Learning Kendo Through Sewing (Part 2: Goal & Satisfaction)

[Introduction] This blog post has become the longest in Kendo Cat blog history. A bathroom break is recommended somewhere along the way.

So, in order to stock the shelves of the “Haru the Sewing Cat” shop, I’ve spent the last several weeks doing almost nothing but sewing shinai bags and referee flag bags.

And in the process, I’ve made yet another huge discovery!! Or rather, I’ve stumbled upon a rather significant truth. So today, I’d like to write about that.

As I mentioned in a previous blog post, this is how I ended up getting into sewing in the first place.

Well, once I started, I just couldn’t get enough of it.

I mean, isn’t it kind of magical that a single flat piece of fabric can suddenly become a three-dimensional object, and just a few hours later, you’ve created exactly the thing you wanted?

Once I realized that I could even make my own clothes with a sewing machine, I don’t think I’ve bought any clothes anymore… except for T-shirts with cute cat illustrations on them.

I happily spent my time sewing dresses, pants, blouses, pajamas, aprons, and all sorts of things for myself. But the truth is, when I finished making clothes for myself, almost 100% of the time…

there was always some little mistake left somewhere.

And this wasn’t a case of discovering the mistake afterward without noticing it during sewing.

No, I actually did notice it and thought, “Oops!”

But then I’d tell myself:

“Eh, whatever! I’m the one wearing it anyway, and if I turn it inside out, nobody can really see that part from the outside.”

And so I’d just keep going.

Most of the time, my thought process looked something like this:

→ Redoing it is such a pain!

→ I want to finish it and wear it today!

→ As long as nobody notices, it’s fine.

→ Heck, even if somebody notices, who cares…

I think, unconsciously, I’d set my personal goal at something like:

“If it looks about 70% like actual clothing at first glance, that’s good enough!”

From this alone, you can clearly see that I’m not exactly a meticulous person. I’m definitely more of a “rough-around-the-edges” type♪

HOWEVER!!

Even a rough-and-ready person like me can suddenly transform into a meticulous perfectionist if the way I set my goals changes.

What do I mean by that?

The shinai bags and referee flag bags I’ve been sewing over the last several weeks aren’t for myself. They’re items that I’m making to exchange for money with customers who have chosen and appreciated my work.

So I can’t just say things like:

“Well, nobody can see this part anyway…”

or

“Okay, I stitched that a little crooked, but it still works, so let’s call it good.”

Finishing a piece with that kind of attitude simply isn’t acceptable.

No roughness allowed!

When I think about it, because sewing machines involve mechanical factors, a perfect stitch is, in a sense, the one and only correct answer. It’s actually very similar to something I wrote about previously on this blog. ↓

In other words, when it comes to “sewing straight,” there is no correct answer other than “sewing straight.” And if you replace “sewing” with “striking men,” it applies directly to kendo as well, doesn’t it?

That’s why things like:

“It’s mostly straight.”

or

“Everything except the very end turned out nicely.”

are all simply failures.

Of course, in practical terms, as long as the measurements are correct, clothes can usually still be worn even if the stitching isn’t perfectly straight.

The things I’ve accepted under those standards are the many garments I’ve sewn for myself (the Rough Collection).

The things I have not accepted under those standards are the shinai bags I deliver to Haru the Sewing Cat customers (the Meticulous Collection).

In other words…

When creating something, what goal do I set for myself, and at what point do I decide, “I’ve done enough; I’m satisfied”?

It seems that this is where destiny splits into two paths.

While I was thinking about this, I suddenly remembered something from my past. Ahh… it still hurts to remember.

This goes back to 2018 and 2019.

For personal reasons, I returned to Japan for one year.

During that year, I had the opportunity to practice at a local kendo dojo in my hometown until the day I returned to Hawaii.

Since I would be staying for an entire year, my local Sensei and I set the following practice goal:

Before returning to Hawaii, I would learn to perform proper ki-ken-tai-icchi striking.

I thought, “All right! I will work hard on this!!”

I attended practice three times a week without missing a single practice.

No matter how exhausted or worn out I was, I always continued practicing with someone until the drum signaling the end of practice sounded.

During the daytime, when the municipal martial arts hall was available, I even paid the 100-yen usage fee (so cheap!) and practiced by myself.

And before I knew it… an entire year had almost passed, and there was only one week left before I had to return to Hawaii.

And then came the shocking realization.

My ki-ken-tai-icchi had not improved at all.

My local Sensei looked troubled and said,

“Hmm… we’ve somehow got to fix this in the next week, or I’ll feel bad toward your teacher back in Hawaii.”

The moment I heard those words, I was overwhelmed with guilt toward my local Sensei.

