“George, you’re just like a samurai!”
This was my ikebana teacher’s excited reaction to the announcement that I would miss my class the following weekend, as I would be attending my first karate tournament, out of town.
I was stunned—both by her effusive reaction to my mundane pronouncement and by the unlikely comparison of which I hardly felt worthy.
She explained: “The samurai were great warriors, but they were also very well-rounded. In addition to studying martial arts like you, they were also required to study poetry, calligraphy, tea ceremony and ikebana.”
More than a dozen years later, I continue to practise martial arts and ikebana; I consider them a complement to one another. And I have come to understand how both disciplines share common roots and common goals.
Martial arts and ikebana have roots in Zen Buddhist and samurai traditions. Karatedo—“the way of the empty hand”—traces its origins to the Shaolin Buddhist temple in China, where, according to legend, the Zen monk Bodhidharma developed a series of exercises and self-defence techniques to help keep the other monks at the temple strong, healthy and safe.
Ikebana—also known as kado, “the way of flowers”—began with monks in Buddhist temples and was later taken up by members of the aristocracy and the samurai class.
And both karatedo and kado are “ways” (dō) to self-knowledge and spiritual development. Either discipline practised diligently and mindfully will result not only in artistic skill, but in increased focus, patience, appreciation for life and an understanding of oneself. To quote Teshigahara Sofu (founder of the Sogetsu school of ikebana), “Ikebana is not just about flowers; it is also about the person who arranges them.” The practice of ikebana puts us in touch with ourselves.
I have come to appreciate ikebana as a contemplative art—if not a form of moving meditation. The process of creating requires me to focus only on the task at hand: to be completely in the moment, aware of my hands and my breath, conscious of my plant material and vessel, and sensitive to how they relate to one another.
Ikebana teaches me to see clearly; to observe beauty in all its various expressions. I learn to appreciate flowers and branches I previously considered unattractive, by rediscovering them in the new context of an ikebana arrangement. I learn to see the essential beauty of a branch by looking beyond (and removing) the many smaller branches obscuring it. This ability prods me to look past other people’s outward appearance—and my immediate impressions—to see the reality of their essential humanity.
Practising ikebana encourages me to remain calm and focused at all times (even when a stem just refuses to stay where I want it to…). I use this skill outside my class whenever situations don’t turn out exactly as I expected. Instead of getting frustrated, I bend, I adapt, I change my approach.
Creating ikebana brings me joy by putting me in touch with nature and with my humanity.
As Sofu said, “the highest expression of human nature is the joy of creating.”
Samurai practised ikebana to reach a peaceful state of concentration before going into battle. As a latter-day urban warrior, I practise ikebana to develop concentration and peace of mind that allow me to bend without breaking as I face the daily challenges of modern life.