It was the Big Day. My friend and I had called the dōjō, spoken to the sensei, made an appointment to watch a class. We had been sent a package of information, giving specific instructions as to what was expected of us. We were dressed for a job interview — or at least the college-kid version of dressing for a job interview. We found the building and walked up to the second floor.
Stepping into the dōjō felt like stepping into another world. You could feel that the rules were different here. Sensei introduced himself. We sat and watched class. Once the class ended, Sensei began the interview.
Over the intervening years, I have listened to Sensei interview dozens of potential members of the dōjō; I have even done it myself on occasion. Though the questions asked vary somewhat, there is one we always pose. I remember being asked it myself, all those years ago.
His demeanor serious, Sensei locked his gaze onto mine: “Why do you want to do this?”
I am sure I babbled a bit, trying to justify my existence to this man, trying to convince him that allowing me to train would benefit his dōjō and the arts he studied. I knew as soon as I started watching the class that I wanted to join. I knew I would do anything to be given the opportunity to train. I remember struggling to say something that would prove to this man that I was worthy.
Sensei allowed us to join, though I am certain it was our obvious enthusiasm rather than our verbal dexterity that convinced him.
***
Forging a katana is a very work-intensive process. Japan is a mineral-poor land. Unlike Europe, where iron can be mined from the earth, the Japanese had to use iron found in sand. These iron sands would be refined into tamahagane, the steel from which swords are forged.
The form and artistry of the katana results from the necessity of refining poor quality metals into strong, flexible steel. The tamahagane is heated, hammered, folded, over and over, to refine it. Every step of the forging process is designed to maximize the potential of the materials by removing everything that is unnecessary. Along the way, an object of great beauty is formed.
***
The dōjō is like a forge. The traditional martial arts are predicated on the idea that the practitioner changes for the art. The art doesn’t change. In the dōjō, with the Ryū as the anvil and the art as the hammer, we are forged into something stronger.
Budō should enrich life. It shouldn’t replace it. While the study of budō is a transformative experience, the goal is to refine the self, becoming more capable, more driven, more focused. Like the iron sands that become tamahagane, you already contain everything that is required to be transformed.
I have written before about how there is no moral aspect to the mastery of martial arts. In fact, the ideal warrior is one who is at odds with society. Society teaches us from a young age not to yell and not to hit. The warrior learns to disable their societal programming, so they can deploy violence as appropriate.
If you sacrifice the fundamental aspects of your personality on the altar of budō, you run the risk of being consumed by this aspect of martial study. Budō is the study of power and its applications. Power is addictive. Applying your abilities against another person is physically pleasurable, in the same way that winning a foot race, sinking a three-point shot, or scoring the game-winning touchdown can be pleasurable.
And yet, training in budō requires sacrifice. The budoka must maintain shoshin (the beginner’s mind) and nyunanshin (pliable mind). The dōjō is not a place for individuals. This is a difficult concept for Westerners. Our culture tells us that our individuality is sacrosanct and inviolate. But the process of refinement requires heat and pressure. Submission to the demands of the budō provides that heat and pressure. Dedicated, consistent practice is the hammer that shapes the student of budō.
One of the reasons I have stayed on the path I chose those many years ago is that, when I look at my teacher and my seniors, I see what they have gained by submitting to the demands of the Ryū. They are focused, determined, powerful, intense, and disciplined. They can lead, and they can follow orders. They act without hesitation, often without concern for their own needs. They put the good of the group ahead of the good of the individual. When they are seated in the same room, it is obvious to even a casual observer that they are cut from the same cloth.
And yet they are all very different men, with their own deeply held beliefs. They have full and complete lives — careers they excel at and families they care for. They have sacrificed, and in doing so they have become more than they were.
Submission to the demands of the group and to the external standard of the Ryū is a core martial value. You model the behavior of your seniors. When you are given an order, you follow it. It is a conscious choice to give up your individuality in order to serve something larger than you, and to become something more than you were.
This is yet another of the many contradictions of budō: omote and ura, the obvious and the hidden. Through submission, one finds strength.
***
Forging a sword is a process with a beginning and ending, but forging the practitioner of budō is an endless struggle. As we pass through the world, we acquire impurities — distractions that keep us away from the dōjō, obstacles thrown up by work and life, the siren song of leisure activities. The budoka make the difficult choice to submit, to continue refining both technique and spirit through diligent practice. Perfection is unattainable, but striving for perfection is transformative. It is a process that only ends when the practitioner leaves the budō.
I am all too aware of my own failings. I return to the dōjō, to forge myself anew once again.