An ordinary man, if he feels that he has been ridiculed,
will draw his sword and risk his very life,
but he will not be called a courageous man for doing so.
A superior man is never alarmed,
even in the most unexpected situations,
because he has a great soul and a noble objective.
– Gishin Funakoshi, one of the Okinawan founders of modern karate
A samurai warrior was crossing a wooden bridge over a creek in the forest, and saw coming toward him a Buddhist monk. Knowing the reputation monks have for education and wisdom, he decided to ask a question that had always troubled him.
“Excuse me, sir,” he began. “Could you be so kind as to tell me whether heaven and hell really exist?”
The monk looked at him intensely and, all of a sudden, his eyes turned to fire as he yelled, “You are an ignorant samurai! Do you think that I would waste my time trying to explain something so complex to someone as stupid as you?”
Enraged, the warrior drew his sword, intending to strike down the offending monk for insulting him. Doesn’t he know any better than that? the samurai asked himself as he raised his sword over his head.
As he did, the monk exclaimed, “Here open the gates of hell!” gesturing at the drawn sword.
Surprised, the samurai stopped, pondered a moment, and then slowly resheathed his sword.
“Here open the gates of heaven!” observed the monk.
The sword, the hand – what matters is what one does with it, and as the monk implied, the choices are of our own creation.
To win one hundred victories in one hundred battles
is not the highest skill.
To subdue the enemy without fighting
is the highest skill.
– Sun Tzu
It was a hot summer day. Noguchi was in a very bad mood, which was not so extraordinary for Noguchi but that day was particularly bad. The ferry across the channel was very crowded, and Noguchi, a samurai, did not like mingling with common people. They smelled bad. They spoke too loudly, and they had an annoying tendency to always be in his way. On board the boat, every way he turned, there was one of them before him – a smelly man, or a woman with a crying baby.
Noguchi could not understand why anyone would want a baby anyway. He was above such things. He didn’t waste his time with women and children. He practiced martial arts all day, and he enjoyed being in situations where he could use his skills. That was the one redeeming feature about being on a stupid boat with crowds of people. Someone was bound to do something that would require Noguchi to make some “correction.” And that invariably involved swordplay, which was his passion.
He took out a flask of rice wine and started drinking. In no time at all, he was drunk. Oh, how he loved that feeling! He fumbled in his pocket for his pipe and began filling it. A crowd of people gathered around the tipsy samurai. He bragged about what a great warrior he was and about all the men he had defeated. Noguchi’s audience noted that he looked too young for all the experience he claimed to have, but he was certainly very muscular.
The boat suddenly swayed and Noguchi banged into the railing, dropping his pipe into the water. His face turned scarlet. People backed away, wary of his anger. Noguchi swore and reached for his sword.
An older man approached respectfully, dropped on his knees and offered Noguchi his pipe. “Please sir, take mine,” he said.
Noguchi looked at the man with eyes of fury. “Old man, do you really think I would ever put something of yours in my mouth? I am a samurai!” He slowly drew out his sword, relishing every moment as the crowd watched in horror. The old man lay before Noguchi, his head touching the deck in a deep bow. He shivered uncontrollably as the samurai admired how his shining sword glistened in the sunlight.
“Look,” a boy yelled, breaking the tension. “There’s another samurai!” He pointed to the other end of the boat, where a man with white hair sat. His eyes were closed, but he seemed alert, listening carefully to what was going on.
Everyone ran over to see this second samurai, even Noguchi, who was curious and a bit annoyed that a samurai had been secretly observing him. Who the heck is he? Noguchi was thinking. What makes him think he can steal my thunder? And just at the best part!
Noguchi walked through the throng, reached over, and shook the smaller man. “You also carry a pair of swords. Why not say something?”
“The sea rocks this boat enough! Why don’t you leave everyone in peace so we can enjoy the refreshing sea breezes and the sparkle of the sun. It’s much cooler out here on the ocean. Even a hothead like you can learn to appreciate that, if you try.” The white-haired man’s calm inspired the others, who felt less afraid in his presence. Sensing this, Noguchi dramatically pulled out his sword to the gasps of the onlookers.
