‘One, two, three!’ The count goes on and on as as my muscles scream in pain, bringing the 1kilogram (2.2lb.) sword in a smooth ark from above my head to just above my navel over and over. The night is hot and humid as I practice in a small park near my house, an occasional person wandering by with their dog on a leash poop bag in hand. A sweaty, white guy in a park swinging a shiny katana has become a common sight to my neighbors and no longer gets more then a passing glance.
Two, or was it three years ago I first began the endeavor of learning Iaido (the art of drawing a sword, and no, not with a pencil) at the Budokan (public martial arts hall) at 10am on Monday and Wednesdays. The big echoing hall, the smell of sweat and the feeling of a rough cloth bound handle gripped tightly in between weary hands. It went on for almost a year before an innocent comment by the teacher drove me from those comforting halls. ‘You’re doing pretty good… for a foreigner.’ All the ideals, hopes, and dreams I had for studying under a patient, understanding and wise teacher were shattered in an ignorant and seemingly complementary (yet highly insulting) comment. Since then I have practiced on rooftops and in parks, a lone student with no teacher swinging away in front of himself.
You get used to that kind of thinking here and learn to take a deep breath and move past it but the knowledge that all your actions are viewed that way creates a a rift that is sometimes difficult to overcome. It’s been two years since I walked out of that classroom and I regret all the things I missed a chance to learn but it’s a choice that I made that led to other opportunities. One door closes, another opens.
