GW: A Lesson
Sitting on the steps of the back porch, swords at my side, I look out at the sunrise, and I smile.
Dawn is definitely the most beautiful time of day.
I don't see it anywhere near as often as I should, any more. Too much to do, too many late nights, and not enough time to appreciate the simple beauty of a sunrise.
I've missed you, sunrise. I wonder, have you missed me?
"Beautiful as always, isn't it, Yoshiko-san?"
Startled, I look up, shielding my eyes from the rising sun. Seikua is standing next to me, watching dawn happen just as I've been. He was so still, so silent. If he hadn't spoken, I might never have noticed he was there. Rokku seems to be used to such peculiarities, but they're still strange to me. As kind and friendly as the old monk is, he unnerves me somehow. Hopefully that feeling will fade, in time. Hopefully.
"Ohayougozaimasu, Seikua-sensei," I say, trying to hide my surprise with a quick smile.
"Ohayougozaimasu to you too, Yoshiko-joseito," says the old monk, smiling wryly.
This time, I'm unable to hide my reaction of confusion -- and mild offense. After all: "Schoolgirl Yoshiko"?
Upon seeing my expression, the old monk bursts into laughter.
"I'm sorry, young lady," he says, sitting down beside me, "I simply couldn't resist. There's no need for such formalities now, my dear. This old man gets his fill of them, trust me. Here and now, we're just two admirers of nature's beauty."
"Fair enough, 'old man'," I say with a wink.
He can't help but chuckle.
"You know, Yoshiko," he says, "I've seen many a sunrise in my years. And though they might be a little different here and there, they're all, essentially, the same. And yet, even to my aged, experienced eyes, every one is beautiful. Do you know why?"
"Please enlighten me, o sensei," I reply, smirking.
Seikua laughs. "It's because if I see a sunrise, I know I'm not dead yet!"
I hold my composure for as long as I can -- and then I burst out laughing as well.
"Ahh, the laughter of a pretty young woman," says Seikua, "music to an old man's ears, that's what it is."
"Seikua-san," I say, still chuckling, "I'm not sure it's appropriate for your to flatter me that way."
"My apologies, my dear," he says, taking a moment to smooth his eyebrows and moustache, "please, allow an old man his eccentricities."
"Of course," I say, grinning, "it'd hardly be courteous of me to not allow for some eccentricity from my wise old sensei. And my father raised me to always be courteous."
"Bless you, child," says the old monk, "your favor will not forgotten. But I wonder; could I ask another of you?"
"Hmm," I say, donning a pensive expression, "well, the sun is up now, so there's no more dawn to watch... and I'm not really doing anything, so... I guess, if it's not too much trouble, I could help you out."
Seikua smirks.
"My request is simple, child. It has been many years since I've seen a Kakita Kenshinzen in action, but if my memory serves, it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. I'd like to see it again before my brittle old body succumbs to the ravages of time. So I was hoping you might give me a demonstration?"
"Well, uh," I say, somewhat overwhelmed by his expectations, "I wouldn't exactly refer to myself as a Kenshinzen, Seikua. I'm hardly the master of the sword my father is. And besides, I don't think you'll really be succumbing to old age any time soon."
"Oh please," he says, suddenly coughing and hacking, "fulfill the request of an old man who hasn't much time left on this earth!"
I roll my eyes, and stand up, tucking my swords into my obi.
"Fine," I say, "I had planned to practice anyway -- at least this way I know you're watching me. Not like the last time I went swimming."
"Young lady, I have no idea what you're talking about," says Seikua.
"Of course not," I say, patting his bald head, "you're just a sweet, harmless, kindly old man."
"Sweet, harmless, kindly, pious old man," he corrects, "and now you can call me sensei. Consider this a part of your training."
"Of coursesensei," I say, smirking.
I make my to the center of the back lawn, where the sun is shining down onto me, just barely cutting over the treetops. I force my breathing to slow, and take a loose stance. Slowly, I slide my wakizashi from its saya. I sweep it through the air in front of me, then slash it up, sweep it across, and slash it down again. I continue with the smooth slow swipes, alternating angles and motions, slowly forming crisp, clear patterns in the air -- but this is just the pre-show. Watchful Falcon, the name by which this kata is known, is a simple focusing exercise, to gather one's energies and sharpen one's senses for the battle to come.