The old man slowly rose, carefully picking straw from his kimono. “My art is different from yours. It consists not in defeating others, but in not being defeated.”
This incensed Noguchi even more. “You carry the swords of the samurai, old man. Have you no longer the might of the samurai?”
“I need neither swords nor might to defeat you. But let us not trouble these good people with our quarrel.” The older samurai pointed across to the deeper water, far out to sea. “There, on one of the deserted islands, the greater samurai will prevail.”
“And you will fight me without swords?”
“Certainly.”
“What is your school of swordsmanship, then?”
“It is known as the School of Defeating the Enemy Without Hands; that is, without using a sword.”
“Why, then, do you carry a sword?”
“This sword is not meant to kill others, but is a tool of my own development. It represents the search within myself to cut out fear, selfishness, and indecision. This sword symbolizes the power of my quest. It tells me I can never quit. It demands of me that I never be defeated in the things I wish to do.”
“Fine, you’ll fight me without swords! Let’s go!” Noguchi called for the boatman. “I’m anxious to have a go at this old man who will fight me without swords,” he said. “I hope I won’t become too afraid when we arrive at the island! You’re not going to spook me, are you, old man?”
The boat advanced toward a solitary island far off in the blue sea. Noguchi pranced with excitement as they neared the island, so keen was he to prove once again how great he was. As they approached, Noguchi jumped off the boat and, drawing his sword, stood standing on the water’s edge ready for combat. The older samurai removed his own swords and gave them to the boatman.
“So you still think you can defeat me without swords, old man,” Noguchi shouted.
“You raise your sword without understanding, Noguchi, so even the boatman’s bamboo pole can conquer you.” The old man grabbed the pole and, with one great shove, he pushed the ship back out to sea, safely out of reach of the man with a sword on the shore.
“Coward!” Noguchi yelled over the sound of the waves. “What do you think you are doing? Come out and fight!”
“I have fought.” Noguchi heard the old man’s voice call over the wind. “And, without a sword, I have defeated you. Wits are the best weapon of all. This is my No-hands school.” The boat continued on its journey, minus one passenger.
Thieves in Old Japan
In any society, a thief is a thief But in Japan, a society that so values honor, thieves are particularly looked down on. Many samurai stories take place at a time in Japanese history when thieves were as innumerable as grains of sand on a beach. In these stories, the thief is the complete opposite of the samurai. Deceit and theft are the opposite of the honor and respect of the samurai spirit. A thief brings disgrace not only on himself, but on his entire family. Even after a thief was executed, his body received no respect, but was used by samurai to test the sharpness of their swords and the power of their strokes.
A thief, chased by a band of villagers, had taken a young boy hostage. Threatening to slit the throat of his prisoner if anyone came near, he sat with the boy in a bam while the villagers waited anxiously a short distance away. When the boy’s mother approached in tears, the thief became nervous. She fell back, terrified for her child’s life. The kidnapper became more and more agitated as other, calmer people tried to reason with him. He made no demands. He just sat with his knife to the throat of the child. Everyone feared the worst, but couldn’t think of anything to do without endangering the boy.
A traveling samurai entered what appeared to be an abandoned village. Then, in the distance, he saw a crowd of people and heard a woman wailing. He approached and asked what was happening. People saw a sign of hope in his arrival, but what could he do? As soon as he tried to get close, the thief would become agitated and perhaps murder the child.
The samurai, an admirer of the teachings of Musashi Miyamoto, sat down to think things out. Musashi had always stressed the importance of developing a strategy and approaching a problem with an intelligent and resolute mind. What would Musashi do in a situation like this?
Suddenly the warrior jumped up. He asked his hosts to get him a pail of hot water and a razor. It seemed a strange time for a shave, but they were sure he must have an idea. When the implements arrived, he asked their help in cutting off his spectacular hair. They watched in horror as he shaved his head and began to resemble a Buddhist priest. Somebody found a priest’s robe and, removing his swords and elegant clothing, the samurai put on the plain, rough garment.
