Stoneðog

Music:

Taiko Drums

Heroes:

While the flowing river tells no lies, the dishonest man standing at its bank still hears them.

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Miyamoto Mushashi (Maybe not a hero, but he was very cool )

The tea master and the swordsman
One day in feudal Japan, a master of the tea ceremony was on an errand in the marketplace, and collided with a foul-tempered samurai. Immediately, the swordsman demanded an apology for the “insult” in the form of a duel to the death.
The tea master was in no position to decline, though he had no expertise with swords. He asked if he could complete his obligations for the day before meeting the samurai for the duel. It was agreed that they’d meed in a nearby orchard, later in the afternoon.
His errands completed early, the tea master stopped to visit the house of Miyamoto Musashi, a famous swordmaster and painter. He told Master Miyamoto his situation, and asked if the swordmaster could teach him how to behave so as to die honorably.
“That is an unusual request,” replied Miyamoto, “but I’ll help if I can.” Detecting an air of composure about the small man standing before him, Miyamoto asked him what art he practiced.
“I serve tea,” he replied.
“Excellent! Then serve me tea,” said Miyamoto.
Without hesitation, the tea master took his utensils from a pouch and began, with the utmost serenity and concentration, to perform the graceful, meditative ceremony of preparing, serving, and appreciating o-cha, the green tea.
Miyamoto was very impressed by this man’s obvious composure on the afternoon of his death. The tea master was apparently free of all thoughts about his waiting fate, a few hours hence. Ignoring any thoughts of fear, he focused his attention to the present moment of beauty.
“You already know how to die well,” said Miyamoto, “but you can do this….” Then Miyamoto instructed him in details of how to die honorably, ending with “it will probably end in a mutual slaying.”
The tea master bowed and thanked the swordmaster.
Carefully, he wrapped his implements and left for the duel.
He saw the swordsman waiting impatiently, anxious to get this petty killing over. The tea master approached the samurai, laid his implements down as gently as he would a tiny infant—as if he expected to pick them up again in a few moments. Then as Miyamota had suggested, he bowed graciously to the samurai, as calmly as if he were about to serve him tea. Next, he raised his sword with but a single thought in his mind—to strike the samurai, no matter what.
As he stood, sword raised, mind focused, he saw the sword expert’s eyes grow wide with wonder, then perplexity, then respect, then fear. No longer did the swordsman see a meek little man before him—now he saw a fearless warrior, an invincible opponent who had mastered the fear of death. Raised over the tea master’s head, glinting blood-red in the sun’s last rays, the samurai saw his own death.
The sword expert hesitated for a moment, then lowered his sword, and his head. He begged to apologize to this little tea master, who later became his teacher in the art of living without fear.
And leaving the bushes from where he had concealed himself, Miyamoto stretched with pleasure, yawning like a cat. Grinning, he scratched his neck, turned, and walked home to a hot bath, a bowl of rice, and a sleep without dreams.

Three Flies
It was late afternoon when Miyamoto Musashi sat down in a small inn, to eat a bowl of rice with his ancient chopsticks. Chewing slowly, breathing deep in his belly, he apparently ignored three flies buzzing loudly over his head … just as he ignored three vagabond samurai who sat nearby, riveting with greed for the beautiful sword in this “country peasant’s” scabbard.
They began to make jesting remarks about his sexual preferences, his mother’s background, and his ancestors, hoping to goad him into a fight, kill him, and take the sword. Soon, their insults grew more imaginative and course.
Still, Miyamoto continued eating as if he were alone. Suddenly, the three men rose and circled his table menacingly. As they drew near, Miyamoto effortlessly reached into the air with his chopsticks and snatched the three flies, by the wings. Smiling as if to himself, he put the chopsticks down with a grunt of satisfaction, and turned to face his would-be assailants.
They were no longer there. By that time, they had already reached the old river bridge and were running down the road as fast as their legs would carry them.