The makings of a new day drew Kurosawa from his bed; he quickly dressed into his traditional practice attire. As he drew back the shutters that led onto the secluded courtyard, the first tendrils of the dawn had yet to creep through the black night and the haze of a moon could be seen just behind the diluted clouds. Within the rectangular enclosure remained the tranquil Zen garden, with its raked sand and five grey granite standing stones that held hardened memories within that would always bare dumb witness to recollections both modern and ancient. It would be this half of the garden, covered by layered hardwood, that would be his focus this morning.
The whole courtyard was illuminated by lanterns and lamps containing beeswax and oil, flickering in the light breeze, animating the shadows around the five stones. Their silhouettes creating spectres that craned their contours from side to side in watchful station of the deathly still Kurosawa.
It had been several days since he had visited his beautiful Ikuko at the coast. His work caused necessary lulls in their relationship that were unavoidable. She seemed to understand, though her questions were becoming more and more probing as their relationship developed. This was an element he would have to carefully manage, whatever happened between them he could not envisage a time when he could tell her everything, even though he realised how fortunate he was to have found someone like her. She seemed to complement the irregular edges of his personality as perfectly as his character interacted with her temperament. They were both eccentric creatures that would never completely fit into a typical life. Of their true spirits, one was introverted, the other gregarious and expressive, personas that on occasion chafed against the other people whenever fully displayed. She unnerved others with her impolite unreservedness and a willing desire to openly express her liberally extreme views, which often resulted in uncomfortable situations with those who did not know her.
For Kurosawa, it was far less complicated. Apart from a very few people in his life, Ikuko included, revealing to them his true nature openly just scared the shit out of people. He learned from an early age that to get by in this life he was required to pretend he was something else.
The sky above was cloudy but with no threat of rain. Kurosawa only trained with the razor-sharp sword when the weather was good. He stepped lightly onto the deck, breathing in the fresh sea air being drawn inland by the rising thermals on the hills behind him.
Kurosawa was dressed in a dark grey, traditional Japanese training kimono; the overlapping collar concealing the brilliant white inner band. His family’s ‘Kamon’ (crest) was a black disc outlined in white with two downward-angled palm leaves converging towards a symbol of a Shinto shrine. These emblems were thoughtfully positioned – one on each sleeve at the elbow, another on each side of his chest, and a single, prominent one fixed in the centre of his upper back, symbolising his heritage and discipline. The Kamon appeared as gentle clouds drifting above a Shinto temple or a death’s head skull, depending on one’s disposition. The kimono was secured into a pair of light grey, wide-legged Hakama pants; his feet covered by a pair of black two-toed Tabi socks. A long-bladed Katana sword was pushed through his waistband, the cutting edge curved upwards. He moved to the centre of the arena, feet shoulder width apart, hands hanging loosely at his side.
As he inhaled deeply, he visualised his breath’s journey with intense focus. The air entered through his nose, creating an imagined path that arched gracefully over the inner dome of his skull. It then descended smoothly down the back of his neck, slipping effortlessly into his windpipe. The breath continued its voyage, filling his lungs expansively, accompanied by the gentle rise of his diaphragm. This process harnessed his inner energy, swirling and gathering strength within him. He directed the air deep into the core of his lower abdomen, centring it at his groin. Here, he held it for a few contemplative seconds, fostering a connection with his inner self. Finally, he allowed the breath to ascend, coursing up through his lungs and trachea, before being released deliberately through his mouth, completing its cyclical journey, and leaving a sense of tranquil energy in its wake.
Kurosawa settled his mind for a few moments using the practice of controlling the cycle of one’s breathing, focusing on the mechanical process of air entering and leaving his body, gently moving his perception to a state of wakeful meditation. The technique had been first taught to him by his father when he was a child. It was an exercise that allowed him to forget all other anxieties and flow into the moment. He began to create a stillness in his mind, calming the consciousness within, awareness without thinking, knowing without understanding, being without questioning. He purified himself with the power generated by the cleansing contemplation, repeating the transcendental ritual that allowed him to forget everything and flow into the realm of stillness he was creating within his mind.
An existential doorway opened before him and he drifted through it into a state where he felt nothing, yet sensed everything. He stayed within this phenomenon for a while, playing and experimenting with the primal vibrations that were the essence of the universe.
Slowly he restored his senses back into his body, still basking in the magic that he had returned with. He radiated a pureness that was the essence of life, feeling simultaneously everything and nothing. He had lifted his spirit carefully from its mortal coil and gently balanced it there, somewhere between this realm and the next, by his will alone. He felt its energy drip off and around him, leaving a powerful residue of strength in its wake.
Cultures elsewhere had a name for this feeling – Indians ‘Pran’, Chinese ‘Chi’, Polynesians as ‘Mana’ and the Japanese knew it as ‘Ki’. Each culture had their own methods of achieving the cognitive state of mind required to bring one to this level, and how to utilise the force once acquired for both good and evil.
He began to bring his focus back to his mortal body, accepting the pressure of his feet on the wooden floor, the breeze moving across his face and between his fingers, the comforting weight of the sword at his left hip. Gradually re-entering his soul back into the physicality of bone, sinew and flesh, he returned to being ‘Kurosawa’… the master swordsman.
Suddenly, without any outward warning, he exploded into movement, stepping back with his left foot, while simultaneously drawing the long blade from its scabbard with both hands, he sliced the air around him with a series of bewilderingly fast strikes. His feet moved across the floor as quickly as the flashing steel cut the deadly arcs that dissected the space around him, moving with speed and precision. He came to a halt as suddenly as he had exploded into movement, the sword held in front of him, body relaxed, right foot forward, perfectly balanced and on the balls of his feet, unmoving. In his imagination three men lay about him in various states of evisceration.
As a finale, his left hand came up and hit the back of the sword, cleaning the blade of any blood that would have settled there had it passed through actual flesh and bone. He clasped the scabbard with his left hand and drew the back of the sword across his thumb and forefinger until the point cleared the scabbard. With clinical elegance he replaced the sword in its sheath and brought his feet back together, returning to his original position, motionless, on exactly the same spot he had started from, in preparation for the next cycle of meditation and movement.
He did this for an hour and felt the cleansing exhaustion of its oscillations. It was nearly dawn, and he needed to get into character for his walk into town to meet the fishing boat on the quayside. He looked forward to his infrequent trips out to sea. The lifestyle he had chosen had become by necessity a very solitary one. He found solace in the interaction with ordinary people, involved in the everyday activities of normal life, even operating incognito as a simpleton.