It was amazing how his demeanor changed, from that of a fierce warrior to that of a gentle priest. The villagers were aware of the great sacrifice he had just made. His swords and clothes could be put on again later, but what of his hair, which a samurai always kept long and tied in a distinguished style?
The samurai himself was undisturbed by these thoughts. He asked the boy’s mother to bring him some rice cakes. Carrying the cakes on a large plate, he approached the barn, gently explaining that he was a Buddhist priest here to offer some rice cakes for the thief and his hostage to eat. “You need some nourishment. And the boy must eat as well. I am here to bring you some food, and then I will immediately turn around and go back.”
The kidnapper let him approach a little closer and then cried out: “Stop! That is close enough.” After eyeing the “priest” carefully, the kidnapper reached for a rice cake. “I can’t reach,” he said as he tried to keep his grip on the boy while reaching to take the cakes. “But you can’t come any closer!”
The samurai threw the kidnapper one of the rice cakes. The man easily caught it in his hand, still holding the boy. The samurai threw him the second cake – this time a little to the side. The kidnapper reached to grab the rice cake, and in a flash the samurai leaped into the bam. The villagers heard the sound of a fierce struggle. Finally, the kidnapper walked out of the bam alone, looking stunned. What had happened inside that bam? People were afraid to imagine. A moment later, the kidnapper crumpled to the ground.
The samurai emerged from the barn with the frightened boy in his arms. As the crowd of onlookers cried out in joy, he reunited the boy and his mother. Mother and son returned home. The samurai changed back into his regular clothes, stashed his swords in his belt, and continued on his journey.
As evening fell, his shaved head became cold. He missed his thick hair. But he was happy to be a samurai, and thankful for the gift that his training had given him. He knew Musashi would be proud! He had maintained a calm mind and had faced, unarmed, a man brandishing a knife.
An enemy you vanquish remains your enemy.
An enemy you convince becomes your friend.
– Chinese proverb
A thousand years ago, Hakamadare was the most renowned thief in Japan. His methods were simple. He was muscular and imposing, and he was unafraid to fight if he had to. Usually he didn’t have to. He would select a victim, follow him, and, when the moment was right, ask his victim for his clothes or food or whatever else he wanted. People were afraid of him and were quick to meet his demands so that they could carry on in good health.
Hakamadare saw little need to work as hard as everyone else. It was easier for him to “ask” others when he needed something. And he didn’t have to waste his time in the market. He simply picked out the best that other people had spent time and effort selecting. He wore the richest clothes and ate the finest foods. He knew that he had a comfortable life and he appreciated his good fate.
Autumn was approaching. The leaves were falling and the weather was becoming colder. Hakamadare realized that his summer clothes were no longer adequate. It occurred to him that it was time for him to do some “shopping.” But the hour was late. That the market place was dark and empty did not trouble him. What did bother him was that it was unlikely that he would encounter anyone on the streets until morning. He would have to spend a cold night in his thin clothes. He should have thought of this earlier. Oh well, it was just a question of waiting a few hours until daylight. Then the streets would be teeming with victims.
As he was about to curl up in a doorway to sleep, he saw a man walking down the street. The man appeared to be holding something in his hand that he brought to his mouth. Judging by the sound Hakamadare was hearing, the man was holding a flute.
Hakamadare could not believe his good fortune. He looked around. The man was well dressed and was unaccompanied by any bodyguards. He was totally caught up in the music he was playing. He seemed oblivious to everything – to the houses around him, to the hour, and to the fact that a man of his wealth should not be strolling in the street unprotected. This will be too easy, thought Hakamadare. Just for the sport, he decided to follow the man before moving into action.
At first, Hakamadare enjoyed the fan of stalking a foolish person, and the anticipation of stealing a large purse. But as he followed, he realized that there was something strange about his quarry’s conduct. Although Hakamadare was making plenty of noise (that was part of the fun!) and the man must have known that someone was stalking him, he didn’t seem in the least bit worried. He never stopped playing the flute, even for a moment, as if the minor disturbance of being stalked was not going to ruin his harmony with the night and the music.
