I have not written in this blog since May, and I do not apologize for that. During the summer I thought about writing an article on women in kendo but dismissed the idea, reasoning that anything I, a man, would write could too easily be misconstrued as condescending, demeaning or ingratiating--none of which would be my intent. The women I know who wield the sword I hold in equal respect to men in all regards, and in some ways more; still, there is sexism as well as racism that infects most human interactions, and avoiding unnecessary offense is the wisest course, in my opinion.
Earlier this Fall I contemplated writing about the value of Summer training--which I still may inscribe. During the summertime it is easy to rationalize taking time off--family vacations, the lethargic self-indulgence of long, warm evenings, and besides--it is physically much more challenging to weigh yourself down with heavy bogu and exercise vigorously. Summer training can be brutal---dojo temperatures in poorly ventilated gymnasiums can climb into the 90's easily--and there are, in my federation, no taikai and so no real reason to be in training other than to train.
But we have a saying, "The Way is in Training", and for those of us who compartmentalize tournaments into a separate place from why we train, the time of year is simply a change of season. They all have value of their own.
But I touched lightly upon what I consider of true value--family considerations. My wife and children do not practice kendo, have little interest in it other than that it is something of value to me. For them, it is a sacrifice to have a husband and father who is away from home two or more nights a week, or all day on a weekend. I am forced by my own choice of Path into missing many precious, irreplacible moments and experiences. I am not there to help the children with their homework problems, to care for my wife or children when they are ill, to take the burden of household chores, attend sports awards banquets, family dinners, school conferences. There are those who would pour ashes and coal on my head for such selfish neglect of family duties, myself among them. The oriental concept of shame is coupled to the occidental concept of guilt.
And so, sometimes, kendo must be consciously set aside to accomodate these precious jewels of highest value. Yesterday there was a big meeting and a godokeiko with many visiting sensei from around the country that I chose not to attend because my son was competing in a cross-country race to try and qualify for a big regional meet. It was far more important for me to be there; I would not have wanted to be anywhere else. Today was a promotion exam for kodansha, higher ranking sensei, and many of my teachers and friends for many, many years were testing. But my wife had some household chores long delayed which required my assistance and my truck, and I also needed to take my older son to the park to run as part of his training, and my younger son to play in the playground.
Tomorrow night I will be at practice, looked at askance or with disdain by some for neglecting important federation functions. There may even be one or two who attempt to physically punish me on the floor for my obduracy. So be it; I make no apologies for considering the one thing over the other, no more than I do for not having written in my blog sooner. All things have their season, and there is a purpose for all earthly things under heaven. That is the true Way.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Values in Winning and Losing
I competed recently in a kendo tournament at one of the local universities. I don't compete often, maybe 3 or 4 times a year. Some people love to compete, to vie for honors and glory. To be the victor and prove yourself the most accomplished sword fighter among one's peers is a pinnacle achievement, and I mean that sincerely. But it's not why I study kendo, and it's probably why I do not often achieve that prize.
For me to compete in it, I had to take a vacation day from work, and drive for more than an hour to get there by 9 am. My division was not scheduled until mid-afternoon, and so I was assigned shimpan duty to one of the courts, refereeing some of the junior divisions. This is an honor, a recognition that one is trusted to know the rules, and the many elements that constitute a valid point. It is also part of my training, a test in which the senior instructors evaluate the ability of yudansha, the graded ranks, to properly judge matches.
In kendo, it is not enough to simply hit the other person with the shinai. For a strike to be yuko-datotsu, the first 6 to 8 inches of the sword must strike the appropriate target at the correct angle, and in a deliberate manner. It must have rei, a reason for being struck, the footwork and posture must be correct. It must be executed with good form, accompanied by a strong spirit indicated by the kiai, or shout. It must have good finishing form, and zanshin, remaining spirit, demonstrating no loss of intensity and a mental awareness of the strength of one's strike and the ability to strike again. There are three referees (shimpan) on each court, and at least two of the three must agree spontaneously that a valid point has been scored in order for it to be recognized. It is a very high standard and responsibility. Not only the competitors are evaluating their judges, but the other shimpan, the spectators, and the senior instructors are all watching and taking notes on our actions. A full rotation for shimpan is to judge 9 matches--3 each in the lower judge positions, and 3 as the head judge, starting and stopping the match, calling the points and announcing decisions concerning points or fouls.
