comforting ache of good use. But he knew his time was short, that the days burned away with finality. He needed to goad his victims into the trap while his strength was still with him. The video killings were the first step. Before he made the long trek to a strange land, the old master had pondered strategy for countless nights. His rage burned like an ember smoldering in the ashes. And, finally, a plan had crystallized, like some occult jewel emerging from a furnace.
The old man bowed before the wooden rack that held his swords. He lifted the katana , the long sword, and drew it from its scabbard. The blade was a milky white in the moonlight. The men he now trained had no use for the old techniques, and that was fine. The old man still had much to teach them. He made them into weapons of a different design. But he still held onto the old ways, and the discipline of his ancestors was both a challenge and a comfort in this strange place. He worked the blade through the darkness in exercises that were centuries old. The sword cut through the air again and again as his spirit fed on a new certainty. And, as that insight came, the sword sang a new song in the growing darkness.
With a final swoop, the katana was returned to its scabbard. Night spread like spilt ink and the camp grew quiet. The only noise was the rustle of leaves and the static-like chorus of insects. It had begun. He would test himself one last time. To revenge what had been lost. The old man closed his eyes and, motionless, could feel the silent weaving of his plan as it came together.
6
SMOKE
Yamashita says we’re surrounded by subtle vibrations—the energy the Japanese call ki that fills the world like an electric charge. If you’re adept, you can feel it buzzing in your head and playing along your skin. I’ve seen my sensei , a being alive to an invisible world, stop in mid-technique and let his eyes gaze inward as the surge of ki washes over him. And I’ve felt it, too, but not as intensely. The experience of ki is tactile and aural and inexplicable, all at the same time. But it’s elusive: for many of us, the sensitivity comes and goes. It’s just as well. Everyone needs a break.
I sat in a corner desk in the reading room of the Dharma House, logging in books. The air is still here. Not much aggressive energy. There was the low level hum of chanting from a distant meditation room. The scent of old incense drifted through the air, soft, diffuse and almost undetectable. For me, the press of ki is a thing most often associated with danger. And the Dharma House is a refuge of sorts, so I was off my guard.
A wealthy and eccentric Manhattan socialite had created the place as a center for the study of Tibetan Buddhism. I knew the head lama , a remarkable teacher and mystic named Changpa. Not too long ago, we had shared an experience that still troubled him—even holy men have nightmares. He had given me a job when the university let me go, letting me serve as a type of librarian for the center’s expanding reading room. It was a good deal for all concerned: Changpa was able to follow the Buddha’s admonition to be compassionate. I got to pay my rent.
Those who came to the Dharma House were different from the people I worked with in the dojo . Here, they were often fragile and frightened: thin, pale young men with scraggly beards; women with wet, wide eyes and drab, formless clothes. Changpa stretched his arms out in welcome to them and there was an almost chemical reaction when he did so. The tension in their shoulders melted away, their faces grew calm, and their movements less jerky. It was an amazing thing to see: the spectacle of human unfolding under the guidance of a master teacher. It was part of what I enjoyed about working there.
I was a seeker, too, but of a different sort. If Changpa was like a soft breeze, a nurturing wind to his disciples, my teacher Yamashita was like a furnace. He forged the human spirit through hard effort and
The old man bowed before the wooden rack that held his swords. He lifted the katana , the long sword, and drew it from its scabbard. The blade was a milky white in the moonlight. The men he now trained had no use for the old techniques, and that was fine. The old man still had much to teach them. He made them into weapons of a different design. But he still held onto the old ways, and the discipline of his ancestors was both a challenge and a comfort in this strange place. He worked the blade through the darkness in exercises that were centuries old. The sword cut through the air again and again as his spirit fed on a new certainty. And, as that insight came, the sword sang a new song in the growing darkness.
With a final swoop, the katana was returned to its scabbard. Night spread like spilt ink and the camp grew quiet. The only noise was the rustle of leaves and the static-like chorus of insects. It had begun. He would test himself one last time. To revenge what had been lost. The old man closed his eyes and, motionless, could feel the silent weaving of his plan as it came together.
6
SMOKE
Yamashita says we’re surrounded by subtle vibrations—the energy the Japanese call ki that fills the world like an electric charge. If you’re adept, you can feel it buzzing in your head and playing along your skin. I’ve seen my sensei , a being alive to an invisible world, stop in mid-technique and let his eyes gaze inward as the surge of ki washes over him. And I’ve felt it, too, but not as intensely. The experience of ki is tactile and aural and inexplicable, all at the same time. But it’s elusive: for many of us, the sensitivity comes and goes. It’s just as well. Everyone needs a break.
I sat in a corner desk in the reading room of the Dharma House, logging in books. The air is still here. Not much aggressive energy. There was the low level hum of chanting from a distant meditation room. The scent of old incense drifted through the air, soft, diffuse and almost undetectable. For me, the press of ki is a thing most often associated with danger. And the Dharma House is a refuge of sorts, so I was off my guard.
A wealthy and eccentric Manhattan socialite had created the place as a center for the study of Tibetan Buddhism. I knew the head lama , a remarkable teacher and mystic named Changpa. Not too long ago, we had shared an experience that still troubled him—even holy men have nightmares. He had given me a job when the university let me go, letting me serve as a type of librarian for the center’s expanding reading room. It was a good deal for all concerned: Changpa was able to follow the Buddha’s admonition to be compassionate. I got to pay my rent.
Those who came to the Dharma House were different from the people I worked with in the dojo . Here, they were often fragile and frightened: thin, pale young men with scraggly beards; women with wet, wide eyes and drab, formless clothes. Changpa stretched his arms out in welcome to them and there was an almost chemical reaction when he did so. The tension in their shoulders melted away, their faces grew calm, and their movements less jerky. It was an amazing thing to see: the spectacle of human unfolding under the guidance of a master teacher. It was part of what I enjoyed about working there.
I was a seeker, too, but of a different sort. If Changpa was like a soft breeze, a nurturing wind to his disciples, my teacher Yamashita was like a furnace. He forged the human spirit through hard effort and
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