The katana metaphor
I'm so ready to be able to sit straight, but my butt ain't. The effort to sit up instead of laying down, so I can type, eat, and so forth, keeps pulling at my stitches, the vulnerable ones on my butt. I wonder, if I duct tape across my butt crack to force the buttocks together, would the stitches heal faster? Hmmm, LOL, interesting idea. Not duct tape, of course, that's harsh stuff, but skin tape? I could include absorbent bandages over the graft. Interesting. I might actually try that. At the moment I'm in a position that's working but it involves a lot of bending of legs and they'll eventually complain pretty hard about the restricted circulation. I was sitting on my heels for about an hour but that got painful.
I want so badly to talk about my forging.
When a japanese sword making master creates a Katana, he doesn't just flatten out a superb chunk of iron then put an edge on it, the way western blades are made. No, he spends months hammering on it and cutting it and folding it over. The steel itself takes three days to get out of iron sand, and then if its the right steel, it may be chosen for a katana. A meteorite would be better still.
The metal is not again heated then poured, but rather, is heated and hammered into a rectangular lump. It's then coated with deliberate impurities, soot or ash, or some other secret formula. Then it's hammered to half it's thickness, heating as they go to keep it the right temperature. Then they use a chisel to nearly cut off half of it, and hammer it over till it's folded, and hammer it some more. Heating, hammering, cutting, folding, hammering, heating, hammering, cutting, folding, and so it goes, week after week. Eventually they start hammering it to shape, when the master sees the right grains and the right folds. At some point they include a second bit of iron of different consistency, cutting a slot down one side and inserting the fresh iron, then again, more heating, hammering, heating, but no more folding. When the sword reaches the right size, the metal is fully integrated, and the grain of it looks just right, it's caked in secret recipe clay and baked again. Then the tempering includes cold shock and heat shock and, of course more hammering. once the hammering is done, the metal's pain is not over, for now it is ground with stones from the coarsest to the finest, ground and ground again, for weeks sometimes, till the edge is right. Still not done, the sword changes hands and the polisher carves designs and shines and finishes the edge, honing it till it slices anything it encounters without opposition.
I was a meteorite. An ugly black lump that fell from the stars and caused everyone who met it to stub their toe. Too heavy to pick up or shift, too dark and odd shaped to attract. I knew I fell from the sky but everyone damned me to hell. I endured. Through winter's freeze, summer's heat, spring floods and autumn droughts. Sometimes shifted by the torrents, I moved here and there, only to be cursed again and neglected, abandoned, unwanted.
Then one day, I was lifted up. Excited to be singled out, I had no idea how cruel the future was about to become. I was heated and hammered like I describe above. That would be when I finally was diagnosed with cancer, to relate back to reality. Torturous pain, masterful care, a sense of being appreciated, even while being abused so hard. The surgery was the final grinding, the polishing and carving and honing are continuing even now, with continuing medical care for cancer of the lung and repair of my surgery. But when I emerged from the surgery, I knew, finally, that I was never again going to be some ugly lump of unwanted material that people stumbled over and cursed. I had an edge that could cut through any obstacle. I was to be respected and admired henceforth, and I was a tool, not a chunk of possibility. I don't have to worry about my purpose, because I am the tool and I only need a hero to wield me. I don't have to worry about who my hero is, or what enemy we take on. I just keep my spine strong and my edge keen. The rest is done by others. I will always be a thing of great beauty and strength, shining in the darkness, all who see me will know I am to be respected. If some fool disrespects me and gets cut, it will be his fault.
Now we, me and my hero, must plan our journey to the sea, for it is there I am called.
Who is my hero? Well I pray it's Dan. he's got enough of the right qualities, but like Arthur when he pulled excalibur from the stone, he's a raw and rash "young man." We're old, so it doesn't fit perfectly, but old people are tools of spirit too. We can be strong and effective heroes. We're not so old and tired that we are spent, not us two. We've got a good twenty years or more if we are conscientious with our health. I felt so raw, so completely in spirit when I left the hospital it was as though the physical world were the overlay (well it actually is) and I did not even touch the ground. I felt like I could lift the planet with my little finger. I call that state "lucid." As in bright, or luminous, and it's the state I get into when I'm so fully in spirit that my mind is wholly open to spirit. It's more real than day-to-day life, but it's so very hard for other humans to handle because I speak in metaphors too much. So I'm glad to have landed again and become meat again. This is easier for others to handle and I am not here to float around in happy spirit space, I'm here to be in meat space where people live, grow, learn and change. I'm here to be a light to them, somehow, for those who seek that light to illuminate their darkness. I'm here to cut through the fog of sorrow, to cut through the obstacles of goodness, to be a member of the army against bestial darkness and selfish thoughts. I am not fighting alone, however much we may be isolated from each other. We aren't a band or a squadron or a team, we're a large contingent of warriors spread out and battling individually, like rebel fighters in their home mountains might be. We may band up on occasion, but mostly, we are out there fighting single. But we aren't alone.
it's good, though, to finally feel important, beautiful, radiant, shining, visibly special and admirable. I know now I can stand strong and not be cursed for it by all who run into me. I was a very heavy black lump of mystery, now I am a shining beacon of justice. Thank you Master. Thank you for the sweat of your brow, the science of your art, and the dedication of your soul, a piece of which will always reside in me.
