Today's illustrious band:

The Ragged Sword

Brought to you by the late Master T.T. Liang, my T'ai Chi teachers' teacher. Master Liang passed away last week, and we had our local memorial service for him at our studio yesterday evening. It was performed by Vietnamese Buddhist priests/monks, because Vietnamese Buddhism is similar to the Chinese version Master Liang would have known. They conducted the rites entirely in Vietnamese, with singing/chanting sometimes punctuated by low bows and chimes from a singing bowl. It was very dignified and elegant. (I, however, was not after sitting cross-legged on a hardwood floor for an hour.)

The formal ceremony was followed by informal storytelling. While I didn't speak last night, I thought I'd tell this one anyway.

I have an old practice sword that used to belong to Master Liang. Our instructor Ray gave it to me many months ago, I suspect because he was tired of watching his advice on my form fall upon deaf ears and decided to turn me over to a higher authority. It’s kind of a Big Deal to receive an item that used to belong to the Master, so I was a little disappointed by the lack of wonder it inspired at first.

This sword is not a glamorous weapon, to say the least. Pretty much the opposite, really. It’s just a single hunk of cast metal — no finely crafted blade fitted to a polished hilt and carved wooden grip. No slip-proof wrapping of cord on the smooth grip, either. No carefully weighted pommel to counterbalance the blade.

The blade itself is nicked and scratched and not even straight. It’s certainly not sharp. The surface is a listless silver except for the grip, which my sweaty palm has tarnished to a dark grey, and it won’t take a good shine no matter how hard I try. The blade bears no etched dragons or Chinese characters, no blood groove or artisan’s signature.

The only ornamentation is a hole drilled in the pommel end for the attachment of a tassel. There’s no scabbard that I know of, no painted or lacquered wooden home. No shiny brass fittings, no oiled sheath. The sword is kind of . . . ugly.

And yet . . .

And yet, for an inanimate object, it’s been one of my greatest teachers.

A line in the Tao Te Ching says "Those who speak do not know, and those who know do not speak." I begin to see what it means. With just a few words, Ray handed me this sword; with none at all it has told me things I didn’t understand when he said them aloud.

The blade’s weight pulls me forward when I would hang back, slows me when I would rush. I must move it with my whole body; it won’t listen to my puny hand alone. It doesn’t distract my eye or my ego by being the prettiest weapon in the class. It does demand my full attention, or it will drag on the floor and take my balance with it. In short, it doesn’t let me get away with much. I’m still years away from doing the sword justice with my form, but that’s OK. The important thing is that I’m paying attention and improving, albeit slowly.

The more important thing, though, is that I have the chance to do so. I have this chance because Master Liang chose to share his knowledge and his tools with his students, and they have chosen to share with me. Every student who has borrowed the ragged sword has learned from it. I promise I won’t be the last.