A prayer to Boxing

The Fist That Bows

A reflection on Boxing and the Path Within

There is a silence

in the moment before the punch.

That silence, that stillness, is not so different

from prayer.

Boxing, to many, is violence.

But to the ones who feel it in their bones,

it is a form of devotion.

A ritual

of breath, control, and contact.

A study of rhythm and restraint.

A communion with pain,

without letting it define you.

The ring is a shrine.

Four corners,

a circle within squares,

a geometry of

confrontation

and clarity.

You do not walk into it for blood —you walk into it

for truth.

The lies leave quickly here.

So does ego.

So do excuses.

There’s nowhere to run

but deeper into yourself.

You throw,

you absorb; you adjust. The body becomes mind. The mind becomes breath.

The breath becomes everything.

And when you go long, round after round, not with rage

but with rhythm,

not to break

but to last, hen something spiritual reveals itself.

Grace.

In movement.

In manners.

Even in the glove that touches gloves

before the bell.

That’s why I love the Russian invention —chess boxing —a match between brain and brawn, strategy and stamina. Because in truth, they are never apart. Every punch is a thought. Every dodge is a decision. Every stance is philosophy.

This is not chaos. This is calm

under fire.

And this is why

I bow to the ring the way monks bow to their mat.

Why sweat, for me, is as sacred as incense.

Call it boxing. Call it a fight. I call it

awakening

in motion.