Hakamadare ran in front of the man. The flute player glanced at him but did not change his pace. Hakamadare ran round and round him, with the same result. The man simply raised his eyes to look, and continued making his beautiful music. It wasn’t possible to jump on him, as Hakamadare would usually do. The man was unafraid. This made Hakamadare nervous. He backed off.
Hakamadare the Thief was suddenly overcome with fear – fear of this eccentric, obviously well-to-do man who was completely unperturbed by the imposing stranger following him in the dark of night on a deserted street. For the first time in his life, it was Hakamadare, not his intended victim, who was shaking right down to his bones. What is happening? Why am I afraid? he asked himself.
He had no answer. But he had great confidence in his martial abilities. It was cold and he was not about to give up the beautiful suit of clothes walking in front of him. Take a chance! he told himself.
Hakamadare drew his sword and, with a loud kiai, jumped in front of the flute player. The man, for the first time, put aside his flute and looked at the drawn sword. “May I ask what you think you are doing?” he asked.
Hakamadare was struck by an awesome fear, as if he had been addressed by a devil. He dropped on his hands and knees in a position of complete submission to this demon.
“What are you doing?” the man repeated.
“I am trying to rob you,” Hakamadare blurted out.
“You are? Well, you are certainly going about it in a strange way. What is your name?”
“I am Hakamadare,” he said proudly, but with a tremor in his voice.
“Yes, I have heard that name. A very dangerous fellow, I am told – brawny, very good with a sword.” Then the man said, “Follow me,” and continued playing the flute.
Hakamadare sheepishly followed the man as if pulled along by some invisible force. He felt that he could never escape from this man’s power, no matter how he tried. They passed through a beautiful gate and crossed the sumptuous gardens surrounding a large house. Hakamadare realized that his intended victim must be an important official.
The man removed his shoes and entered the house. “Wait here,” he said. A few moments later he came outside and handed Hakamadare a beautiful kimono made of heavy cotton – one that would keep him very warm indeed. “If in the future you need something, come and tell me. If you jump on somebody who doesn’t know your intentions, you may get hurt.”
Hearing these words, the thief realized he was in the presence of Governor Yasumasa, a famous warrior known for his strong mind and incredible power. His weapon – a flute – was stronger than any sword.
Later, when Hakamadare was eventually arrested and led past the governor’s house on his way to prison, he said to his guards, “I know that man.”
Nobody believed him.
To test the true mettle of a man, give him power. Yasumasa exemplifies the samurai ethic of developing strength, not to possess power over others, but to have power over yourself. For Yasumasa, the flute was his weapon, and his compassion was his strength.
I try to remember this story every time I get angry. I tell myself. Be a real samurai. Keep control. Be gentle! And so I’ve saved myself a lot of grief – grief that would have been purely self-inflicted.
The Art of Tea
In the Japan of earlier years, the teamaster was a highly respected artist. He specialized in the creation of a relaxing and harmonious environment, as well as in the art of brewing superb tea.
The teaman’s room was decorated with exquisite harmony and simplicity, perhaps with a single painting or flower, all pleasing to the eye and to the soul. The teaman would bring the water to the proper temperature, creating a beautiful music from the sound of the liquid boiling, like a stream dancing through the forest. He carefully steeped the highest-quality tea for just the right amount of time. And the art of serving the tea was sublime – his hands not just holding, but caressing the cup, as he poured the steaming liquid with superb self-control.
The samurai, in the presence of a master teaman, was relieved of the tensions of his difficult profession. Even in the midst of the most formidable challenges and dangers, the samurai would find serenity in the calm presence of a master teaman.
In the seventeenth century, Lord Yama-no-uchi wanted to take his teamaster along with him on his official visit to Edo (now Tokyo). The teamaster was not happy about this, for Edo was not a peaceful place, and he was not a samurai capable of defending himself. His intuition told him there would inevitably be trouble for him there.
Yet his master insisted. The lord obviously desired to show off the special talents of his teamaster to his colleagues in the big city. To counter the teaman’s arguments, he gave him the attire of a samurai to wear, including two swords. He explained that no one would trouble him when he was “dressed to kill.”
