KENDO

by Sherry O’Sullivan

I was sitting in a charmingly ragged old theater in downtown Honolulu wondering what had compelled me to enter since I dislike movies. But there I remained, transfixed in front of my first samurai movie.
And there was Ryotaro Otomo, all unbelievably strong facial planes and flashing sword. Most of all...there was such ceremony! Even during the most frantic activity there seemed to be time set aside for serenity.
The movie ran into a second...and then a third. By this time I was more than just ordinarily fascinated with the gracefully deadly swords that seemed living extensions.... almost living entities of their own. I was hopelessly attracted to the sweeping idealism attached to the samurai and his swords. Slowly I was learning what the Way of the Sword meant...the morality...the discipline...the controlled and violent beauty. Something within me was ready for this and I was hooked. All this in four hours!
When I finally wandered out into the bright sunlight I suffered a brief moment of culture shock, for suddenly I was surrounded by the light reflecting from pavement and metal vehicles....not blades. No kimonos. No crowded markets. No arrogantly long-striding samurai.

The next two weeks were nothing but an endless round of samurai movies. In the three theaters showing them the employees began acknowledging me as a familiar face. One even asked me why I returned so often (perhaps thinking I was re searching...or eccentric) and I couldn’t really answer, for I was experiencing a profoundly intense emotional reaction too complex for words.
As can be anticipated...I began a manic hunt to satisfy my obsession to see a real sword...to hold it...to feel it. I couldn’t understand why everyone I approached seemed to withdraw in controlled confusion when I brought up the subject. But then I suppose a 6’ tall red—head interested in swords did seem a bit odd. Especially odd when she exhibits such a passion for something rarely appreciated (or even acknowledged) by most Westerners. Finally a Japanese friend put me out of my misery by showing me his priceless family katana. L wore a mask so the moisture from my breath would .not damage the blade and ..with trembling fingers I accepted temporary possession of this coveted article. But it was not just an article. As I slowly eased the saya from the blade and saw the polished sword itself I felt as if I were holding a living organism!
I was committed after that, and began asking everyone where I could learn about swords. I knew none of the words...iai, kendo, kenjutsu...and spoke only with intense enthusiasm.
Finally information, reluctantly given, started to trickle in and I began haunting my first dojo... ironically only a few minutes from my home. In that dojo I thrilled to the sight of my first live person in hakama and kendo armor and returned every Sunday morning for several weeks.
I started to differentiate between the regular members of the dojo and became fascinated by a man in his sixties who commanded an awesome response from me. He was tremendously powerful in an intangible way. I could not put my finger on it...yet, just standing there (in what I have since learned to be an unusually strongly focused chudan gamae) he would cause his opponents to pause...to retreat...or to falter... at which point he would score with lightening speed.
Finally one Sunday I could stand it no longer. Although kendo wasn’t (to me) the path I wanted, it was a beginning. With great respect I approached the instructor I had been watching so intently during the past weeks and asked him if he would consider teaching me kendo.

His response was less than enthusiastic. He suggested I talk to the only other Caucasian in the group...one of his students...about instruction. He added in an offhand manner that he, himself, “wasn’t very good”...and then dismissed me. Even from my pinnacle of ignorance I knew I had been roundly insulted, lied to, and cast off. It was only recently that the instructor (who has long since become my sensei) told me that at that time he thought I was just another weird tourist. Nevertheless, Irishly irated, stubborn, and overwhelmingly intent upon taking my first faltering steps into this realm....I discovered where the kendo expert maintained his own dojo...managed to secure an invitation to start training there from one of his more sympathetic (at that point...humorously sympathetic) instructors and, in all shining enthusiasm, presented myself at the appointed time.
The sensei greeted my appearance with an expression far from inscrutable and which, in fact, reeked with annoyance. From that moment on I was ignored. Various lesser instructors occasionally pushed and prodded me toward the correct direction but it wasn’t for several weeks of unblemished attendance...several weeks of hard training (where I began to show a bit of ability combined with reflexive cunning apparently unusual in a woman)...and after several weeks where it became undeniable even to the most case hardened cynic that I was ‘in love’ with kendo...that finally sensei accepted me and began talking with me...showing me... and allowing me to question him. What sheer bliss! It will never be easy because he speaks cryptically and several times, hours and hours later, I have snapped to attention realizing that what he had said...and meant...were two different things. It is not unusual for me to get out of bed after one of these revelations and begin practicing out in the yard in, the middle of the night.
Then I discovered the International Zen Dojo up in the volcanic hills ...there I found what real resistance to a
blue—eyed female was. All of the stoic condescension prior to this pales by comparison!

I am far from penetrating the resistance at this time and can do nothing but attend their Zen Kendo classes twice each week...watch carefully...absorb...carry away priceless gems of learning...and eventually come to understand. I have learned patience, for much is at stake and worth waiting for.
There have been many, many incidents during this beginning time which would have thwarted a less devoted person, and I have I come to realize that the prime requisite for entering the world of the sword is a passionate love for it, bordering on the obsessive. I have barely scratched the surface and have learned only one thing: that I don’t know anything. Nothing!! I enter into organized practice six days a week, with weekends being nothing but Iai and kendo. I am moving along the path sluggishly and with great effort....a strange sort of Samurai.