After my rotation off the court, two very senior sensei for whom I have the deepest respect critiqued my judging. I was told that I was too quick to award certain points, that I was often mistaking strikes or hits for points when they had lacked the finishing elements of yuko-datotsu. Conversely, there were points that I refused to recognize that had all those elements. As I am new to judging, an inexperienced shimpan, these are not uncommon or uncorrectable flaws, but show that I have some things to learn. I will need to practice, and to pay attention to other matches to see how more experienced shimpan call points.
It was now time for my own division, the 2-dan and 3-dan. I was assigned to fight a college-aged kenshi from Canada. I could tell from his movements that he was psyched, ready to go. I could also tell he was eyeing me and thinking to himself that I was a greying, middle-aged, easy warm-up match for him. The shimpan were ready, we entered the court, bowed, approached the center line, drew our swords and crouched to the sonkyo position. The head judge commanded, "Hajime!"
I changed my usual strategy, which has been to feel out my opponent with some caution, and I initiated the attack quickly and with loud kiai. My attack was unsuccessful, he blocked it and returned a strike which I countered. I could tell that I had taken him by surprise and upset his expectations of me. I could also tell by the way he fought that he was certainly 3-dan, not 2-dan, and no slouch at that. He was a vigorous, strong opponent, and I had my hands full. There was no way I could back down, or revert to oji waza, defensive, countering techniques; if I did he'd be all over me. So I maintained the offensive, taking the fight to him. Alright, young fella, show me what you've got.
He tried tsuki, a one-handed stab to the throat. It's a very aggressive technique that you don't see very often because it is difficult to perform successfully. He missed the target, a leather tongue hanging below the face mask and covering my trachea, and it also missed the top of the leather chest protector of my do, stabbing me just below the collarbone and next to the shoulder, leaving a painful, silver dollar-sized bruise on my upper chest. "Oh, yeah?" I yelled, "Yeah? HA!" From his eyes, I knew I had him. "Qui est ce vieux fou?" he was thinking. I used my kiai and posture to intimidate him. I poured it on, and we fought a hard, intense fight, very fast and fierce. We were both using good footwork and technique, but neither of us was landing successful blows. Elegance was sacrificed for expediency. At the end of the 3-minute regulation time, the head judge yelled, "Yamei!"
According to the rules, the matches were 3-minutes, followed by two 1-minute encho (overtime periods). If there is no clear winner after the second, the judges declare hante, and award the match to one or the other, based on the somewhat subjective opinion of who they thought fought the better fight. If it were to come to that, I was determined to be declared the winner.
We fought the encho much as we had during regulation time. My blood was up, and I could tell he was weakening, tiring. He was panting hard, using tsubazerei to rest more, where the swords are crossed and the bodies very close together. Suddenly, he launched backwards using hiki-waza and aiming a cut at my kote. He missed, hitting my unprotected forearm midway between the kote and the elbow, leaving another painful bruise. "Kote!" All three shimpan's flags shot up, and he was awarded the winning point. I was eliminated from the first round of competition and done for the day.
Why did I lose? Well, the judges made a mistake, thinking a definite miss was on target, but he had executed the technique properly, with beautiful form, decisive kiai, zanshin, all of the other elements were there. And my mistake: I was caught holding my tsubazerei too high, exposing my forearm and being caught flat-footed and vulnerable. So I can't blame the judges at all; if I'd been that much better than him I would have beaten him decisively in regulation time. In encho, the standards are necessarily lowered somewhat. And besides, if it had been a real fight with real swords, my arm would still have been lying on the floor. The length of the stump would have been the only difference. Whether or not he was on target, I gave up the point.
My opponent went on to win three more matches before he was eliminated, still shy of receiving a third place trophy. Out of several hundred competitors, only a small handful win trophies. 50% are eliminated in the first round, and the numbers decrease by half until the final in each division. To stand up front and receive the the recognition of your skill before your peers is something to be proud of, a memorable experience, and for some of us a very rare one.