The teamaster’s visit was indeed uneventful. He stayed at the host’s house, performing the tea ceremony for the many samurai who came to experience his artistry. One day he was given time to go and sightsee in the famous city.
Dressed as a samurai, he set out to visit an ancient temple. He passed a rough-looking samurai leaning against a large rock. The samurai was obviously a ronin, a samurai who has lost his position, perhaps due to chance, personal disgrace, or incompetence. The teamaster did not want to walk past the masterless samurai, fearing that there might be trouble, and he hesitated. That hesitation was a mistake. The ruffian accosted him.
“I see from your crest that you are a samurai from Tosa and therefore a student of the famous Yama-no-uchi. I would consider it a great honor if you permitted me to try my skill in swordplay with you,” the man said.
Now, even the teamaster recognized the ronin’s request as a challenge to a duel to the death. He understood that his moment of hesitation had thrown him into hot water, and that he was well on the way to being cooked.
“I am not actually a samurai,” replied the teamaster. “I am only dressed as one to please my master. I am a teamaster, and hardly worthy to be your opponent.”
“Nevertheless, samurai or teamaster, you carry two swords. We will fight.”
The ronin’s real hope was that the teaman would offer him money to avoid the fight. Then he would be able to boast that he defeated a samurai from Tosa, a student of the great Yama-no-uchi. But the teamaster had no money and, realizing that there was no escape, he accepted his fate. He was ready to die under the ronin’s sword.
Even though he wasn’t a samurai, the teamaster did not wish to die dishonorably. He remembered that he had seen a swordsman’s training school just a short distance away. Perhaps he could go and ask the master at least how to hold the sword. That way he could face his inevitable death standing up as a samurai for the last moments of his life.
“If you insist that we must fight, then I have no choice but to agree. But since I am on my master’s business, I must first make my report to him. Then I will come back to meet you here. You must give me a bit of time.”
The ronin agreed. The teamaster rushed to the school and made an urgent request to see the master. The sensei was teaching a class, and his assistant was reluctant to disturb him for such a strange and unexpected entreaty. Yet there was something so extraordinary about this man before him that he went to get the master.
The master listened intently to the story of a man caught in the grip of fate, hurtling toward a disastrous finale. “I am not a samurai, but if I am so dressed and must fight, then I wish to die as a samurai! Will you please help me?” asked the teamaster.
The master was surprised. “Pupils come to study here to learn how to fight with the sword. They are seldom interested in learning how to face death well. But before I begin to teach you how to face death as a samurai, could you please honor me by serving me a cup of tea?”
The teamaster of Tosa was delighted to have a last chance to practice his beloved art. Forgetting about the impending tragedy, he proceeded to prepare tea with the utmost serenity. The master swordsman watched closely as the master of tea went through all the stages of the art as if it were the only business in the world that concerned him. The master swordsman felt humbled in the presence of someone with such a concentrated state of mind. At the end, he sat tranquilly, enjoying the aroma wafting from his delicious cup of tea, savoring the delectable taste within his mouth, experiencing the feel of the cup he held in his two hands, which seemed to warm his whole body.
“There you are!” exclaimed the swordmaster. “There is no need for you to learn the art of dying as a samurai. Your state of mind is more than enough to cope with any opponent.
“When you see your ronin, proceed as follows. First, imagine you are about to serve tea for a guest. Greet him cordially, apologize for the delay, and tell him that you are now ready. For you really are ready! Take off your outer coat, fold it up, and carefully place your fan on it, just as you do when you prepare your tea ceremony. Put on your headband, tie your sleeves, and adjust your samurai gown. You are now prepared. Draw your sword, and lift it high up above your head in full readiness to strike down your opponent. Focus your thoughts on your combat, as you would focus on making tea. When you hear him give a yell, strike him down with your sword. It will probably end in a draw as you slay each other, for his superior technique will give him no greater advantage than your superior state of mind.”
The teaman thanked the master for teaching him how to be a samurai, if even for such a brief time. He would be able to die proudly without disgracing his lord.
