The road wandered on
Until harbor, garden, sword
Became one journey
This trip was supposed to be several separate things.
A promise.
A city.
A garden.
A seminar.
A ferry ride.
A hotel on a lake.
A flight home.
Instead, somewhere along the way, they all became the same story.
The trip began with a promise.
More than a decade ago, H and I spent our tenth anniversary in Vancouver. Like many couples celebrating on a budget, we spent a certain amount of time looking at things we couldn’t quite justify.
The Pan Pacific Club Floor.
The Michelin-starred restaurants.
The little luxuries that belonged in the category of “someday.”
This year, someday arrived.
Five Sails and Botanist were extraordinary, but not simply because of the food.
What I remember most is the kindness.
A place set at the table.
A marble quietly present.
A staff that somehow understood that an anniversary dinner for one was still an anniversary dinner.
A promise that had waited patiently for years.
And was finally kept.
From there, the trip began to wander.
Or perhaps I did.
Vancouver slowly transformed from a city I was navigating into a city I understood.
The map and the town finally agreed.
The harbor stopped feeling like a destination and started feeling familiar.
Even the ping-pong tables somehow became part of the story.
Nitobe Memorial Garden reminded me that some places feel familiar because they are introducing us to something we already love.
The tea house.
The lanterns.
The moss.
The realization that the Urasenke tradition I had studied at Green Gulch connected me to a place I had never visited before.
Not through memory.
Through recognition.
Then there was the callback to the Ripplecove Inn from our honeymoon.
Or perhaps more accurately, the realization of what Ripplecove had always meant.
For years, when I looked off into the distance in thought, I was remembering the inn.
The lake.
The room.
The white-gloved waiter.
Looking out across Long Lake in Nanaimo, I finally understood that what I had actually been remembering was trust.
The moment before the destination.
The moment when H suggested we abandon the only part of the honeymoon I’d been responsible for planning . . . and simply see where the road went.
The moment when I let go and followed his hunch—and discovered something wonderful.
The road and the map agreeing.
The same lesson wearing different clothes.
Then came Nanaimo.
The official reason for the trip.
The swords.
The corrections.
The endless reminders to relax.
To see.
To stop chasing speed and instead move correctly.
The lesson itself turned out to be surprisingly simple.
Relax.
Actually see your teki.
Everything else follows.
Uchizono Sensei taught it.
Hiro Sensei taught it.
Dr. Scott Sensei taught it.
Each in different ways.
And perhaps that is why the lesson finally landed.
Not because it was new.
Because I was finally ready to hear it.
The seminar also reminded me of something else.
Community matters.
The House of Knives text message.
The Nanaimo practitioners.
The Vancouver practitioners.
The Genwakan contingent.
The hot-tub discussions about secret waza.
The laughter.
The corrections.
The encouragement.
The strange collection of people who voluntarily spend weekends discussing swords, alignment, and whether one’s elbow is sufficiently tucked in.
My sword weirdos.
By the end of the weekend I found myself standing in the back row during the awards ceremony, listening as names were called.
Wilson-san.
Of course.
Marla.
Of course.
And then:
“Dangai, Shepādo Sandora.”
Followed immediately by:
“Eep.”
An Excellence Award was never something I expected.
The certificate itself is lovely.
But what I will remember are the conversations afterward.
The people who explained what it meant.
The people who were happy for me.
The realization that sometimes we are the last people to see what others have already noticed.
And then, because the universe refuses to allow any story to become too sentimental, there was Lady Nene.
In the end, Lady Nene received a beautiful new embroidered inner sword sleeve.
But not before . . .
A lock was cut.
A sword sleeve was cut.
At the eleventh hour, a sword case exploded.
Zip ties were employed.
Tiny scissors gave their lives in honorable service.
Bruno conducted a catastrophic audit of my Japan packing preparations.
In other words, balance was restored.
As I write this, the trip is already beginning to settle into memory.
The garden.
The sword.
The lake.
The flowers.
The ferry.
The camaraderie.
The award.
The promise.
The road.
None of them feel separate anymore.
They feel like chapters of the same story.
A promise kept.
A lesson learned.
A road followed.
A sword carried.
A journey completed.
Or perhaps not completed.
Simply continued.
After all, the road wanders on.