“This is bad! This absolutely cannot continue like this! I’ve got to do something!” I thought, and suddenly I raised my concentration toward achieving ki-ken-tai-icchi all at once.

And at the very same time, I found myself thinking:

“Wait… why haven’t I been practicing with this level of concentration until now?”

“I’ve been telling myself for this entire year that I wanted to achieve ki-ken-tai-icchi…”

“So why didn’t I feel this sense of urgency before? Why didn’t I focus this intensely and seriously commit myself to achieving proper ki-ken-tai-icchi?”

“I’ve always practiced as hard as I could…”

“But this feels completely different!”

“I think… I may have made a terrible mistake over the course of this entire year!!!”

Suddenly, I became frightened.

Even though I still couldn’t achieve ki-ken-tai-icchi and was only days away from returning to Hawaii, why had I never felt any real sense of urgency about it?

And more than that, I realized that I also needed to think about something else:

Why was it only because I felt guilty toward my local sensei that I was finally experiencing this sense of urgency?

After thinking and thinking about it, this was the answer I arrived at.

For that entire year,

even if I wasn’t achieving ki-ken-tai-icchi, as long as I was landing men and kote strikes with the monouchi, I unconsciously felt satisfied with those results.

Even if I couldn’t achieve ki-ken-tai-icchi, I wasn’t suffering from any physical pain. I wasn’t getting yelled at by my instructors. So I felt absolutely no sense of urgency about the fact that I couldn’t do it.

Even if I couldn’t achieve ki-ken-tai-icchi, my local instructors often told me things like, “You really practice hard,” and “You’re working so diligently.” And I was satisfied with being praised by them.

Even when I lost matches, I would tell myself:

“Well, I only started kendo after becoming a middle-aged woman, and I’m only 2 dan. Of course I can’t beat 5 dan or 6 dan people. Actually, considering the strength of my opponents, didn’t I do pretty well?”

In other words, I kept making excuses for myself whenever I lost.

In the end…

I had never truly intended to seriously fix the weaknesses in my own kendo in order to change it.

In fact, I think what had really occupied my heart was the desire to satisfy my need for approval.

In other words, even though my local instructor and I had agreed upon the goal of “achieving ki-ken-tai-icchi before returning to Hawaii,”

I gradually became tired of facing the reality of my own persistent “Non-ki-ken-tai-icchi.”

I got tired of confronting that weakness.

And somewhere along the way, I began searching for an easier goal—one that would make me feel good about myself.

Before I realized it, my goal had changed.

My goal was no longer to achieve ki-ken-tai-icchi.

Instead, it had become being recognized by the local people as “that hardworking female kendo practitioner from Hawaii.”

That’s why, whenever an instructor said things like,

“You really practice hard! I should learn from you!”

my sense of achievement would instantly hit 100%, and I’d feel wonderful.

Looking back, I think the reason I was able to continue enjoying daily practice, despite completely failing to achieve the difficult goal I had originally set, was because this sense of satisfaction was supporting my mental state.

I realized, just one week before returning to Hawaii, that I had squandered a precious year of training and experience in Japan for the sake of my own trivial ego.

At the time, I was absolutely devastated.

I felt incredibly small.

And I felt deeply sorry toward my local instructor, who had sincerely tried to help me overcome my bad habits.

But by then, it was already too late.

My return to Hawaii was approaching, and I knew that I wasn’t suddenly going to master ki-ken-tai-icchi overnight.

So at that moment, I made a promise to myself.

“I will never make the same mistake again.”

“I practice only for the purpose of moving myself closer to the kendo I truly want to achieve.”

“I will not turn away from the parts of myself that can’t do it yet. I will keep pursuing the question of how I can eventually do it.”

Both kendo and sewing are incredibly painful and frustrating when I have a clear image in my mind of what I want to become, yet I can’t seem to get there.

It’s tempting to turn my eyes away from that reality.

And when I’m trying to transform the version of myself that can’t do something into the version that can, I have to honestly search for the causes of my failures without deceiving myself. I have to repeat the same fundamental movements over and over and over again.

Doing that takes enormous amounts of time.

And it requires a tremendous amount of patience.

But I also feel that there is no way to grow as a person except by overcoming that process and achieving the goal I set for myself.

And when I can recognize my own growth, perhaps that is where true self-confidence comes from.

Both kendo and sewing are difficult.

But that’s exactly why they’re worth learning.

Or perhaps it’s more like this:

If I can open this door, what kind of door will be waiting for me next?

What kind of growth will I discover in myself next?…

That feeling of “encountering the unknown” is so overwhelmingly exciting that I simply can’t stop.

And so, tomorrow I’m off to practice again!♪ Oh wait… tomorrow is actually a tournament!