He returned to his opponent, stood straight, and bowed. He scrupulously followed all the instructions of the sword-master. He carried within him the same state of mind he had when he was serving tea. Narrowing his eyes, he slowly raised his sword high up above his head.
As he held his own sword firmly, the ronin saw before him an altogether different person from the man he had met in the road. His eyes moved quickly from his opponent’s sword to his fiercely focused eyes, but he could see no opening in which to attack. The teaman appeared to him now as the very embodiment of fearlessness.
Instead of yelling and advancing upon his opponent, the ronin slowly retreated. Finally he cried out, “I’m finished.” Then he dropped his sword and fell to his knees in front of the teaman. He asked the teaman’s pardon for his rudeness and begged to be spared. The teaman gave permission for the ronin to leave without harm.
The teaman placed his swords back in the sheaths, where he believed they had always belonged. He had lived a samurai experience instead of dying a samurai death.
It is unlikely that this is a true story. But this tale was a favorite of samurai, which shows us how important its message is. The teaman generally knows nothing about swordplay and cannot in any way be a match for a trained swordsman. The story succeeds, however, in giving us an idea of what a person can accomplish in a situation even without the “necessary” technical training, if only his mind is resolute. The only failure is not trying.
A few years ago, I was speeding down a wide Toronto street on my bicycle when I saw two people fighting on the sidewalk. A kid of about seventeen was being pushed and punched by a very large man. Seeing a bicycle lying on the ground next to the kid, I guessed that he must have been riding on the crowded sidewalk and had accidentally slammed into the man.
It was probably one too many careless bicyclists for the man to tolerate – I could sympathize with his reaching the breaking point. Yet I also felt companionship with the poor guy getting his head smashed in. After all, he was a fellow cyclist. He was also just a young man who had already paid for his mistake with his broken bicycle. I couldn’t help feeling that this muscle-bound guy was punishing all teenagers for being in his way, taking out his aggression on one person for the trouble he thought that all teenagers caused him. Like many people, he probably blamed teenagers for the increase in crime, in violence, in welfare cases – for virtually all the troubles of the world. It was unfair.
I jumped off my bicycle and ran between the two, trying to calm down the red-faced man. Flexing his muscles to show he meant business, he yelled at me to get out of his way so that he could “teach this stupid kid a lesson about riding his bike on the sidewalk.” But the kid had been given all the lesson he could reasonably take. He was bleeding from his nose and was frozen with fear. I yelled at him to run, and it finally registered that he could escape while I was keeping his attacker busy. He vanished.
Now the man was really in a rage, and I was his new target. I watched him come at me. All the noise of the crowded street disappeared, and I saw only him and his huge fists flying toward my face in slow motion. I felt his anger, but I had no desire to hurt him. I stepped back at the exact moment his punch was to connect with my chin. He lost his balance and his huge frame made impact with thin air instead of solid flesh. With a bewildered look, he glared at me. He had punched right where I was a split second before. Like a mad bull, he charged at me with all his might. Again, I stepped aside at the moment of his full impact on my body, which was no longer there, and he toppled forward onto the broken bicycle. By this time a crowd had gathered. The big man got up quickly, ready to attack once more.
“The kid was wrong,” I said, “and you taught him a lesson. I’m here to help you. You might have killed him if I hadn’t stopped you. Let go of your anger before it makes you do something you will always regret.”
He glared at me, knowing he should be able to beat me, and not understanding why he couldn’t. I stood in front of him, my body relaxed, my mind resolute.
I was like the teamaster, ready to react, hoping I wouldn’t have to. But there was no way he was going to fall on his knees in front of me and beg for forgiveness! He was red with rage; heat appeared to be steaming out of his whole being. I thought of running, abandoning my bike, yet I had no doubt he would be right behind me, probably following me right into my class. Wouldn’t an actual demonstration surprise my students? I could hear them saying, “My ethics teacher brought a guest speaker to class; instead of debating, they fought it out.”
The man stepped right in front of me, and I thought he was going to yell at me. Instead he suddenly spit right into my face. Then he turned and walked away.
