Editor’s Note 〜Digital Karate Budo Newsletter No. 76
On November 3, thanks to everyone’s support, we were able to bring the KWU SENSHI JAPAN Karate Kanto Open to a successful close.
This event had been in planning for a year, but the policy did not easily settle, and preparations did not progress as I had hoped until around the middle of this year. In addition, on the last day of the children’s summer camp in August, I tore the rectus femoris muscle of my left leg. It was my first time experiencing such a tear. The doctor told me to use crutches at first and warned me that otherwise my recovery would be delayed. However, I could not afford to take things easy. We had this event scheduled three months later.
Furthermore, the venue we had reserved a year earlier had been canceled due to a mistake. Normally, that would mean “all is lost.” I did search for an alternative venue, but none was found. When I consulted Aoki-sensei, he secured an alternative place for us, saying, “If it’s Sagamihara, we can manage somehow.” To be honest, it was in an out-of-the-way location and the hall was small, but there was no choice.
I believed that all responsibility for bringing about such circumstances lay with me. And I wavered between giving up and pushing forward. However, I predicted that if we cancelled at this point, next year’s major event would become even more difficult. It may be an inappropriate analogy, but next year marks the “start of battle.” Yet there are no warriors ready to face that battle. Nor is the chain of command in order.
The “battle next year” does not mean a fight against an enemy, nor a battle to win.
The battle I envision must be “the beginning of a story in which we raise the banner of our ideals and fight for a just cause.”
I hesitated. Yet I had to enlist the cooperation of a body that could barely walk, and a body that has grown increasingly troubled with each passing year. “Can I really do this? Will my physical and mental strength last?”
Meanwhile, regardless of my anxiety and impatience, those around me said, “Let’s do it.”
I thought, “What, we’re doing it? Really?” And I also felt, “They don’t understand.”
However, I reconsidered: “Trust those around you and give everything you can. This, too, is training.” And we carried it through. As a result, everyone around me truly gave their best.
Looking back, thirty years ago I founded a small karate organization with long-time karate comrades and hosted around twelve All-Japan tournaments. On the final day of the first tournament, I had blood in my urine. I also stayed up all night many times — because I simply could not sleep. To be honest, running those tournaments was harsher than karate training. As a result, several important comrades left me. Now, looking back, I feel nothing but gratitude toward them.
Compared to those tournaments, this one was small. However, I am a perfectionist and cannot set limits for myself. In other words, I end up pursuing the ideal with a “still not enough” mindset. As a result, I cause suffering to those around me, and my own body and mind reach their limits.
As I repeat, this was a small tournament, but I joined forces with comrades like right arms — Akiyoshi and Aoki. I want to engrave that experience in my heart as something irreplaceable. And I want to connect this experience to the next story.
On the day of the tournament, I did not finish preparing the MC script in time, and the failure made my stomach hurt. At that moment, I remembered Mr. Hirao, the person who has been in my dojo the longest. Thirty years ago, he volunteered to create the MC script and handled the announcements. At that time, he worked in the personnel department of a major department store.
The memories of that time resurfaced, and I felt deep gratitude toward him once again.
Mr. Hirao is currently suffering from ALS and bedridden. A few months ago, he reached out to the long-time black belts and requested, “Please come visit me.” I rushed to his side immediately. He could no longer speak, but through his wife I was told, “My husband says he cannot die yet, and he will keep fighting.”
In addition, Ogino-sensei, whom I have known for over forty years, also developed Parkinson’s disease several years ago. Even so, when I told him we were short of referees and asked if he could “help just a little,” he served as head referee for the entire day.
Receiving Ogino-sensei’s feelings, I now believe that I cannot abandon my ideals and aspirations until the very end.
In truth, Ogino and I have a relationship like family. Seven years ago, he also developed cancer, but fortunately, he recovered — in what was an extremely rare case.
From time to time, I travel with him. That said, it is merely having him accompany me on work-related trips or on journeys for sword training. I enjoy my sword training now. That said, my body is so damaged that I cannot even sit in seiza, so I cannot do much training. I sometimes think that if I had trained diligently when my body was still intact, I might have improved much more. But that is not the dimension at which I am practicing the sword today.
In other words, the “enjoyment” I feel is not about improving my ability to cut or polishing my techniques. It is that even though my body is aging and breaking down, I can look at martial arts from a dimension different from my youth. And I can challenge another kind of limit — a new horizon — different from the “physical limit” I glimpsed in the 100-man kumite.
That is what is enjoyable.
To state it extremely, the “sword” in my view is synonymous with the “mind.”
To refine the mind through the sword.
To refine the mind through the martial techniques of fists and feet.
To refine the mind through birth, aging, sickness, and death.
All are the same.
And that is what “training” means to me, and I want to continue enjoying it.
Five-line Poem (Gogyōka)
For me, the “sword” is synonymous with the “mind.”
Through the sword, the mind
Through the martial skills of fists and feet, the mind
Through birth, aging, sickness, and death, the mind
Eventually, all becomes one
(Shinichi)
