From time to time in everyday life, I find myself reacting to something I see with, “Wow—so beautiful,” or “Ah, this must be what people mean by beauty.”
Even when I’m not an expert—just an ordinary amateur—I can still be moved instinctively by beauty.
The things I find beautiful aren’t limited to works of art created by human hands.
I also feel that same sense of beauty in nature: a mountain towering majestically in the great outdoors, or the still surface of a quiet lake.
That reminds me—when I visited Japan recently, the autumn leaves I saw in a small town whose name I never even learned were absolutely stunning…
So today, I’d like to write a little about beauty.
When I had just started kendo, I once had the chance to watch a certain sensei’s practice.
The very moment I saw his kendo, I thought, “Wow… beautiful ♡”
At the time, I had been holding a shinai for less than a month—I was a total super baby at kendo. And yet, for some reason, when I watched that sensei, I felt very strongly that what I was seeing was beautiful.
Looking back now, I think that day was probably the very first day in my life that I encountered what I would later call “beautiful kendo.”
Ever since then, whenever I thought about what kind of kendoka I wanted to become—or when someone asked me, “What kind of kendo do you want to aim for?”—my answer was always the same:
“I want to practice beautiful kendo!”
“I want to become a kendoka who does beautiful kendo!”
I think the image of that sensei’s beautiful men strike, which I saw when I was just starting out, burned itself into my mind and naturally became my ideal image of kendo.
Even now, if I close my eyes, I can still see that scene.
So, in order to do beautiful kendo, I first worked hard on maintaining correct posture.
Even during basic practice, I focused on training while keeping that posture intact.
However… the moment practice turned into jigeiko or an actual match, my so-called “beautiful posture” vanished completely the instant the match began.
I turned into a kendoka who just charged forward blindly, doing whatever came to mind.
When I watched videos of my matches that someone had recorded, what I saw on the screen was myself desperately performing clumsy, ugly kendo. Honestly—it made me feel sick just watching it.
I was aiming for beautiful kendo… and this is the exact opposite.
How on earth did it end up like this?!
Me—a self-proclaimed “artist”—wait, what? Really?
I had a clear image in my head of the beauty I was aiming for, yet not only was I failing to get closer to it, I was heading in the complete opposite direction, creating something ugly with my own hands.
There was no way I could accept this reality.
I thought, I need to stop and think about this seriously.
Back when I had just started kendo, what exactly was it about that sensei’s kendo that made me feel it was beautiful?
For example:
Why do I feel something is beautiful when I see Mt. Fuji standing proudly in the vast natural landscape?
When I look at a temple statue carved hundreds of years ago, what is it about that sculpture that captivates my heart?
Why did I almost cry when I saw a mother cat silently nursing her five newborn kittens, eyes closed, offering her entire body to them?
In the same way—
Why did I feel that sensei’s kendo was beautiful?
Until I could give myself a clear answer to that question, I felt that I could never truly do “beautiful kendo.”
So I thought about it—seriously.
And then, suddenly, I realized something important! Oh! Well done, Haru-chan! —by Haru 😄
To begin with, my way of thinking had been wrong from the start.
Yes, admitting one’s own mistakes honestly is a good thing.
Where was I wrong?
It was right here: “I aimed directly for beautiful kendo.”
Huh? What’s wrong with that?
Well… how can I put this…
Beautiful kendo exists—but at the same time, it doesn’t.
That’s how it feels.
That’s even more confusing!
What I realized was this:
The “beauty of kendo” that I felt was not something that appears in the process itself.
It was something that emerges as a result.
Starting with building a strong kamae that does not allow the opponent any opening,
Applying firm pressure while properly controlling the center,
Striking decisively at the right moment without hesitation,
Maintaining clear and proper zanshin,
Keeping strong spirit while never stiffening the body, never disturbing the mind, and facing the opponent with calmness, clarity, and dignity—
When all of these elements come together in a single technique,
That is when I feel something is beautiful.
So, imitating beautiful posture or stance itself was not wrong.
But thinking, “Because I’m doing this, I’m already doing beautiful kendo”—that was the mistake. It wasn’t 100% wrong… but maybe only about 5% right. Something like that.
At this point, I felt I could more or less accept the idea that beauty is the result of doing many things correctly.
But at the same time, another question popped into my mind.
For example, when I’m watching sports like basketball, I often blurt out, “Whoa—that’s amazing!”
But I rarely say, “Wow, that’s beautiful.”
For example, when someone makes an incredible shot from an impossible posture or an absurd distance, I shout in excitement—
“That’s insane! Amazing!”
But I don’t usually describe it as beautiful.
Even when watching kendo matches, there are moments when I think,
“Wait, he landed kote from there?! Amazing!”
And other moments when I sigh and think,
“Ahhh… that kote was so beautiful ♡”
Even though both result in a point, why do I feel differently?
What’s the difference between “Wow, amazing!” and “Ah… beautiful”?
I thought about it again.
And the answer I arrived at was this:
Whether or not the technique is faithful to the basics.
And whether or not there is respect for the opponent.
So… steadily building correct basics,
and letting go of self-centered thinking that only cares about oneself.
You know how in period dramas, when two warriors face each other and one strikes cleanly in a single decisive blow, the defeated warrior can meet a dignified end?
But if someone panics, screaming wildly while swinging their sword, inflicting multiple wounds before finally killing the other—
That feels like such a miserable end for the one who was defeated. If that were my family member, I’d be heartbroken.
To finish with a single, clean strike, the technique must be correct—
In other words, it must be faithful to the basics.
And when that happens, both the opponent and oneself can conclude the fight in a beautiful way…
That’s the image that came to my mind as I remembered the final scene of Sanjuro, starring Toshiro Mifune.
I may have gone a bit off topic, but let me organize my thoughts here.
The beauty of kendo is not something I acquire by separately chasing “beautiful posture,” “beautiful swing,” or “beautiful zanshin.”
It is something that manifests only in the moment when ki, ken, and tai—all the fundamentals—overlap correctly.
And within ki–ken–tai:
Ken and tai mean using the body and the shinai in harmony, without forcing either against the other.
Ki requires not only the determination to win and a sense of purity and decisiveness, but also unwavering respect for the opponent.
Wow…
I’ve wandered into some pretty deep territory again.
And, as usual, I start feeling slightly nauseous, thinking,
“Ugh… I can see how unbelievably long this road is…”
Eeeek… I said it so casually, but ‘beautiful kendo’ is way, way further down the path than I imagined.
But when I really think about it, maybe—just maybe—all of this comes down to one essential thing.
Thinking that way, I feel a little less sick.
So, one step at a time on this long road… so I’m off to practice again tomorrow♪
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