So what did I learn about winning and losing? I fought a damned good fight, one of my best. While it is better to win with honor than to lose with honor, I felt pretty good about the day. I held my own with a much younger, quicker fighter, and gave him a run for his money. I daresay I was as hard a fight as he faced all day. And another thing; for all the sacrifices I made to be there that day, he had caught the charter bus down from Canada with his team at probably 4 or 5 am. He had to pay the same as I did, and travelled a lot farther. He waited half the day to fight. If the tables had been reversed, and I had been awarded a questionable victory after a hard fight and eliminated him in the first round, a humiliating defeat at the hands of an old duffer, his ego would no doubt have suffered it far more bitterly than mine. I don't really need the strokes and the trophies and the accolades to know that I am a good kenshi. If I did, then I think there would be something wrong with me, needing to grasp and cling to material trappings. But then, perhaps I'm just consoling myself for losing, licking my wounds.
"Next time, D'Hubert!"
For me to compete in it, I had to take a vacation day from work, and drive for more than an hour to get there by 9 am. My division was not scheduled until mid-afternoon, and so I was assigned shimpan duty to one of the courts, refereeing some of the junior divisions. This is an honor, a recognition that one is trusted to know the rules, and the many elements that constitute a valid point. It is also part of my training, a test in which the senior instructors evaluate the ability of yudansha, the graded ranks, to properly judge matches.
In kendo, it is not enough to simply hit the other person with the shinai. For a strike to be yuko-datotsu, the first 6 to 8 inches of the sword must strike the appropriate target at the correct angle, and in a deliberate manner. It must have rei, a reason for being struck, the footwork and posture must be correct. It must be executed with good form, accompanied by a strong spirit indicated by the kiai, or shout. It must have good finishing form, and zanshin, remaining spirit, demonstrating no loss of intensity and a mental awareness of the strength of one's strike and the ability to strike again. There are three referees (shimpan) on each court, and at least two of the three must agree spontaneously that a valid point has been scored in order for it to be recognized. It is a very high standard and responsibility. Not only the competitors are evaluating their judges, but the other shimpan, the spectators, and the senior instructors are all watching and taking notes on our actions. A full rotation for shimpan is to judge 9 matches--3 each in the lower judge positions, and 3 as the head judge, starting and stopping the match, calling the points and announcing decisions concerning points or fouls.
After my rotation off the court, two very senior sensei for whom I have the deepest respect critiqued my judging. I was told that I was too quick to award certain points, that I was often mistaking strikes or hits for points when they had lacked the finishing elements of yuko-datotsu. Conversely, there were points that I refused to recognize that had all those elements. As I am new to judging, an inexperienced shimpan, these are not uncommon or uncorrectable flaws, but show that I have some things to learn. I will need to practice, and to pay attention to other matches to see how more experienced shimpan call points.
It was now time for my own division, the 2-dan and 3-dan. I was assigned to fight a college-aged kenshi from Canada. I could tell from his movements that he was psyched, ready to go. I could also tell he was eyeing me and thinking to himself that I was a greying, middle-aged, easy warm-up match for him. The shimpan were ready, we entered the court, bowed, approached the center line, drew our swords and crouched to the sonkyo position. The head judge commanded, "Hajime!"
I changed my usual strategy, which has been to feel out my opponent with some caution, and I initiated the attack quickly and with loud kiai. My attack was unsuccessful, he blocked it and returned a strike which I countered. I could tell that I had taken him by surprise and upset his expectations of me. I could also tell by the way he fought that he was certainly 3-dan, not 2-dan, and no slouch at that. He was a vigorous, strong opponent, and I had my hands full. There was no way I could back down, or revert to oji waza, defensive, countering techniques; if I did he'd be all over me. So I maintained the offensive, taking the fight to him. Alright, young fella, show me what you've got.
He tried tsuki, a one-handed stab to the throat. It's a very aggressive technique that you don't see very often because it is difficult to perform successfully. He missed the target, a leather tongue hanging below the face mask and covering my trachea, and it also missed the top of the leather chest protector of my do, stabbing me just below the collarbone and next to the shoulder, leaving a painful, silver dollar-sized bruise on my upper chest. "Oh, yeah?" I yelled, "Yeah? HA!" From his eyes, I knew I had him. "Qui est ce vieux fou?" he was thinking. I used my kiai and posture to intimidate him. I poured it on, and we fought a hard, intense fight, very fast and fierce. We were both using good footwork and technique, but neither of us was landing successful blows. Elegance was sacrificed for expediency. At the end of the 3-minute regulation time, the head judge yelled, "Yamei!"