A few minutes later, I let my wakizashi return to its saya. I move into the traditional Kakita dueling stance, my open hand hovering centimeters above my katana's hilt, palm turned upwards as if presenting a gift. With all my attention focused on a single imaginary point, the blade practically leaps from its saya, slashing through the spot. Spinning, I launch strike after strike at that point trying to execute a single flawless stroke, to show mastery of the One-Strike Blade technique. As I whirl and dance around the point, I force myself to strike less often, but with greater and greater speed -- and each time, to return the blade to its saya before striking again. Finally, the blade is returning to its resting place before I can even realize I've drawn it, and I know it's time to move on to another exercise.
I take a moment to secure the blades in my obi. Then, I launch myself into a series of dizzying flips, rolls, and cartwheels. I cross the lawn with acrobatic grace, and when I roll to a stop, I draw my blade and execute a single strike. The blade cuts through the air, passing scant inches from Seikua's face. Rising to my feet again, I continue to dance the blade through the air, strike after strike just barely missing the old monk. Taking a deep breath, I tuck one leg behind the other, forcing myself to remain immobile in the One Leg Stance inspired by the animal whose image my family chose for their mon. For several more minutes, I guide my blade through a flawless dance, while balancing on one leg, not moving an inch from the spot where I began the kata. Finally, Seikua nods, and I slip my katana gracefully back into its saya, and bow.
"That... was quite impressive, Yoshiko-san," he says.
I raise an eyebrow questioningly.
"Was there something in my style that displeased you, sensei?"
"No, not truly, Yoshiko-san. Your form was flawless. Your execution absolutely perfect. But..." he pauses, as if considering how to phrase what he said next.
"But," he continues, "you execute each strike, each step and maneuver with mechanical precision. There is no emotion in your movements, no love of the blade."
"Of course," I reply, "my father would never except emotion, and the flaws that it brings, in the style of one of his students. Especially when that student was his daughter."
"Yes," said Seikua, "I've heard much of your father. But tell me, student, do you know what makes a truly great swordsman?"
"Of course," I say again, wondering why he asks such a simple question, "precision. Flawless execution of the correct maneuver at the exact opportune moment."
"Hmm," he mutters, "perhaps. That is what your father taught you?"
I simply nod.
"Well," he says, "would you like to hear what the Kenshinzen I knew so long ago believed?"
"I'm sure I've already heard it," I say, "my father made sure all of his students studied previous masters of the style extensively."
"Perhaps you have heard this, then, but humor an old man. The secret to truly mastering the blade, at least as this Kenshinzen explained it to me," says Seikua, "is to be flawed."
I furrow my brow and frown.
"That doesn't make any sense, sensei," I reply.
"It seemed odd to me too, at first," he says, "but as it was explained to me, I understood the wisdom. You see, this Kenshinzen loved the blade. The art of the sword stirred powerful emotions within the Kenshinzen, and when in the grip of those emotions, there was no way the Kenshinzen could execute the Kakita style with the cold, mechanical, exacting precision of which you speak."
"But," I ask, "then how did this person become a Kenshinzen?"
"By defeating the other Kenshinzen of the age," says Seikua. "You see, my student, a style executed with mechanical precision is indeed quite potent -- but it is also predictable. However, this Kenshinzen's movements, guided by passion and love for the blade, were flawed, different -- and thus, unpredictable to the other Kenshinzen of the time. She defeated them each in course, because she moved outside the rigid confines of their teachings, and let herself truly love what she did. And thus, she surpassed them all, and thus earned the title of Kenshinzen for herself."
"Wait," I say, confused, "she? Seikua-sensei, according to our family histories, no woman has ever been awarded the rank of Kenshinzen. Who is the one you speak?"
"Ah yes," says Seikua, suddenly looking wistful, "as I recall, there was something of a scandal at the time, and her name was stricken from the records... but believe me, there was a woman who held that title, no more than sixty years ago."
"Who was she?" I ask again.
For a long moment, Seikua says nothing. The silence between us becomes a palpable thing, thick and foreboding.
"Student," he says, "I think it is time we took our breakfast. Come along."
"But, sensei--"
"Another time, student," he says -- and I can see that tears have started to form in his eyes.
