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My Life as Do Training under Sensei Nyghtshayde was a unique experience, and one that shaped me as much as my solitary practice. My sensei didn't treat instruction as command, but as a shared journey. She guided me with a firm hand, steady in her knowledge of the path, yet always with the humility to accept that her own learning was not complete. In her presence, I came to understand that a teacher is not one who towers above the student, but one who walks beside them - sometimes leading, sometimes listening, always learning. From her I inherited the sense that teaching is a living exchange, a current flowing both ways. In guiding my own disciples, I strive to carry forward this spirit: to walk with them rather than before them, to offer the hand that steadies without closing the door to my own growth. In this way, the chain of the Do is unbroken, each generation strengthening the next while remembering that even the guide is still, in truth, a student. To train as a Do is to walk an endless path of self-mastery. Discipline upon discipline, repetition until the body intuitively remembers what the mind once had to command. Each morning, I rise before the sun to still my thoughts and to move through my forms. In that silence, the day begins not with haste, but with peace. Strength as a Do is not born of ambition. It comes through patience, humility, and the knowledge that there is always another layer of truth waiting to be uncovered. The body may be steady, the blade sharp, but skill alone is not the summit. Beyond strength and form lies stillness, balance, and peace - the qualities that free the mind when battle presses close and that preserve the spirit long after the clash has ended. At the heart of my training is the bond between myself and my blade. Each day, after morning tea, I walk to the stream behind my cottage. The water there is drawn from mountain snows, cold enough to strip away the night?s sluggishness with a single sharp breath. Cleansed and awakened, I lay my blade before me. I study it as though for the first time, honoring both the steel and the master craftsman who forged it with hours of labor, meditation, and ritual. His devotion is bound into its edge, and I repay that devotion with my respect. When I rise and move into my forms, my blade is no longer a tool - it's an extension of myself. We move as one. The air against its steel is the air against my skin. It responds to the smallest command, flowing where I lead, turning where I turn. Together we dance, partners in perfect unison. The blade has a life of its own, and in it I see my own life reflected. Should I fall, it will fall with me. In that truth lies a responsibility: to treat it with the same reverence I give my own spirit. When my practice is done, I wipe the blade with silk, clearing away the traces of dew or grass. Only once it rests sheathed again at my side do I break my fast. In battle, too, I honor it. Polishing and sharpening it immediately after every use. Never should a Do wander with a damaged weapon. A flaw left unattended may mean death, just as a flaw ignored in the self may bring ruin. This is the way of the Do: humility in all things, self-control in one's own movements, patience in practice, respect for life in all its forms, and the endless pursuit of improvement. These are not lessons that end at the walls of the dojong, but qualities to be carried into every step of life - into speech, into silence, into the smallest gesture of the hand. To live as Do is to weave discipline into the very fabric of the day, so that no moment passes without awareness of its weight and its consequence. Continued ... | |