According to the rules, the matches were 3-minutes, followed by two 1-minute encho (overtime periods). If there is no clear winner after the second, the judges declare hante, and award the match to one or the other, based on the somewhat subjective opinion of who they thought fought the better fight. If it were to come to that, I was determined to be declared the winner.
We fought the encho much as we had during regulation time. My blood was up, and I could tell he was weakening, tiring. He was panting hard, using tsubazerei to rest more, where the swords are crossed and the bodies very close together. Suddenly, he launched backwards using hiki-waza and aiming a cut at my kote. He missed, hitting my unprotected forearm midway between the kote and the elbow, leaving another painful bruise. "Kote!" All three shimpan's flags shot up, and he was awarded the winning point. I was eliminated from the first round of competition and done for the day.
Why did I lose? Well, the judges made a mistake, thinking a definite miss was on target, but he had executed the technique properly, with beautiful form, decisive kiai, zanshin, all of the other elements were there. And my mistake: I was caught holding my tsubazerei too high, exposing my forearm and being caught flat-footed and vulnerable. So I can't blame the judges at all; if I'd been that much better than him I would have beaten him decisively in regulation time. In encho, the standards are necessarily lowered somewhat. And besides, if it had been a real fight with real swords, my arm would still have been lying on the floor. The length of the stump would have been the only difference. Whether or not he was on target, I gave up the point.
My opponent went on to win three more matches before he was eliminated, still shy of receiving a third place trophy. Out of several hundred competitors, only a small handful win trophies. 50% are eliminated in the first round, and the numbers decrease by half until the final in each division. To stand up front and receive the the recognition of your skill before your peers is something to be proud of, a memorable experience, and for some of us a very rare one.
So what did I learn about winning and losing? I fought a damned good fight, one of my best. While it is better to win with honor than to lose with honor, I felt pretty good about the day. I held my own with a much younger, quicker fighter, and gave him a run for his money. I daresay I was as hard a fight as he faced all day. And another thing; for all the sacrifices I made to be there that day, he had caught the charter bus down from Canada with his team at probably 4 or 5 am. He had to pay the same as I did, and travelled a lot farther. He waited half the day to fight. If the tables had been reversed, and I had been awarded a questionable victory after a hard fight and eliminated him in the first round, a humiliating defeat at the hands of an old duffer, his ego would no doubt have suffered it far more bitterly than mine. I don't really need the strokes and the trophies and the accolades to know that I am a good kenshi. If I did, then I think there would be something wrong with me, needing to grasp and cling to material trappings. But then, perhaps I'm just consoling myself for losing, licking my wounds.
"Next time, D'Hubert!"
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Old Age and Treachery
Despite having practiced kendo with single-minded intensity two or three days a week, sometimes more or less, for almost a quarter-century, I'm still not very good at it to tell the truth.
Whenever I begin practice, I spend a few moments in zazan--clearing my mind of outside distractions from the dojo and kendo, calming and preparing my body as well for the next hour or two of vigorous workout. Often by the end of the warm-ups my legs and arms are pained and trembling, I'm winded and beginning to sweat already. I am old and weak, I'll never keep up with these hungry pups.
But then comes the kihon, the basics practice. Kirikaeshi, then the basic strikes--men, kote, do, head, wrist, body. And waza practice--learning various techniques of fighting, combinations and variations of strikes. And every parry is the beginning of a counterstrike, every attack creates an opening for counter-attack. Tactics. Strategy. And I realize that I know this, I've done it before. I can do this, not as good as some, but better than others. Sure, I'm stiff and slow. My posture has never been correct. And my footwork...well, I've lamented that before.
The fact is---and this blog proves it---I am morbidly and wretchedly addicted to self-critique. Is it the insecure need to point out my own faults before another can discover them? To overcome one's enemy, one must know one's enemy, so it follows that one must know one's self in order to overcome one's self, but is that not self-defeating? If I ponder as I practice, I get hit.
Pay attention!
Ji-geiko, self-practice. Free sparring with a partner, each working of their own technique, their own style. I need to work on my basics. How do I hit a good men? My speed, intensity, follow-through...enough? Too much? Am I blocking too much? Afraid of being hit? Every three minutes or so we change partners. One must adjust one's level to that of one's opponent. Remember, this isn't a fight, it is learning how to to fight. To learn what does and doesn't work for you, and to help raise each other up, not to crush each other's spirits and beat them mercilessly.
