A Private World


There was an invisible divide down the center of the room.

They stayed on their side, and we stayed on our side.

The arrangement worked because they got to play the music they needed for practice, and our practice was always completed in silence so we never really made any noise.

Even our movement was silent, if it was done correctly.

Two different types of movement and practice in the same room.

I was getting hit a lot recently, there were openings in my body postures as my partner and I navigated the space between us with our kihon-yo.

Once or twice in practice would have been one thing, but to consistently get hit pointed to something else.

And it seemed to be getting worse with each training session, not better.

We were trained to notice such things.

Enter a room and immediately get the pulse of the room, the geometry of the structure complimented by the people in the room.

What wanted to be noticed, who didn’t want to be noticed, and everybody else in-between.

Noticing how people stand, and the structure of their movement and everything is known about them, what they are going to do before they even do it.

The mind and its emotions manifesting through the body.

I was getting hit because my mind was not present in my body.

Physically my body flowed with the cuts and reversals of the Naginata, and technically it looked good and was correct, but the intention was missing, and that is why I was getting hit.

I couldn’t help not noticing, it was what we were trained to do.

Most of them wanted to be there, although a few didn’t, perhaps being forced by peer pressure, or desire that now turned into routine.

Of the remainder most moved with a desire to be something, to archive something.

Only one moved with a desire of just existing in an inner world of movement.

It was the footwork, how they moved the feet, the timing between transitions of the feet.

This world was very rare and special.

I had been trained to notice such things, to appreciate such things, so how could I not?

My practice did not improve until we get a new room assignment for practice.

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    Roppo Doji writes from the intersection of discipline, memory, and presence. His work explores the quiet spaces where lives touch:  the dojo at dawn, the silence between two people, the rituals that shape a path, and the moments that linger long after they’ve passed. 

    His stories move through themes of impermanence, devotion, and the beauty of connections that cannot last but still transform us. 

    With a voice marked by restraint, clarity, and emotional precision, he captures the gravity of lived experience and the subtle transmissions that occur in the spaces between words. 

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