Nothing ever ends as well as in a story, I thought, as I wiped the hot spit off my face. But it was okay! The young guy got away; I didn’t have to hit anybody; and even the man walked away with some semblance of dignity. Getting the last shot in, I believe, gave him something he needed, and I was happy for him. I could have gone after him, given him a good kick in the groin or punch in the face as retribution. But it had turned out all right; in fact, for the twenty-first century, very well indeed!
I went to the university and taught my class, but first I washed my face more thoroughly than I have ever done in my life.
Perhaps that man sometimes thinks of me, just as I occasionally think of him. I was as enraged as he was when he spit in my face. I had a right to be. Yet I controlled my emotions, turning my anger into something positive.
The Youngest Japanese Emperor
Hojo Tokimune (1251-1284) was only seventeen years old when his father died, leaving him as supreme ruler of Japan. He governed during the period of the Mongolian Invasions. The Mongolians had already conquered China, Russia, and most of Asia. They were merciless with the people they defeated, and would cut down, maim, and torture for the slightest of excuses. Many Chinese had escaped the Mongolians by fleeing across the Western Sea into Japan, bringing tales of the horror of their occupation. Tokimune vowed that he would never see Japan under such foreign occupation, and his resistance stood as a symbol for the Japanese people for the centuries to come.
The Mongolians were amused at this “child-ruler,” the inexperienced leader of a small nation, puny in size and population compared to China or Russia. Japan had only sword-wielding samurai warriors and a spirit, fueled by their young leader, that they would never be defeated.
Tokimune was sheer energy. He never stopped working, thinking, planning, and training to make himself and his nation strong. People believed in him and, through his leadership, came to believe in themselves. They looked within themselves to draw out the same energy and spirit that propelled their young ruler.
Tokimune once asked Bukko, his teacher and closest adviser, “The worst enemy of our life is cowardice. How can I escape it?”
“Cut off the source from which cowardice comes,” answered Bukko.
“Where does it come from?”
“It comes from Tokimune himself.”
“Above all things, cowardice is what I hate most. How can it come from myself?”
“See how you feel when you throw overboard your cherished self known as Tokimune. I will see you again when you have done that.”
“How can this be done?”
“Learn to shut out all your thoughts.”
“How can my thoughts be shut out of consciousness?”
“Train everyday and learn to lose yourself in the process of what you are doing. Practice martial arts as a meditation-inaction, learning to focus your complete attention on the technique you are executing. When you have four attackers coming at you, become indistinguishable from them. Move as they move; think as they think. Then you will become invisible. Tokimune will no longer exist for them to defeat. If you think too much of Tokimune, you will not know them, and they will have no trouble defeating you. Learn how to block out thoughts. Become totally spontaneous, but a spontaneity which comes from disciplined training.”
“I have so much to look after. I control the destiny of my country. There are so many worldly matters that I must take care of. It is difficult for me to find time for such training. There is so much else that I must do.”
“Whatever worldly matters you are engaged in, even the defence of the country, make time for inner reflection. And then some day you will find out who this beloved Tokimune of yours is.”
Tokimune revered Bukko. He listened closely and acted on his advice. When he finally received word that hundreds of thousands of Mongolian invaders had crossed the sea and were approaching Japan, he immediately went to see Bukko, his teacher.
“The greatest event of my life is about to take place!” “And how do you face it?”
“Katsu!” Tokimune yelled fiercely, as if all his enemies were standing right before him.
“Truly a lion’s child roars like a lion,” Bukko said happily, realizing that Japan stood a chance. Bukko was Chinese. He had lived under the Mongolians before crossing the sea and taking refuge in Japan. He above all others knew what it would take to defeat these terrifying warriors.
This was the courage with which Tokimune faced the overwhelming force of the invaders and drove them back, and this was how a child ruler defeated an empire.
Sometimes when I am training
I become no longer me.
A thing is brought forth
I didn’t know I had.
The mild man becomes the thundering lion.
And then all is quiet.
To the samurai, martial arts are the poetry of action. Tokimune discovered the lion within his being. He then went out and defeated the Mongolians: the most powerful nation on the earth – conqueror of Asia and Europe – defeated by a teenager.