There was a time when my teacher told me that one day all of this would not be here, that nothing remains as it is, and in disbelief that day had come.
This was the last class at the dojo.
The old dojo.
In short, the building had been sold, and we had a few months before we had to vacate.
For the first few month's things continued on as normal, as if nothing had happened, but behind the scenes the teacher and senior students were busy trying to find the dojo a new home.
Did the dojo stay in the area, as part of the community, or was there opportunity in moving somewhere fresh?
It was not just the location of the (current) dojo, it was the geometry around it that supported the lessons and the students.
One block over was the park and the Japanese restaurant.
The train station was a few blocks over and across from it was the coffee house.
The movie theater, pizza place and ice cream shop.
These locations were almost as important as the dojo itself, as they offered a nexus for different yet critical lessons in budo.
A place to hang out after class, to talk about the old days, past masters, to laugh and relax is a less-serious setting.
A chance to see the art outside of the formality of the dojo.
A different kind of awareness.
The new dojo needed not just an adequate building, but places around it that could foster a particular community.
When we found a new home, I wasn’t sure what to think of the place, it was OK I guess. The teacher had taken a few of the seniors students and me over after class to take a look now that the lease was signed.
Physically it was a great space, in many ways better than what we had. Little things like higher ceilings, more windows, and a small waiting space between the changing rooms and the training floor.
My teacher pointed out the little things that would make it a better home in no time.
Yet I wasn’t sure how I felt.
I mean I literally grew up in the soon-to-be old dojo, and my entire life was centered around it.
It hit more more than when I left home.
The move out took most of the weekend as it was more than just taking apart the sword racks and hanging bags.
Closets full of old paperwork, training gear, books, and equipment, not counting the attic.
Most if not all of it got pitched into a giant dumpster.
The last class at the dojo was mostly silent, taking place in a now-bare room, even empty of the kamiza and artwork that hung on the walls.
When the class ended, there was no need to take the dojo key with me as I left it on the table in the office.
That was perhaps the strangest part of all of it.
A key that I had held in my pocket for years, no matter where I was or went now no longer had any use.
The new dojo didn’t even have a key as it used a keypad and an app.
The new dojo looked great for its first class, but things were already different.
A good portion of the students didn’t follow over and left, which didn’t seem to surprise my teacher. The way he explained it was that for some this was the break they were looking for to leave the dojo, and for others it forced them to confront certain structures and make a decision.
That didn’t seem to make sense since the new dojo was only five blocks over from the old dojo.
At some point during class one of the senior students called me over expressing a serious look on his face, asking me if I noticed anything.
Looking around the dojo, everything seemed in order, even the movement of the students was good.
I couldn’t see it.
It was there that he pointed out that it was now only the three of us, not counting the teacher who were left from the old dojo.
The old dojo…
Apparently, he was correct.
New-old students who we had now known for years, who were a very important part of the dojo, who knew nothing of the old dojo and all that happened there.
Enough seasons had passed.
It was customary that as the seasons changed a new piece of artwork would be presented under the kamiza. Most of the time is was some calligraphy, or a picture from the master, but sometimes it was some seasonal flowers or some other artifact from nature.
For this season it was a piece of artwork that had never been presented in the (new) dojo before.
A hanging scroll of exquisite beauty that used to hang in the (old) dojo, I remember the awe and fear of training near it, afraid I’d be thrown into it, or swing my sword into it.
I hadn’t seen it in so many years I’d forgotten about it.
And it was in that moment that I remembered something else, something at the time I had forced myself to forget.
I wanted to excuse myself right there to go home and look, but even it would have to wait until after class.
It took a while to find the box in storage, but there it was right where I put it.
Carefully wrapped in newspaper and put in another box for safety.
When the old (dojo) closed some of the stuff got donated to goodwill, a batch of teacups no longer used from the dojo tea ceremony.
Cups that were left behind for various reasons.
I was tasked with sorting through the cups, and it was there that I remembered one of them, instinctively taking it and not being sure what to do with it.
So, I wrapped it up and stored it away.
No comments:
Post a Comment