Dragon Dance Dojo

The dojo was already quiet when my name was called out, expecting a bit of surprise, but I was ready. Ready for something, even if I didn’t directly know what. The ability to read the air, sense hidden change is an important part of the movement. The instructions were simple, start in the center of the dojo, and for the next two minutes avoid getting hit. I could use any footwork, sabaki-gata, or kamae that I wanted, but I was *not* allowed to counter, block, or take any other direct action. Don’t get hit. A moment later the senior students circled around me and the punches started coming in. I did my best moving and keeping the minimum of them behind me, they did their best keeping my in the center of the dojo so I could be surrounded. I ate a lot of punches, but many of them I avoided just be moving. Two minutes in the dojo is an eternity, those outside of the ‘arts can’t really understand the intensity of a minute when you are moving and trying not to get hit. That is ...

It was customary just after the New Year to give an embu in the dojo. The teacher would call up senior students and an exchange would happen back and forth with both acting as attacker and defender taking turns using one of the training weapons on the dojo wall. Sojutsu had been fresh in my mind, so when it was my turn I selected a yari, the longest that I could that still cleared the dojo ceiling and the embu began. Returning my yari to the wall, I sat down and enjoyed the rest of the celebration thinking my part was done… …only to be surprised to be called back up, selecting another training weapon from the wall. No, please take this one. As I was handed a sword unlike I had ever seen before. A thick and heavy blade, double sided with a tear shaped point, very much like a broadsword. A long handle, with a large disk shape at the end. Tsugiri . First time picking it up, feeling the connection of the balance and weight I began to mentally scan the kata from the densho a...

What I remember about the man the most was his style of dress, how he greeted you at the door, and the size of his hands. Always dressed in a grey suit, always wearing a smile, always offering a firm handshake when he greeted you at the church door, which dwarfed the hand of my thirteen year old self. Mr. B. was a man from a different time, a world that no longer existed, a world that new generations would have doubted every existed. Regardless of the occasion he always wore a suit, would call you on your bullshit if needed, and was a man of action even at 85 years of age when I met him. When I was confirmed at 16, after the service and the luncheon after, on the outside steps of the church he instructed me to wait as he had something to give me. Imagine handing a 16 year old kid a sword. That was just what he was doing along with a picture in a small frame. The sword was a one handed sabre in a leather wrapped scabbard, ivory handle, wrapped in gold-brass wire.   It ...