Some of my juniors, I think, fear me. At least, my ego lets me flatter myself to think so. My intensity and seme (pressure, control of the center, sword point) intimidates them and they don't know what to do. But then, some of them eye me with what I recognize as contempt. They know they are younger, quicker, stronger, and some of them can hit me at will (or so it seems to them), although they often get hung up on the point of my sword, or every so often receive a solid whack that they weren't expecting.
My peers, I think, regard me somewhat more warily. They know my weaknesses, but also my strengths. And we are all working along the same path, some farther along than others. There are children I saw brought to the dojo ten or twenty years ago who have reached or far surpassed my rank and ability, and there are men and women who were my peers or seniors once upon a time and who can thrash me like a raw beginner, and whom I revere as "Sensei". And then there are many others who have left the path altogether and given up the sword. Each must follow their own calling, and the Way of the Sword is not an easy one.
Old age and treachery overcomes youth and skill, so the saying goes. But, Oh, to be young and full of beans again!
Whenever I begin practice, I spend a few moments in zazan--clearing my mind of outside distractions from the dojo and kendo, calming and preparing my body as well for the next hour or two of vigorous workout. Often by the end of the warm-ups my legs and arms are pained and trembling, I'm winded and beginning to sweat already. I am old and weak, I'll never keep up with these hungry pups.
But then comes the kihon, the basics practice. Kirikaeshi, then the basic strikes--men, kote, do, head, wrist, body. And waza practice--learning various techniques of fighting, combinations and variations of strikes. And every parry is the beginning of a counterstrike, every attack creates an opening for counter-attack. Tactics. Strategy. And I realize that I know this, I've done it before. I can do this, not as good as some, but better than others. Sure, I'm stiff and slow. My posture has never been correct. And my footwork...well, I've lamented that before.
The fact is---and this blog proves it---I am morbidly and wretchedly addicted to self-critique. Is it the insecure need to point out my own faults before another can discover them? To overcome one's enemy, one must know one's enemy, so it follows that one must know one's self in order to overcome one's self, but is that not self-defeating? If I ponder as I practice, I get hit.
Pay attention!
Ji-geiko, self-practice. Free sparring with a partner, each working of their own technique, their own style. I need to work on my basics. How do I hit a good men? My speed, intensity, follow-through...enough? Too much? Am I blocking too much? Afraid of being hit? Every three minutes or so we change partners. One must adjust one's level to that of one's opponent. Remember, this isn't a fight, it is learning how to to fight. To learn what does and doesn't work for you, and to help raise each other up, not to crush each other's spirits and beat them mercilessly.
Some of my juniors, I think, fear me. At least, my ego lets me flatter myself to think so. My intensity and seme (pressure, control of the center, sword point) intimidates them and they don't know what to do. But then, some of them eye me with what I recognize as contempt. They know they are younger, quicker, stronger, and some of them can hit me at will (or so it seems to them), although they often get hung up on the point of my sword, or every so often receive a solid whack that they weren't expecting.
My peers, I think, regard me somewhat more warily. They know my weaknesses, but also my strengths. And we are all working along the same path, some farther along than others. There are children I saw brought to the dojo ten or twenty years ago who have reached or far surpassed my rank and ability, and there are men and women who were my peers or seniors once upon a time and who can thrash me like a raw beginner, and whom I revere as "Sensei". And then there are many others who have left the path altogether and given up the sword. Each must follow their own calling, and the Way of the Sword is not an easy one.
Old age and treachery overcomes youth and skill, so the saying goes. But, Oh, to be young and full of beans again!
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Why the sword? Part II
The sword has always been a symbol of the nobility, of justice, righteousness & honor. In Japan it is one of the crown jewels, associated with the mythic creation of the islands, and in Europe the code of chivalry defined the swordsman as a gentleman. Class and elegance, I must confess, hold a powerful attraction for me. As my mother has often told me, I have champagne tastes with a beer budget. But the Art of Swordsmanship is more than an affectation.
