Guerreiro

What is my life filter? This is a question I pondered last Friday night after a heavy three hour training session of Kenjutsu. Through what lens do I see the world? The coordinator for my martial arts group, sempai Edio, is a short man with clear intentions. In his mind, the dojo is a holy place, sacrosanct, where life is affirmed through the testing of ones spirit. For those willing to learn, the crossing of swords is a serious metaphor for life, a chance to face not just ones opponent but something far more daunting—the weakness in oneself. For me, doing battle is my own form of psychological therapy. It is a time, unlike any other, where my mind can be at peace with itself, where it filters out all of the confusion, irony, restless, useless psychosomatic chatter. When you cross blades with someone, everything else slows, is simplified. There are two options: live or die. Fight or fall. Stand or be undone.

Last Friday was one of those days on the battle field. I woke up early, strapped on my tennis shoes, and headed out the door. There was a guy from work that was interested in buying my bike, and I had to head into one of the cities busiest neighborhoods to go meet him. After the accident in Recife, I’ve been a bit spooked about riding my motorcycle in town, and for good reason. After the guy refused to make the buy, my day was spent, white knuckles gripped, riding from one moto shop to another. I hit potholes that bottomed out my shocks, grazed cars that swung into my path, and narrowly avoided the unconscious fangs of rubber and steel that buzzed around me. By the time I finally got home, unsuccessful with the sale, my head was pounding and my eyes dry and tired. I thought about curling up into a sorry mass on my bed, but instead summoned my courage, grabbed my fighting gear, and yet again headed out the door.

When I arrived at the dusty open air gym where we train, I knew my battles weren’t over. Some days, depending on the mood of the sempai, the training is light and tolerable. We fight for a few hours, calmly transition from one activity to the next, devoting the last 30 minutes to kata (calm and quiet forms). Then there are those other times, when the sempai furrows his brow, smiles coyly at you, and lets loose the dogs of war. 15 minute head strikes, 15 minute wrist strikes, 100 cuts to the chest. Defend, knock over your opponent, take them to the ground. Combat time, fight this one, that one, rotate, rotate, rotate. The dojo becomes a sweltering mass of heat, your breath escaping in quick succession fogging up your eye guard. Before long, you can barely lift your arms, trying desperately to wave off the attacks of your enemies. With luck, the person standing across from you is as tired as you are, and keeps their strikes controlled instead of missing the armor and slamming painfully into your neck, elbows, or upper chest.

This day was certainly one of those days. The sempai, after hours of non-stop exercise, had us do a drill running from one end of the court to the other, leaving me in what I can only describe as absolute physical misery. If we lost our step or slowed too much, he had us repeat the exercise, or would chastise us with a scream and whack to the head.

But in the end, after all was said and done, as I sat panting and completely drained from the day’s activities, there was a smile on my face. I knew that despite the challenges, I had survived. I had looked at the world square in the eyes, moving around cars, moving around swords, screaming, “DO YOUR WORST! FOR I WILL CERTAINLY DO MINE!”. This was the lens through which I saw the world, the lens of the warrior, who riles out his own demons and attacks them head on. This is what the Samurai called Bushido, and is, through effort, my way.

Niten ichi ryu school, style of Miyamoto Musashi

The Master himself

Calming the mind.

And combat