Zanshin
Max was wielding his sword with an unusual focus that night. The sound of bamboo against padded aluminum carried quite far in the crisp fall air, and the noise of our duel could be heard for nearly a block and a half. There's nothing quite like a sword fight. I've tried many times to find some kind of parallel, but nothing seems to fit. Once you've bowed to your opponent, you've stepped outside the normal rules, the old examples no longer apply.
I met Max for the first time in my sophomore year, highschool. I fought Max for the first time in my junior year of the same. The best of friends, my fondest memories are of trying to hit him with a six-foot long aluminum pole. Our current duel was happening in the street in front of my house. The still-wet pavement smelled like the rainstorm which had cleared the air, and the buzzing street lamp overhead provided the perfect lighting for our clattering give and take.
Another rapid series of clacks and swooshes, the proud declaration of "Touch!" and this duel was over. Max and I shook hands as my onlooking neighbors argued in Spanish about who-owed-who ten bucks. I remember my neighbors specifically, because they hadn't been there at the beginning of the duel, and I didn't notice them until it was finally over. Max and I had dubbed that little phenomenon, "Zone-out." When the duel begins, it's the duel that matters.
At the time, we were blissfully ignorant of the complex philosophies of martial arts. The esoteric histories behind our little pastime were a mystery to us. Back then, Max's sword wasn't a "Shinai," the dueling weapon of Kendo, it was just a bamboo sword that he'd ordered out of some catalogue. Over the years, we've both learned much about our chosen sport. We've picked up information in the haphazard fashion reserved for hobbyists of any game, learning more and more of the history behind the duel. To this day, neither of us have been formally trained. We don't wear armor, or follow the Bushido, and we weren't worried about how much Zanshin we had in our attacks. "Zanshin" is a Japanese word, and it's about as easy to translate into English as the term "Screwball" is to translate into Japanese. Rough translations might include "Emotional Intensity" or "Centered Awareness" or "Purity of the strike." None of these really do it justice though.
In
the modern world, the term "Zanshin" is used mostly in Kendo, the Japanese art
of sword-fighting. Modern Kendo dates back to the nineteen fifties, and was
developed purely as a sport. Ancient Kendo, or Kenjutsu, dates back to feudal
Japan, and was used to train Samurai in proper sword-fighting. In Modern Kendo,
Zanshin is everything. You can land a solid hit on your opponent and it won't
count, if the judge feels you didn't have enough Zanshin. You have to attack
in a certain way, and can only hit certain body parts.
In 1876 Japan abolished the Samurai social class, forbidding the wearing of swords and prosecuting death by dueling as murder. At this time, Kenjutsu (which had already been greatly pasteurized) was forced underground. It effectively died out. The modern art of Kendo emerged shortly thereafter, first appearing in the Japanese school curriculum as a sport, and then evolving into its modern form over the next sixty-five years. This is where Zanshin became less about violence, and more like "The Zone" so frequently described in American sports. It also took on a lot of weight and baggage about proper form and correct stance. By modern Kendo's definition, Max and I had all the Zanshin of a couple of beanbag chairs. We attack without pattern, going after anything the other one leaves unguarded. We box ears, batter ankles, bash knuckles and take all the damage without armor, or judgment of proper form. This duel, the first one of the week, was just one among a hundred others. Most are fought on local streets, or after hours in the nearby schoolyards.
The sudden appearance of my neighbors disconcerted me, and marked the end of our current match. We shook hands and bowed to each other, adding a bow to our impromptu audience as an afterthought, and proceeded inside to rest. The proud declaration of one five-year-old child was the last thing I heard before closing the door.
"The
one in black's the best!" He was shouting at his friend, who had apparently
taken the opposite view. I think that both Max and I were surprised, not only
that we could elicit such attention, but that we didn't notice it until we had
stopped fighting. We've discussed it many times since. At the time, it was one
of the best examples of zone-out we'd seen.
We had named the phenomenon after "The Zone"; The state of mind wherein an athlete becomes perfectly centered on the objective of the game. We'd noticed it in dozens of situations before. From Olympic fencing, to professional football, to a pickup game of ultimate frisbee, it's easy for a competitor to get lost in a game. As a psychological condition, it fascinated me. I had always considered myself to be a very aware person, and yet here I was, getting distracted from the rest of the world.