When one holds a sword face to face with another, time slows. The pulse quickens, but the mind and body are forced to calm alertness, and each breath, each movement, becomes pregnant with meaning. Victory or defeat--life or death--are determined by one inch, one step, one fraction of a second. It is said that when one has faced death at the point of a sword that one has a heightened understanding, and I can attest for certainty that when one has a close brush with dying one gains a greater appreciation for what is important in life.
Standing up in the face of one who is intent on taking you out, whether in the boxing ring, the kendo hall, the racetrack, in a barroom brawl or on a battlefield, one can rely only on one's self. Personal courage, integrity, attitude and training are the only things that will separate the victor from the vanquished. The higher morality of who is right or wrong has no weight; to the victor go the spoils and the winners write the history.
Training in kendo is hard and painful. Not just physically, but mentally and spiritually as well. This was the warning I received on the very first day that I began my study in the dojo, nearly 25 years ago. I was set to suriashi, okuriashi--one step footwork. Simple. Repetitive. After all this time I still practice this every day. One step. One step. After all this time, I still don't have it right--each one perfect, each one the same. Feet straight, left heel not raised too high, left leg straight but not locked, posture correct. Left foot snaps quickly back into place beneath you. Maybe I'm just a slow learner. Maybe I'm just lazy, addicted to bad habits that hold me back in life as in the Way. But then, kendo is a life study, a microcosm and the dojo an artificial world. Everyone I know who trains and has put in years of study considers themselves to be no more than travellers on the Way, and still far from where they want to be.
The Way is the journey, the path. The Way is in the travelling of it, not the destination. Train hard, be diligent. Follow your heart in honesty, and take pleasure in every step of the Way. Ultimately, life is too short to waste otherwise.
When one holds a sword face to face with another, time slows. The pulse quickens, but the mind and body are forced to calm alertness, and each breath, each movement, becomes pregnant with meaning. Victory or defeat--life or death--are determined by one inch, one step, one fraction of a second. It is said that when one has faced death at the point of a sword that one has a heightened understanding, and I can attest for certainty that when one has a close brush with dying one gains a greater appreciation for what is important in life.
Standing up in the face of one who is intent on taking you out, whether in the boxing ring, the kendo hall, the racetrack, in a barroom brawl or on a battlefield, one can rely only on one's self. Personal courage, integrity, attitude and training are the only things that will separate the victor from the vanquished. The higher morality of who is right or wrong has no weight; to the victor go the spoils and the winners write the history.
Training in kendo is hard and painful. Not just physically, but mentally and spiritually as well. This was the warning I received on the very first day that I began my study in the dojo, nearly 25 years ago. I was set to suriashi, okuriashi--one step footwork. Simple. Repetitive. After all this time I still practice this every day. One step. One step. After all this time, I still don't have it right--each one perfect, each one the same. Feet straight, left heel not raised too high, left leg straight but not locked, posture correct. Left foot snaps quickly back into place beneath you. Maybe I'm just a slow learner. Maybe I'm just lazy, addicted to bad habits that hold me back in life as in the Way. But then, kendo is a life study, a microcosm and the dojo an artificial world. Everyone I know who trains and has put in years of study considers themselves to be no more than travellers on the Way, and still far from where they want to be.
The Way is the journey, the path. The Way is in the travelling of it, not the destination. Train hard, be diligent. Follow your heart in honesty, and take pleasure in every step of the Way. Ultimately, life is too short to waste otherwise.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Why the sword?
Many years ago, a wise friend told me, "The sword is the sword of peace; the sword is the sword of justice." Later, I was introduced to the concept of a life-giving sword as opposed to a death-dealing sword. The idea is that the sword is an extension of the swordsman's intent, and that swordsmanship becomes an expression of his or her soul. "What is in you will come out of you," as my wife says, and in the potentially lethal art of the sword, as in all other human endeavors, this is so.
Why does one train one's body in a thousand or more unnatural and painful ways to perform acts which have no constructive value in and of themselves? Yoga, dance, distance running, weight-lifting, martial arts. Will we ever have the need to outrun a hoard of hostile pursuers like Henry Fonda in "Drums Along the Mohawk"? Or to cleave the skull of an enemy bent on skewering us with a sword? Pray to God never! I am a peaceful man. I hate conflict and respect the principle of non-violence. Yet I follow the Way of the Sword, and I recognize that violence is natural and in accord with the rhythm of the universe. In a perfect world this might not be so, but last time I checked this world had yet to find perfection. Nor have I.
