Read the Unreadable
By Cedar Ree
I would like to invite you to walk with the 21-year-old me out of the dojo after training. Sometimes the sky is dipped in navy blue like a keikogi; sometimes it is dyed by the sunset glow like a colourful tenugui. Feeling the soreness in my muscles, the pain from another blister, and the laughter from talking about kendo with my friend while quickly deciding between ramen or pho for dinner.
That was one of the best memories in my kendo life, and I wanted to share it with you as we talk about kendo like friends through this essay, even though we may never know each other.
I titled this essay “Read the Unreadable,” because we cannot literally read other people’s minds. What I experienced to be possible in kendo practice was tuning into the moment to connect with my opponent, which could feel like reading the other person, even though they are technically unreadable.
But the feeling and the calm balance of my mind were not consistent, and I sometimes felt the “wholeness” around the opponent that I either could not see an opening or I had to pay more attention to read them and became distracted.
Usually, it would be a 5 dan or 6 dan kendoka where I felt their “wholeness” from their kamae, shinai, or waza. But if I could “shake” the “wholeness,” that would be my opportunity to score. In shiai, sometimes it could look like there was a draw or a hard win for my opponent.
But I noticed if I met an opponent who has a passive and reactive style or is experienced and can plan steps ahead of me, my reading wouldn’t work. Because it would be either there is nothing to read or my reading is slower than their planning.
Now I think about my experience of reading people during practice, maybe it was from my educational background, where there was training about observing people while maintaining neutrality. I think learning about mindfulness and reflecting on my kendo practice from that perspective helped too.
Maybe it could also be my upbringing, where my parents could sometimes beat me so quickly before I was able to digest the wrong I’d done. Plus, some other tough experiences that I had in my childhood and adolescence, perhaps I’ve also learned to read people’s body language and behaviours to some extent to protect myself. I’m only sharing this part of my non-kendo life as an additional perspective in looking at my experience in kendo. Please don’t see it through a rosy lens and think getting beaten as a child or beating your child can help them become more resilient or get better at kendo. In my opinion, there is a fine line between discipline and abuse.
I feel those life experiences also shaped my perspective on the disciplining part of kendo―the advantage is that I could accept sensei’s scolding/yelling and tough trainings as part of the kendo culture, and the (biggest) disadvantage is that I could be insensitive to unfair treatment and hostility in kendo until they significantly affected my wellbeing.
When in jigeiko and shiai, maybe the competitive vibe during fighting potentially elicited my self-protection and temporarily improved my ability to observe my opponent. But I personally don’t think that type of experience would be healthy to my wellbeing in the long run. Imagine constantly reminding yourself of your painful past and trying to win the present. It can feel like subconsciously tearing yourself apart just to fight―if aggression driven by fear and survival instincts is considered as fighting spirit, is that what kendo tries to teach people?
I believe that arrogance is not confidence, aggression is not courage. If an art that has a component of discipline but does not bring the good out of human character, then there is something wrong either with the art itself or with people’s interpretation and practice of the art.
Back to our current topic, most of time I found myself being able to read people in tsubazeriai―which pretty much became my comfort spot for a long time and hiki-waza was my favourite waza.
In tsubazeriai, it felt like having a calm balance between awareness and attention―being aware of the presence of myself (I exist), my opponent (the scoring points exist on them), and the kendo we are doing (our shinai exist), at the same time, paying attention to my opponent’s eyes―look into them but not being influenced by them. My experience was that my opponent’s eyes could “tell” me whether to strike, when to strike, and where to strike, and I would follow―it was a subtle feeling which I still struggle to convey it fully in words. But all the movements happened while my mind was calm and stayed in present. What I saw were the emotions from my opponent’s eyes, the action of hitting felt like an afterthought rather than a process of active planning.
When not in tsubazeriai, I felt the “reading” was done through the connection of touching the tips of our shinai. Now I think about it, it was the same feeling as crossing bokuto in kata, where there was a continuous connection. It felt like reading unwritten messages from my opponent or as if there was a flow―having a silent conversation with them through the contact of the shinai. Sometimes it made me ask them a question by mirroring their kendo style at that moment: “maybe you can win against me, but can you win against yourself?” It was a fun experience. I took it as my shiai trick but it was a question I constantly asked myself too―maybe I can win against my opponent, but can I win against myself that I saw from my opponent? My angry self, my hesitant self, my violent self, my frustrated self, my arrogant self, my fearful self.
That would lead to more questions to myself than to my opponent after practice:
Even during the most heated shiai, could I still see my opponent as another fellow human-being who is neither superior nor inferior to me?
Could I still congratulate and feel truly happy for my opponent when they score a beautiful point on me and/or win against me?
Could I still see the beauty of their kendo even from people I would rather not have anything to do with outside of the temporary moments when we had to practice or compete together?
I believe I was also reading myself from my opponent. Maybe that could be what “kendo is personal” means―at the end of the day, in jigeiko or in shiai, there was only (my) kendo and me. Was I fighting an opponent, or the opponent I interpreted them to be?
Either way, it doesn’t remove the negativity and danger if my opponent fights with the intention to cause harm. The harmful fights could happen both in (physical) and outside of shiaijo (mostly psychological).
I would like to pose a few questions for sensei and training leaders:
Do you believe that the psychological and physical safety (wellbeing) of practitioners should be prioritised in training?
Do you care about your students’ wellbeing beyond their technical performance in kendo?
Do you believe that mutual respect should be present in the dojo from the moment someone enters, regardless of their background or kendo experience?
Do you rely on personal preferences when communicating or training with kendoka of different ranks and backgrounds?
People can change their attitude towards others fairly quickly based on their senseis’ due to various reasons. To me, it’s another form of “reading the unreadable,” but again, is that what kendo tries to teach people?
Without the respect, glory, and admiration brought by your kendo ranks, skills, and in-dojo life, can you still feel content with your kendo and with who you are as a human-being?
I thought I would feel the same rage I had whenever I thought about kendo, but as I’m sharing my thoughts now, the feeling of gratitude comes back to me. It reminds me of the countless “Arigatou gozaimashita(s)” I said during kendo practice. Although I’m pretty sure I did not always say it with true gratitude and sincerity, that expression still makes sense―thank you for training with me, thank you for being my opponent, thank you for helping me improve. Thank you for connecting with me.
The night is late on my end. I hope you enjoyed this walk and chat through my words. It was nice to revisit my kendo life, and I appreciate you reading this essay.
P.S. Beef pho is an awesome choice for post-training dinner apart from ramen, in my opinion. I feel like I can enjoy it again now.
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