On becoming a samurai

"With this blade, you could circumcise a sleeping tiger." My head nods. Taking the sword from Master Young, I succumb to the spell of the glistening steel arc. My heart pounds. The curved, single-edged Japanese Katana, crafted since the 8th century, is the finest cutting weapon ever made. My hands grip. A sharkskin hilt with a silk thread wrap gives a firm hold with a plush feel. My eyes scan. A cutout iron silhouette of warblers in a budding plum tree forms a hand-guard. A chiseled inscription records a quality test: “sliced diagonally through three criminal’s torsos.”

My mind studies. The flexible body has a wood-grain look from folding and hammering at the forge. The clay-hardened edge flashes a milky-white crystal configuration. My fingers grasp. A black lacquered scabbard of fragrant wood sports a gold family crest. As the tip slides deep into the groove, the penetration is so sexual, my thoughts so readable, I flush.
I’ve come to Kyoto, Japan to learn kendo. Yet, the ancient art of fencing is a punishing journey. Much sweat will fall before I wield a sharp blade again.

My training begins today. As I enter the dojo, Master Young silently glides across hardwood floor. He bows warmly. Only a silver streak on shiny black hair hints at his age. Every elegant move, from gravity-defying skyward leaps to heard-but-not-seen lethal swipes, speaks the unspoken but obvious: if he wasn’t busy being wise, virtuous, and honorable, he’d kick your ass.

Few words pass his lips. I inquire whether to bring the bokken or shinai training sword to class. He responds with stern face and twinkling eyes, “Both, unless they are too heavy for you.” I ask if my stance is correct. He answers, “Better, someday it will be correct.” Fewer words now pass my lips.

The bokken is a heavy stick, shaped and balanced like a sword — standard equipment for solo practice since the 4th century. Legendary swordsman Musashi Miyamoto got so cocky and bored that he used one for some of his many deadly duels.

I hold the bokken improperly. Master Young positions me, tells me not to move, and walks off. I remain frozen as long as one can without permanent brain damage. He returns, presumably to rescue me. Instead, he adjusts my elbow, steps away, and flips open his cell phone—possibly consulting a retired master in his mountain retreat, possibly ordering a pizza.

I scope the room for distractions. Posted calligraphy engrains the warrior code of Bushido and expounds the philosophical roots of kendo. For example, Confucianism teaches that martial arts build a superior person. Daoism embraces the paradox of spirituality in harmony with warfare. Shinto sees the spirits in natural elements. Thus, a sword combines the spirits of earth iron, fire forging, and water quenching. Also, earth, fire, and water are the basic kendo fighting stances. Zen Buddhism aspires to merge the remaining elements of wind (my spirit), and the void (no-mindedness). I decide to draw inspiration from revered symbols of my own culture.

After I finish thinking about Kill Bill’s Uma Thurman, I try to completely empty my mind, like Tom Cruise in Last Samurai. This is hard. Having seen the actor in interviews, I suspect he has a natural gift for no-mindedness.
My muscles scream. As my body goes numb and Master Young’s chat goes on, I focus all my mental energy on a single word, an ancient word, a word that cannot be written down—not because it is sacred, oh, no, quite the opposite!

Such bruising, exhausting sessions go on for months. Then comes the shinai. This bamboo and leather sparring tool neither looks nor feels like a real sword. The genius of the device is that practitioners can whack and smack to their heart’s content and hardly anybody ever gets killed. Tradition suggests it was invented to save students from losing so many arms and legs. In light of the values of feudal Japan, perhaps it was more likely to spare the dojo floors from all that blood. (If medieval Japanese society were a chessboard, the pieces would be emperor, empress, priest, samurai, castle, and pawn.)

As winter turns to spring, all lessons build to a defining moment: my first match. When the day comes, I carry myself deliberately, putting on my armor piece by piece, fondly, mystically. Stepping out onto the floor, I flex every limb in confirmation that my body is a reliable ally. Slowing my breathing and calming my spirit, I avoid my opponent’s eyes, just till I’m sure they’ll reflect more fear than mine. Then, I verify.

We bow to each other. That’s the respect he’s due; that’s all the consideration he’s due. Within seconds, I hear and feel his primal yell, but I strike deep and I strike hard. I don’t pause; I don’t think. Overcoming a lifetime of personal-space conditioning, I drive into him and through him. With neither anger nor empathy, I try to carve him like wood and smash him like pottery. When it’s done, I stand glassy-eyed like a lion over its kill. Re-cognizing him as human, I bow again.

Eventually, my apprenticeship draws to a close. The last evening is spent by a crystal-staircase stream at a floor table spread with barley miso soup, veggie maki-zushi rolls, buckwheat/yam soba noodles, grilled yakitori chicken skewers, cold clear saki and hot green tea.

Next morning, I prepare to return home. Swordsmanship may not be the most practical asset for modern life. So what? Neither is my college degree. Plus, unlike that thing hanging on my wall, this accomplishment comes with some pretty cool shoulder muscles.

Fledgling samuraites have flocked to Kyoto for over a thousand years. By day, we parry across timeworn floors, striving to prove whose sword is longest. At night, we loiter under cherry blossoms, seeking to grasp the mysteries behind a geisha’s kimono (or at least get a look at them).
Undoubtedly, the samurai pilgrimage has changed. Muddy, perilous horse-treks home are replaced by Tokyo bullet train. Mid-way Mount Fuji seems more rest stop than sacred shrine. Still, passing the alpine icon moves me to reflection.

A picture of the surreal slope once adorned my childhood bedroom, having returned with my grandfather from war. One day, as I sat on his knee, he mumbled, “Your grandmother and I saved some money for your college.” Oblivious to his message, I scurried off. Six months later, a stroke took him away.

My Grandpa, the illiterate son of a logging town, held grueling odd jobs all his life. Yet, somewhere between painter and custodian he banked enough cash to fund my master’s degree. Never got to thank him. My first paycheck doubled his highest wage, but I’m still working to become half the man he was.
Arriving home from samurai school and passing his photo in the hall, I instinctively bow. And I could swear his expression changed.