come,” he said.
“My retainer tells me you wish to offer me a present” the samurai said, a mocking smile on his face. “Could you be offering me a bribe to spare your life?”
“No, of course not, sir,” the tea master replied. “I would never think to insult you in such a way.” He led the samurai to the door of the teahouse and motioned to a bench in the garden where the retainers could wait.
“Then if it’s not to offer me a bribe, have you dragged me here to beg me to spare your life?”
“No,” said the tea master. “I understand that your honor must be satisfied. All I ask is that you allow my last act to be an honorable one as well.” He entered the teahouse and motioned for his guest to sit. “I am a tea master. The tea ceremony is not only what I do, but who I am. All I ask is that you allow me to perform it one last time for you.”
The samurai didn’t completely understand, but he kneeled and nodded to the tea master to begin.
Together they sat in the quiet simplicity of the teahouse. The rustle of the leaves on the trees outside was the only sound. The tea master opened his tea box, and the pungent smell of the green powder mingled with the smell of the flowers on the shelf.
Quietly, purposefully, the tea master scooped a small amount of tea into a cup. With a small ladle, he dipped hot water from a pot and poured it onto the tea. The samurai watched, caught up in the quiet intensity of the tea master’s movements.
Taking a small whisk in one hand and the cup in the other, the tea master stirred the tea until it foamed. Then bowing with complete calmness of spirit, he handed the cup to the samurai.
The samurai drank. When he handed the cup back, the tea master’s hands were completely steady, the look in his eyes utterly relaxed but aware.
“Thank you,” said the tea master after the two had risen to leave. “I will go with you now to your home for our duel.”
“Perhaps that won’t be necessary,” said the samurai. “I have never seen a man so calm and self-possessed before a duel. Today even I was excited and fearful, though I am sure I could kill you. But you were not only calm, you brought a calmness to me as well.”
The tea master looked into the samurai’s eyes, smiled, and bowed. The samurai returned the bow even more deeply.
“Master,” the samurai said. “I cannot kill a man like you. The only thing I could honorably do to a man like you is to ask him to teach me. Will you instruct me in the ways of the tea ceremony?”
“Of course,” said the tea master. “I will meet you in front of your home tomorrow at sunset.”
G ogenYama guchi was the founder of the Goju-ryu style of karate. His nickname, “The Cat” refer red not only to his long mane of hai r, but to the way he was a ble to fight with the power and instincts of the big cats. DuringWorld W ar II, Yamaguchi worked for the Japanese government, which sent him into China on a special mission. While there, he was captured and put into a labor camp.
The Cat
Yamaguchi was not like the other prisoners. He kept to himself. He did his work without complaining, was respectful to the guards, and did everything he was told. But when he had finished his work for the day, rather than spending time with the other prisoners, he would retreat to his cell. There he would stand motionless and begin to breathe. The guards and other prisoners would gradually gather at the window of his cell. What they saw inside was not a prisoner, beaten down and tired, but the face of a powerful, ancient warrior.
He began the kata he performed every day. The muscles of his arms tightened like thick ropes as he pulled them across the front of his chest. His legs were like the gnarled roots of a tree grabbing powerfully at the ground. His breath came from his mouth in a low, powerful “hhwoooh” that sent shivers up the spines of everyone in the cell block. And on his face was a look of total
“My retainer tells me you wish to offer me a present” the samurai said, a mocking smile on his face. “Could you be offering me a bribe to spare your life?”
“No, of course not, sir,” the tea master replied. “I would never think to insult you in such a way.” He led the samurai to the door of the teahouse and motioned to a bench in the garden where the retainers could wait.
“Then if it’s not to offer me a bribe, have you dragged me here to beg me to spare your life?”
“No,” said the tea master. “I understand that your honor must be satisfied. All I ask is that you allow my last act to be an honorable one as well.” He entered the teahouse and motioned for his guest to sit. “I am a tea master. The tea ceremony is not only what I do, but who I am. All I ask is that you allow me to perform it one last time for you.”
The samurai didn’t completely understand, but he kneeled and nodded to the tea master to begin.
Together they sat in the quiet simplicity of the teahouse. The rustle of the leaves on the trees outside was the only sound. The tea master opened his tea box, and the pungent smell of the green powder mingled with the smell of the flowers on the shelf.
Quietly, purposefully, the tea master scooped a small amount of tea into a cup. With a small ladle, he dipped hot water from a pot and poured it onto the tea. The samurai watched, caught up in the quiet intensity of the tea master’s movements.
Taking a small whisk in one hand and the cup in the other, the tea master stirred the tea until it foamed. Then bowing with complete calmness of spirit, he handed the cup to the samurai.
The samurai drank. When he handed the cup back, the tea master’s hands were completely steady, the look in his eyes utterly relaxed but aware.
“Thank you,” said the tea master after the two had risen to leave. “I will go with you now to your home for our duel.”
“Perhaps that won’t be necessary,” said the samurai. “I have never seen a man so calm and self-possessed before a duel. Today even I was excited and fearful, though I am sure I could kill you. But you were not only calm, you brought a calmness to me as well.”
The tea master looked into the samurai’s eyes, smiled, and bowed. The samurai returned the bow even more deeply.
“Master,” the samurai said. “I cannot kill a man like you. The only thing I could honorably do to a man like you is to ask him to teach me. Will you instruct me in the ways of the tea ceremony?”
“Of course,” said the tea master. “I will meet you in front of your home tomorrow at sunset.”
G ogenYama guchi was the founder of the Goju-ryu style of karate. His nickname, “The Cat” refer red not only to his long mane of hai r, but to the way he was a ble to fight with the power and instincts of the big cats. DuringWorld W ar II, Yamaguchi worked for the Japanese government, which sent him into China on a special mission. While there, he was captured and put into a labor camp.
The Cat
Yamaguchi was not like the other prisoners. He kept to himself. He did his work without complaining, was respectful to the guards, and did everything he was told. But when he had finished his work for the day, rather than spending time with the other prisoners, he would retreat to his cell. There he would stand motionless and begin to breathe. The guards and other prisoners would gradually gather at the window of his cell. What they saw inside was not a prisoner, beaten down and tired, but the face of a powerful, ancient warrior.
He began the kata he performed every day. The muscles of his arms tightened like thick ropes as he pulled them across the front of his chest. His legs were like the gnarled roots of a tree grabbing powerfully at the ground. His breath came from his mouth in a low, powerful “hhwoooh” that sent shivers up the spines of everyone in the cell block. And on his face was a look of total
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