I want so badly to talk about my forging.
When a japanese sword making master creates a Katana, he doesn't just flatten out a superb chunk of iron then put an edge on it, the way western blades are made. No, he spends months hammering on it and cutting it and folding it over. The steel itself takes three days to get out of iron sand, and then if its the right steel, it may be chosen for a katana. A meteorite would be better still.
The metal is not again heated then poured, but rather, is heated and hammered into a rectangular lump. It's then coated with deliberate impurities, soot or ash, or some other secret formula. Then it's hammered to half it's thickness, heating as they go to keep it the right temperature. Then they use a chisel to nearly cut off half of it, and hammer it over till it's folded, and hammer it some more. Heating, hammering, cutting, folding, hammering, heating, hammering, cutting, folding, and so it goes, week after week. Eventually they start hammering it to shape, when the master sees the right grains and the right folds. At some point they include a second bit of iron of different consistency, cutting a slot down one side and inserting the fresh iron, then again, more heating, hammering, heating, but no more folding. When the sword reaches the right size, the metal is fully integrated, and the grain of it looks just right, it's caked in secret recipe clay and baked again. Then the tempering includes cold shock and heat shock and, of course more hammering. once the hammering is done, the metal's pain is not over, for now it is ground with stones from the coarsest to the finest, ground and ground again, for weeks sometimes, till the edge is right. Still not done, the sword changes hands and the polisher carves designs and shines and finishes the edge, honing it till it slices anything it encounters without opposition.
I was a meteorite. An ugly black lump that fell from the stars and caused everyone who met it to stub their toe. Too heavy to pick up or shift, too dark and odd shaped to attract. I knew I fell from the sky but everyone damned me to hell. I endured. Through winter's freeze, summer's heat, spring floods and autumn droughts. Sometimes shifted by the torrents, I moved here and there, only to be cursed again and neglected, abandoned, unwanted.
Then one day, I was lifted up. Excited to be singled out, I had no idea how cruel the future was about to become. I was heated and hammered like I describe above. That would be when I finally was diagnosed with cancer, to relate back to reality. Torturous pain, masterful care, a sense of being appreciated, even while being abused so hard. The surgery was the final grinding, the polishing and carving and honing are continuing even now, with continuing medical care for cancer of the lung and repair of my surgery. But when I emerged from the surgery, I knew, finally, that I was never again going to be some ugly lump of unwanted material that people stumbled over and cursed. I had an edge that could cut through any obstacle. I was to be respected and admired henceforth, and I was a tool, not a chunk of possibility. I don't have to worry about my purpose, because I am the tool and I only need a hero to wield me. I don't have to worry about who my hero is, or what enemy we take on. I just keep my spine strong and my edge keen. The rest is done by others. I will always be a thing of great beauty and strength, shining in the darkness, all who see me will know I am to be respected. If some fool disrespects me and gets cut, it will be his fault.
Now we, me and my hero, must plan our journey to the sea, for it is there I am called.
Who is my hero? Well I pray it's Dan. he's got enough of the right qualities, but like Arthur when he pulled excalibur from the stone, he's a raw and rash "young man." We're old, so it doesn't fit perfectly, but old people are tools of spirit too. We can be strong and effective heroes. We're not so old and tired that we are spent, not us two. We've got a good twenty years or more if we are conscientious with our health. I felt so raw, so completely in spirit when I left the hospital it was as though the physical world were the overlay (well it actually is) and I did not even touch the ground. I felt like I could lift the planet with my little finger. I call that state "lucid." As in bright, or luminous, and it's the state I get into when I'm so fully in spirit that my mind is wholly open to spirit. It's more real than day-to-day life, but it's so very hard for other humans to handle because I speak in metaphors too much. So I'm glad to have landed again and become meat again. This is easier for others to handle and I am not here to float around in happy spirit space, I'm here to be in meat space where people live, grow, learn and change. I'm here to be a light to them, somehow, for those who seek that light to illuminate their darkness. I'm here to cut through the fog of sorrow, to cut through the obstacles of goodness, to be a member of the army against bestial darkness and selfish thoughts. I am not fighting alone, however much we may be isolated from each other. We aren't a band or a squadron or a team, we're a large contingent of warriors spread out and battling individually, like rebel fighters in their home mountains might be. We may band up on occasion, but mostly, we are out there fighting single. But we aren't alone.
it's good, though, to finally feel important, beautiful, radiant, shining, visibly special and admirable. I know now I can stand strong and not be cursed for it by all who run into me. I was a very heavy black lump of mystery, now I am a shining beacon of justice. Thank you Master. Thank you for the sweat of your brow, the science of your art, and the dedication of your soul, a piece of which will always reside in me.