Blade DancingI spin, the swords in my hands tracing a figure eight. I am showing off to myself, forgetting the rules, ignoring stance as I dance, truly dance with the blades. I feel the foam, creating a weight of its own in my hand, and I can sense the minutes trickling by until I have to focus again. The mirror. I see a lovely girl, showing off novice skills to only herself. I am happy.
He makes the rules, they could save me one day. They are a system of rules to follow so I don’t get hurt. I whack myself in the head. Sighing I set down the blades.
When we fight, when we practice, the rules add to my life in a religious manner. They give me something to work off of, a routine to live by. Since I was little I have loved the simple elegance of a blade, the definition of a fighting spirit…I held sticks and attacked imaginary foes.
But now, we breathe. He whispers “Stance, feel the Earth beneath you, holding you. Feel the way it supports you. Breathe. Look at the sky, take its gift of oxygen, something to breathe…” It goes on, but one thing remains the same. This experience is religion, not the sitting in a church, not the praying for forgiveness, this is the true religion.
I twirl the blades again before setting them down. The freedom of blade dancing without the prayer, without the stance is not a fun freedom. It feels wrong, like I have betrayed something. I sit down and do my homework.
The blade dancing with him hurts. It is supposed to. I practice blocking and attacking. I look to the earth and the sky. I mentally do the prayer when I am alone outside trying to think. It clears the thoughts to remember the earth and sky, supporting and taking. I breathe, go into stance. Twirl my blades. This feels right. Blade dancing.