The Long Trip Home: Archives

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, the cultural and historical heart of Japan, to learn kendo. 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). The clash between the concrete city and the serenity of the beautiful Zen-gardens is the perfect backdrop of the samurai’s past, present and future.

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. 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.

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. 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. My muscles scream. Such bruising, exhausting sessions go on for months.

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. Recognizing him as human, I bow again.

Eventually, my apprenticeship draws to a close. I prepare to return home. Undoubtedly, the samurai pilgrimage has changed in the past hundreds of years. Muddy, perilous horse-treks home are replaced by the Tokyo shinkansen (bullet train). Even at 165 miles per hour, there are some spectacular views on this journey. Midway, Mount Fuji seems more like a rest stop than a sacred shrine. Still, passing the alpine icon moves me to reflection.