"Of course, sensei," I say, bowing to him again, "another time."
Dawn is definitely the most beautiful time of day.
I don't see it anywhere near as often as I should, any more. Too much to do, too many late nights, and not enough time to appreciate the simple beauty of a sunrise.
I've missed you, sunrise. I wonder, have you missed me?
"Beautiful as always, isn't it, Yoshiko-san?"
Startled, I look up, shielding my eyes from the rising sun. Seikua is standing next to me, watching dawn happen just as I've been. He was so still, so silent. If he hadn't spoken, I might never have noticed he was there. Rokku seems to be used to such peculiarities, but they're still strange to me. As kind and friendly as the old monk is, he unnerves me somehow. Hopefully that feeling will fade, in time. Hopefully.
"Ohayougozaimasu, Seikua-sensei," I say, trying to hide my surprise with a quick smile.
"Ohayougozaimasu to you too, Yoshiko-joseito," says the old monk, smiling wryly.
This time, I'm unable to hide my reaction of confusion -- and mild offense. After all: "Schoolgirl Yoshiko"?
Upon seeing my expression, the old monk bursts into laughter.
"I'm sorry, young lady," he says, sitting down beside me, "I simply couldn't resist. There's no need for such formalities now, my dear. This old man gets his fill of them, trust me. Here and now, we're just two admirers of nature's beauty."
"Fair enough, 'old man'," I say with a wink.
He can't help but chuckle.
"You know, Yoshiko," he says, "I've seen many a sunrise in my years. And though they might be a little different here and there, they're all, essentially, the same. And yet, even to my aged, experienced eyes, every one is beautiful. Do you know why?"
"Please enlighten me, o sensei," I reply, smirking.
Seikua laughs. "It's because if I see a sunrise, I know I'm not dead yet!"
I hold my composure for as long as I can -- and then I burst out laughing as well.
"Ahh, the laughter of a pretty young woman," says Seikua, "music to an old man's ears, that's what it is."
"Seikua-san," I say, still chuckling, "I'm not sure it's appropriate for your to flatter me that way."
"My apologies, my dear," he says, taking a moment to smooth his eyebrows and moustache, "please, allow an old man his eccentricities."
"Of course," I say, grinning, "it'd hardly be courteous of me to not allow for some eccentricity from my wise old sensei. And my father raised me to always be courteous."
"Bless you, child," says the old monk, "your favor will not forgotten. But I wonder; could I ask another of you?"
"Hmm," I say, donning a pensive expression, "well, the sun is up now, so there's no more dawn to watch... and I'm not really doing anything, so... I guess, if it's not too much trouble, I could help you out."
Seikua smirks.
"My request is simple, child. It has been many years since I've seen a Kakita Kenshinzen in action, but if my memory serves, it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. I'd like to see it again before my brittle old body succumbs to the ravages of time. So I was hoping you might give me a demonstration?"
"Well, uh," I say, somewhat overwhelmed by his expectations, "I wouldn't exactly refer to myself as a Kenshinzen, Seikua. I'm hardly the master of the sword my father is. And besides, I don't think you'll really be succumbing to old age any time soon."
"Oh please," he says, suddenly coughing and hacking, "fulfill the request of an old man who hasn't much time left on this earth!"
I roll my eyes, and stand up, tucking my swords into my obi.
"Fine," I say, "I had planned to practice anyway -- at least this way I know you're watching me. Not like the last time I went swimming."
"Young lady, I have no idea what you're talking about," says Seikua.
"Of course not," I say, patting his bald head, "you're just a sweet, harmless, kindly old man."
"Sweet, harmless, kindly, pious old man," he corrects, "and now you can call me sensei. Consider this a part of your training."
"Of coursesensei," I say, smirking.
I make my to the center of the back lawn, where the sun is shining down onto me, just barely cutting over the treetops. I force my breathing to slow, and take a loose stance. Slowly, I slide my wakizashi from its saya. I sweep it through the air in front of me, then slash it up, sweep it across, and slash it down again. I continue with the smooth slow swipes, alternating angles and motions, slowly forming crisp, clear patterns in the air -- but this is just the pre-show. Watchful Falcon, the name by which this kata is known, is a simple focusing exercise, to gather one's energies and sharpen one's senses for the battle to come.