My next encounter with zone-out occurred in the idyllic moonlit setting of a rundown parking lot. I had gone off to college, but Max was still a senior at our old school, and I visited frequently.
I
should probably take a moment to tell you about Max. Though my introverted personality
and gothic attire haven't really changed over the years, Max is another story.
He started out like me, friendly - but awkward, well intentioned - but socially
inept. While I eventually hid my communication problems behind an antisocial
appearance, Max took the opposite rout. He adapted himself. He had always been
charismatic, he projected a kind of trustworthiness that's hard to ignore. Over
time, I watched him unconsciously bend that part of his personality. As he gained
more faith in himself, he turned an awkward manner into a disarming charm. It's
really hard not to like Max.
In the space since my last visit, someone had roped him into performing an act in the school's talent show. To my continued surprise, he had convinced me to take on the challenge with him. He wanted to duel. On stage, in front of half my former highschool and most of their parents, he wanted to fight an unchoreographed battle. We had driven to this particular parking lot on his request, to practice, though I hadn't known why until we arrived. A car lot for a nearby park, it was at least a block away from other people's homes, isolated from interuption. Once I stopped the car, Max rolled down all the windows and cranked up the stereo system. He had brought the background music for our act.
"Breathe
the Pressure," by Prodigy. The first few seconds of the song is nothing more
than steady guitar riffs -- twanging, anxiety laden things that hint at the
song's adrenaline filled nature. After that; The bass cuts in, the guitar riffs
speed up, the vocals begin, and the overriding sound of sword against sword
fills the gaps in the beat. I could see why Max had chosen this particular song,
it captured the madness of our duels perfectly.
We got out of the car, stretched, and went through our respective warm ups. Max reached in through the window, resetting the song. We bowed to each other, took our stances, and started to duel. At first, we weren't trying very hard. Our attacks were slow and predictable, my staff bounced off his sword with an ease more akin to a dance than a fight. But then the music sped up, and I'll never forget the feeling. Our dance became a ballet, a tango, and a chess match all at once. Quick and precise, with dozens of moves per second. To this day, my breathing speeds up when I hear that music. It was a hard practice from then on out, with individual fights lasting upwards of a minute. (Usually our bouts lasted only thirty seconds, with long breaks in between.) We continued to practice for nearly an hour without incident -- and then the music stopped.
The officer who had shut it off kindly informed us that the park was closed after dark, and that technically we were trespassing. We rendered profuse apologies and explanations, but it was obvious that we weren't in real trouble. He waved us off and Max and I climbed back into my car, making our relieved escape. We hadn't noticed, all the way until we pulled out, the police cruiser in which our benevolent friend had arrived.
There is a parable, about a young Zen-Buddhist Monk who managed to gain an audience with a Zen master. The Zen Master offered to share a mountain-top meal with the Initiate, and the Initiate gladly accepted. All the way up, the Initiate had been thanking and questioning the Master, who responded with silence. As they sat, peeling their oranges, the Initiate spoke again. Again, the Master didn't reply, he simply removed the first wedge from his orange and placed it in his mouth, smiling as he slowly chewed and swallowed it.
"There are so many things I would like to ask you." The Initiate continued.
The Zen master looked quizzically at the Fruit in the younger man's hands, as if he was expecting something. At last he said, "why do you not eat your orange?" Having asked the question, the Master turned back to his meal, consuming another wedge.
"But I have so many questions..." The Initiate protested. It was a long while before the master finished the second wedge and turned back to the Initiate.
"Do you wish to know the meaning of Zen?" He asked.
"Of course!" The Initiate impulsively replied.
"Ah," the Master continued, "yet you sit here, for the purpose of partaking a meal, and instead ask me incessant questions. If you wish to know the true meaning of Zen, then eat your orange."
This parable, like many Zen parables, isn't perfectly clear the first time it is told. Zen is very much about focus, doing one thing and doing it completely. At the moment of consumption, you must be an orange eater, rather than an Initiate asking questions. Many ancient Samurai were Zen Buddhists, and the teachings of Kenjutsu were deeply rooted in this philosophy. That's pretty much what ancient Zanshin was, Zen and the art of killing people. At the moment of the strike, you must be striking, and nothing else.
