hips and finally to my legs—motion combined with gentle, flowing stretch. I finish by adding the harder things: giant strides and sit-outs from wrestling, natural movement crawls, or perhaps a couple of sets of burpees if I am feeling even more austere than usual.

After this, I pick up a sword and return to flow drills, this time paying closer attention to footwork. This gradually warps into some interest or another—some concept that intrigues me. I develop many ideas this way. At some point, I test what I have come up with, and with newfound understanding gained through this tempering, I repeat the practice until something solidifies.

In the end, I feel exhilarated and, at the same time, at peace with the world.

Normally, I then go home and commune with my wife over waffles, and the rest of the day unfolds as it will.

But today was different. Instead, I traveled south to meet my old karate colleagues, who were gathering to practice together—one group from north of me, the other from the south. I had not seen these fellows in over ten years. It was time to reconnect.

It wasn’t my idea. One of the instructors from the northern school sent me a text a week earlier: Just so you know, we are all meeting up in Lake Country. That was the message. Much water has passed under the bridge since I had been an active part of my karate group, my focus having shifted toward weapons and HEMA. As I finished my practice that morning, I remembered the note and turned the wheels of my truck south.

When I walked in, the senior instructor, Al, stared at me for a moment, and then a smile spread across his face. Practice momentarily stopped, and I was welcomed home. These are people with whom I have endured many trials and tribulations. We faced challenges together and, at times, butted heads. In the end, though, we have always been kindred spirits. It felt great to see them all.

We have all changed—like good old cars finally showing their wear, rusty bolts, and occasionally sputtering engines. We all had stories to tell.

They invited me into practice. At first, I held back, wanting to honor them by not presuming membership. Eventually, I relented and joined them. As if I had never left, they were interested in my thoughts.

I watched Kurt and Sean perform One Attack. Their speed and intensity were remarkable—and familiar. This kind of intensity had been a crucible for my own practice. It is something I have tried, at times with some success, to introduce into the HEMA community. My karate has always been grounded in deep, fundamental understanding and emotional intensity. I could see this clearly in my karate brothers, and it made me proud to have been their comrade in arms.