A few minutes later, I let my wakizashi return to its saya. I move into the traditional Kakita dueling stance, my open hand hovering centimeters above my katana's hilt, palm turned upwards as if presenting a gift. With all my attention focused on a single imaginary point, the blade practically leaps from its saya, slashing through the spot. Spinning, I launch strike after strike at that point trying to execute a single flawless stroke, to show mastery of the One-Strike Blade technique. As I whirl and dance around the point, I force myself to strike less often, but with greater and greater speed -- and each time, to return the blade to its saya before striking again. Finally, the blade is returning to its resting place before I can even realize I've drawn it, and I know it's time to move on to another exercise.
I take a moment to secure the blades in my obi. Then, I launch myself into a series of dizzying flips, rolls, and cartwheels. I cross the lawn with acrobatic grace, and when I roll to a stop, I draw my blade and execute a single strike. The blade cuts through the air, passing scant inches from Seikua's face. Rising to my feet again, I continue to dance the blade through the air, strike after strike just barely missing the old monk. Taking a deep breath, I tuck one leg behind the other, forcing myself to remain immobile in the One Leg Stance inspired by the animal whose image my family chose for their mon. For several more minutes, I guide my blade through a flawless dance, while balancing on one leg, not moving an inch from the spot where I began the kata. Finally, Seikua nods, and I slip my katana gracefully back into its saya, and bow.
"That... was quite impressive, Yoshiko-san," he says.
I raise an eyebrow questioningly.
"Was there something in my style that displeased you, sensei?"
"No, not truly, Yoshiko-san. Your form was flawless. Your execution absolutely perfect. But..." he pauses, as if considering how to phrase what he said next.
"But," he continues, "you execute each strike, each step and maneuver with mechanical precision. There is no emotion in your movements, no love of the blade."
"Of course," I reply, "my father would never except emotion, and the flaws that it brings, in the style of one of his students. Especially when that student was his daughter."
"Yes," said Seikua, "I've heard much of your father. But tell me, student, do you know what makes a truly great swordsman?"
"Of course," I say again, wondering why he asks such a simple question, "precision. Flawless execution of the correct maneuver at the exact opportune moment."
"Hmm," he mutters, "perhaps. That is what your father taught you?"
I simply nod.
"Well," he says, "would you like to hear what the Kenshinzen I knew so long ago believed?"
"I'm sure I've already heard it," I say, "my father made sure all of his students studied previous masters of the style extensively."
"Perhaps you have heard this, then, but humor an old man. The secret to truly mastering the blade, at least as this Kenshinzen explained it to me," says Seikua, "is to be flawed."
I furrow my brow and frown.
"That doesn't make any sense, sensei," I reply.
"It seemed odd to me too, at first," he says, "but as it was explained to me, I understood the wisdom. You see, this Kenshinzen loved the blade. The art of the sword stirred powerful emotions within the Kenshinzen, and when in the grip of those emotions, there was no way the Kenshinzen could execute the Kakita style with the cold, mechanical, exacting precision of which you speak."
"But," I ask, "then how did this person become a Kenshinzen?"
"By defeating the other Kenshinzen of the age," says Seikua. "You see, my student, a style executed with mechanical precision is indeed quite potent -- but it is also predictable. However, this Kenshinzen's movements, guided by passion and love for the blade, were flawed, different -- and thus, unpredictable to the other Kenshinzen of the time. She defeated them each in course, because she moved outside the rigid confines of their teachings, and let herself truly love what she did. And thus, she surpassed them all, and thus earned the title of Kenshinzen for herself."
"Wait," I say, confused, "she? Seikua-sensei, according to our family histories, no woman has ever been awarded the rank of Kenshinzen. Who is the one you speak?"
"Ah yes," says Seikua, suddenly looking wistful, "as I recall, there was something of a scandal at the time, and her name was stricken from the records... but believe me, there was a woman who held that title, no more than sixty years ago."
"Who was she?" I ask again.
For a long moment, Seikua says nothing. The silence between us becomes a palpable thing, thick and foreboding.
"Student," he says, "I think it is time we took our breakfast. Come along."
"But, sensei--"
"Another time, student," he says -- and I can see that tears have started to form in his eyes.
"Of course, sensei," I say, bowing to him again, "another time."