Two
weeks later, and I was wishing for that level of focus, anything to avoid the
eyes of the crowd. We were standing back-stage in the auditorium at my school,
listening to the act before us wind up. The audience loved it, a piano solo
by one of our more talented resident musicians. The applause ended, and we walked
out onto the stage, at first simply to clear space for the fight. The audience,
easily more then a hundred people, watched us patiently as we dragged equipment
from other acts to the edge of the stage. Our chore complete, we retrieved our
weapons. Max, ever the showman, and fed up with the heat of the lamps, removed
his shirt. I wasn't even half that confident. Max introduced himself first,
then it was my turn. An eternity passed before I could turn away from the hundred
and fifty eyes lurking in the shadows.
Max and I take opposite ends of the stage, and the music breaks the silence. The opening riffs wash over us and out into the audience. We turn to the bleachers and bow, we turn to each other and bow again. The duel has begun. Max assumes a combat stance and I follow his lead, our eyes locking as we listen for the moment when the song heats up. The bass cuts in and the song accelerates as Max leaps forward with a lightening series of cuts. Impressive, but fairly predictable. I block most of them without even a second thought, forcing him back with a simple arcing slash at waist height, again, flashy but easy to block. Or next engagement is more serious, he uses a move I hadn't seen before, trying to force me to let go of my staff with one hand, I manage to hold on mostly by sheer luck. So it goes, the heated melee pushing back and fourth across the stage as the music keeps pace to the cuts and slashes of our weapons. I'd attack, he'd block, we'd both compensate, an attack, a counterattack, a dodge, a thrust; Swing, step, duck, strike, block, run, hit.
We'd
bribed a friend of ours to signal us from off-stage. He was supposed to wave
at us ten seconds before the end of the fight. I was too busy to see him though,
my endless compensations to Max's chaotic style had filled my mind with the
subtle details of momentum and counterattack. There was nothing for me, nothing
but the duel. I caught a note in the music and noticed it start to slow as max
backed away. I caught on just in time, taking my corner as the final crescendo
played, with a primal yell so loud that we drowned the music, Max and I ran
for each other. A full gallop straight out of the best ninja duels. As planned,
the lights shut down as we meet in the center of the stage, our weapons clashing
one last time in the sudden pitch black.
My staff is like lead in my hands, my legs feel like jello, my lungs are on fire, and every breath feels like sandpaper going down. Half my blood seems to have rushed to my face and my heartbeat thumps in my ears to the tune of the fading music. Soon the song ends, and for a moment I am alone. Nothing but my heartbeat to keep me company. Somewhere in the darkness a man coughs involuntarily, and I am forced to remember that a hundred and fifty people just saw our duel. Anxiety creeps in, the silence is maddening. Why haven't the lights been brought up yet? I manage to pull myself up, leaning on my staff as I peer into the dark. Just then, the lights come on. One hundred and fifty people are staring at me, a hundred and fifty people are cheering. I manage to bow, using my weapon for a crutch as I hobble off stage.
The rest of the evening I only dimly recall. Lost in a haze of fatigue and
fading adrenaline, I remember lots of congratulatory comments. Half the audience
was convinced I'd won, the other half thought I put up one hell of a fight.
Three minutes, thirty seconds. Three and a half minutes of uninterrupted battle,
the longest fight of my life. One person later told me that I spent the rest
of the evening describing it as "Pure." Everything went exactly as planned.
From the opening strikes as the music sped up, to ambiguous ending with no clear
victor. We didn't want a competition, with a winner and a loser. We wanted a
duel, a fight between equals where the final victory was unimportant. I didn't
know it then, but I would try to reproduce that fight dozens of times. Not the
crowd, nor the perfection of timing, but a single cough in the dark; I have
tried many times to reach that place, a place where someone needs to remind
me that there is a world beyond the duel. To achieve a level of focus where
nothing matters but the fight, a purity bought by approaching that fight - by
approaching anything -
with Zanshin.