By training our bodies, we discipline our minds. By polishing our sword, our art, we are polishing our souls. We are challenging our bodies to become a more perfect physical expression of a mental self-image we carry. We are striving to become better people, more complete and accomplished human beings.
Who among us can stand up and say, in all honesty, "I am good. I am perfect, the best that I can possibly be."? The only man I know of who could possibly make that claim was nailed to a tree over 2000 years ago, and since that time many have tried, and failed, to live up to his example.
So what are the more humble, the more self-critical among us to do? Each of us must polish their own sword. We must challenge ourselves to be honest with ourselves and in our dealings with others. To exercise compassion and restraint. We live in a world of imperfect beings, ourselves among them, and we need to have the courage and self-concept, as well as the sense of self-sacrifice, to live honorably. To look life in all it's adversity and hardship, as well as it's joy, right in the eye and spit. Take what it has to give and give back as good or better than we get.
In kendo we say, "Ki Ken Tai no Ichi", the Spirit, Sword, and Body come together as One. To achieve a perfect strike, one's mind, intention, breath, sword, body, feet, arms, physical location displace that which opposes you in an instant. Before, there is nothing; afterwards, there is nothing. In the words of Musashi, "In the Void is virtue, and no evil. Wisdom has existance, principle has existance, the Way has existance. Spirit is nothingness."
Why does one train one's body in a thousand or more unnatural and painful ways to perform acts which have no constructive value in and of themselves? Yoga, dance, distance running, weight-lifting, martial arts. Will we ever have the need to outrun a hoard of hostile pursuers like Henry Fonda in "Drums Along the Mohawk"? Or to cleave the skull of an enemy bent on skewering us with a sword? Pray to God never! I am a peaceful man. I hate conflict and respect the principle of non-violence. Yet I follow the Way of the Sword, and I recognize that violence is natural and in accord with the rhythm of the universe. In a perfect world this might not be so, but last time I checked this world had yet to find perfection. Nor have I.
By training our bodies, we discipline our minds. By polishing our sword, our art, we are polishing our souls. We are challenging our bodies to become a more perfect physical expression of a mental self-image we carry. We are striving to become better people, more complete and accomplished human beings.
Who among us can stand up and say, in all honesty, "I am good. I am perfect, the best that I can possibly be."? The only man I know of who could possibly make that claim was nailed to a tree over 2000 years ago, and since that time many have tried, and failed, to live up to his example.
So what are the more humble, the more self-critical among us to do? Each of us must polish their own sword. We must challenge ourselves to be honest with ourselves and in our dealings with others. To exercise compassion and restraint. We live in a world of imperfect beings, ourselves among them, and we need to have the courage and self-concept, as well as the sense of self-sacrifice, to live honorably. To look life in all it's adversity and hardship, as well as it's joy, right in the eye and spit. Take what it has to give and give back as good or better than we get.
In kendo we say, "Ki Ken Tai no Ichi", the Spirit, Sword, and Body come together as One. To achieve a perfect strike, one's mind, intention, breath, sword, body, feet, arms, physical location displace that which opposes you in an instant. Before, there is nothing; afterwards, there is nothing. In the words of Musashi, "In the Void is virtue, and no evil. Wisdom has existance, principle has existance, the Way has existance. Spirit is nothingness."
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Welcome!
Welcome to my blog! I will look forward to discussing various things with you all, sharing views, debating issues, etc. I will strive to maintain a polite, civil board, and I will appreciate it if you would do the same. Heated, passionate discourse and strongly held views are respected by me even if we don't share the same opinions, but I don't like to have my feelings hurt any more than you do, so please--no insults or out-and-out rudeness. Thank you in advance.
About myself--I'm college-educated, married with 2 teenage children and a 4-yr. old. I'm in my mid-forties. My interests include music, movies, reading, history, politics, and swordsmanship. I have studied the Japanese martial art of kendo since 1982. Feel free to visit my channel on YouTube, you may find some things there you like. Or not.
Again, welcome.
About myself--I'm college-educated, married with 2 teenage children and a 4-yr. old. I'm in my mid-forties. My interests include music, movies, reading, history, politics, and swordsmanship. I have studied the Japanese martial art of kendo since 1982. Feel free to visit my channel on YouTube, you may find some things there you like. Or not.
Again, welcome.
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