“You are thinking,” the master said, and I realized with a start that he was speaking to me. “Your breath is uneven, and your shoulders are tense. You are somewhere else.”
I forced myself to focus.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
In. Out.
“Meditation is the foundation,” the master continued. “Without stillness of mind, there can be no clarity of action. Without peace within, there can be no strength without. You will learn this or you will fail.”
We sat there as the sun rose. My legs cramped. My back ached.
Thoughts continued to intrude—Kaneko, Father, my sister, the burning village, thewako. I pushed them away, over and over, returning to my breath.
In. Out. In. Out.
I heard the sound before I felt it.
A sharpcracklike breaking wood.
Pain exploded across my shoulders, bright and hot and sudden. I gasped, my eyes flying open, my back arching involuntarily.
The master stood beside me, the reed in his hand. “Eyes closed. Return to your breath.”
The pain faded to a burning ache as I closed my eyes, forcing my breathing to steady even as my heart raced.
Crack.
Another strike, this time across the top of my shoulders. The reed was thin, but when it struck, itpopped, the sound sharp and clear. Pain was immediate and intense, like being stung by a hornet.
“Your posture collapsed,” the master said, his voice still calm, still quiet. “Sit properly.”
I straightened my spine, squared my shoulders, and tried to breathe correctly, tried not to think about the pain or the fear or the fact that he would strike again if I failed.
In. Out. In. Out.
The meditation continued.
I heard the reed strike one of the other boys—the nervous small one, from the sound of his sharp intake of breath and the small yelp that slipped free.
Then again.
Then someone else.
The master moved among us, silent as a wraith except for the occasionalcrackof his reed. Each was precise, measured, correcting a specific error with a very specific strike.
He was not cruel. He did not strike in anger. His role demanded perfection. Imperfection was corrected immediately and without mercy.
By the time he finally said, “Open your eyes,” the sun had cleared the horizon, and the courtyard was bathed in the brilliant light of day.
My shoulders burned. I wanted to reach back and touch them, to feel if I was bleeding, but I dared not move.
“Stand.”
The master moved to the center of the courtyard and squared to us. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight balanced, his hands came up—left hand open, palm facing out, right hand curled into a loose fist behind it.
“This is the first form.” His gaze fixed on me. “Watch.”
He moved, fluid, precise, beautiful.
