One night in the Spring I balanced on the rail of the deck overlooking the lake at my parent's house. This is good training, especially for Hsing I or Iaido, because the narrow ledge requires a stance less than shoulder-width apart, and such a restriction encourages the retention of an upright posture and the maintenance of the physical center.
I paced back and forth on the narrow ledge, moving one foot and then the other, yielding one posture that lead to another, while at my side was a four foot drop to the wooden deck below. This, of course, is not so bad, although to my other side, the distance to the beach was twice that. There would be bushes to negotiate if I took that route, but I am also a Judo man, so the prospect of falling did not intimidate me; and there may have been wine involved, inhibiting those areas of the brain sensitive to trepidation.
But, these details are inconsequential. The significance of the story came to pass as I balanced on the edge of the rail and glanced toward the lake. The moon was full and very bright, hovering above the treetops. A ghost-white line of undulating light ran across the water's surface directly toward where I stood.
I remember feeling a sense of reality and surprise, because it seemed my random forms had lead me to the perfect spot: That by mere accident, I had landed within the gaze of the moon.
I honored the moment by facing the lake and closing my eyes, breathing deeply into the lower abdomen, and standing still. Thoughts were initially consumed by balance, because balance tends to falter when the eyes are closed. Then, thoughts were consumed by relaxation, of "having the feeling of being shaped by gravity," as one of my teachers often says. Then, for an undetermined interval, I didn't think.
This interval was not long. I opened my eyes, and the moon and the moonlight still wandered my way. Training resumed: back and forth on the narrow ledge, moving one foot and then the other, yielding one posture that lead to another, when once again I glanced toward the lake and saw that the moon had followed me — and if slid left or sidled right, the moonlight on the lake made a beeline my way.
I remember feeling a sense of foolishness, because this is the nature of reflection. My random forms did not place me in line with the moonlight; the moonlight had always been aligned with me.
I honored the moment without breaking stride — back and forth on the narrow ledge, moving one foot and then the other, yielding one posture that lead to another, thinking:
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