After our arrival in Hiroshima, we proceeded to the picturesque island of Miyajima, where I spent part of an afternoon with a young guide named Ken.
Like many visitors to Japan, I was interested in the history surrounding the places we visited. What I did not expect was that Ken shared a similar interest. He was a judoka, knowledgeable about samurai history, and curious about how a Filipino had come to spend so many years practicing Japanese martial arts.
Our conversation began where one might expect. We spoke about budō, about judo and aikido, and about the ways martial traditions evolve as they pass from one generation to another.
At one point, I found myself making an assumption.
For anyone who has spent decades around Japanese martial arts, the sound of Ken naturally evokes familiar associations: kendō, kenjutsu, aiki-ken, even katsujinken, the life-giving sword. Without thinking much about it, I mentioned one of them.
Ken smiled.
Then he did something I still remember very clearly.
He seemed almost embarrassed to correct me. Rather than telling me I was mistaken, he simply raised a finger and traced a character in the air between us.
“My kanji is written differently,” he said.
His Ken did not mean sword.
It meant humility.
The correction lasted only a few seconds. The invisible character vanished as soon as it had been drawn. The conversation moved on.
Yet the moment remained.
Perhaps because the assumption had felt so natural. We could easily have spent the afternoon discussing warriors, famous masters, the old schools of Japanese martial arts, and the shared heritage between the Kodokan and the Aikikai. Instead, what I remember most clearly is a young guide tracing a character in the air and quietly explaining that his name meant humility.
Later that same day, Ken helped explain an omikuji that I had received at the island’s Shinto shrine. He told me that it was a very auspicious one and encouraged me to keep it.
Its message was simple:
Return to a good heart.
At first glance, the words seemed almost too simple. Yet simplicity and ease are not the same thing. Returning to a good heart may be among the hardest tasks in life.
The message lingered longer than I expected. Partly because Miyajima is the sort of place that encourages reflection. But I suspect it remained for another reason. It felt strangely familiar.
Long before I encountered aikido, long before I visited Japan, I had already spent years within another tradition concerned with character.
As a boy, I was a Scout.
Many decades have passed since then, yet I can still remember the Scout Law. What strikes me now is where it began: not with strength, but with honor, trustworthiness, and loyalty.
Before one could lead, one had to be trusted. Before responsibility could be entrusted, character had to be formed.
Looking back, I hear the rank I eventually attained differently as well.
Maginoo Scout.
As a boy, I understood it as an achievement. As an adult, I hear the older meaning beneath the word: honor, restraint, responsibility, and service before power.
Perhaps that is why Ken’s correction remained with me. A lifetime around martial traditions had taught me to hear the word ken and think immediately of the sword. Yet the highest aspirations of budō were never really about the sword.
O-Sensei spoke of making a thousand cuts with the sword each day. Age has a way of changing one’s hearing. The cuts seem less directed toward an opponent than toward pride, vanity, fear, and ego. The purpose of the Way was never merely to produce a more capable fighter, but a better human being.
Of everything we discussed that afternoon, I remember little of the technical details.
What remains is a small gesture.
A young guide raising a finger and tracing a character into the air.
“My kanji is written differently.”
The character vanished almost immediately.
The lesson did not.
And perhaps that was the meaning of the omikuji all along. Not a prediction. Not a promise.
An invitation.
To return, again and again, to a good heart.
