Fuden-an: Leaves from a Tea-journal

Still fresh in my memory is the latter half of this August, during which the entire Japanese archipelago seemed swept by a single-minded fever of interest in the Athens Olympics, its inhabitants cast now up, now down, by the various performances of the athletes representing them there. In response to a 'rush of medals' with the like of which the nation had not recently been regaled, day after day, night after night, the hearts of the populace leaped in joyful pride, and their pulses raced with excitement. Being no exception - as one that dotes upon watching all kinds of sport - on each following day I found myself again having to battle with consequent lack of sleep.

And those Japanese athletes that won gold, silver or bronze medals in such fields as judo, swimming, track and field athletics afforded my own heart many intense emotions. Nevertheless, there is just one thing that gave me pause - and this was something that I had felt on the occasion of the previous Olympics, too. It was the poses of triumph in which successful Japanese judo competitors would indulge themselves. These I find most distasteful. I have no objection to their use in any other Olympic event; but, when it comes to judo - which, in the context of that international competition, has the role of representing the Japanese martial arts - the employment of such gestures is entirely unsuitable, and I cannot admire it.

For no martial art is a matter of the mere pursuit of victory. How one wins, and indeed how one loses, also matters. And not only the victor's own joy in success but that victor's care for the feelings of the one that has lost, too, has great importance. Each match begins with both opponents showing their mutual respect and gratitude by bowing to one another, and ends in the same way; and it is precisely at moments of triumph that one should not have to feel that the spirit that ought to inform not only these significant rituals but the entire match has been forgotten, or lost.

With regard to both Kitajima, our brilliant swimming competitor and those of his colleagues equally successful in other fields, I found myself impressed by something that transcended questions of spirituality - indeed transcended that of Japaneseness, altogether. The strength and power that these athletes demonstrated, which had in it something almost frightening, what is that? Their achievements tempt one to believe that the Japanese have indeed changed.

What most moved me in these Olympics was the winning, by the men's gymnastics team, of the team gold. When the horizontal bar competition - the final event, upon which the possibility of the team's success yet hung - began, the television commentary broadcast here proclaimed certainty as to victory. Though I too had registered a similar presentiment, I also felt well up in my breast a fervent hope, close even to prayer, and a great surge of unease. And, when our representing athlete, Tomita, finally landed back on the mat without the least mishap, the voices of both the commentators in Athens and the studio announcers were alike audibly tearful. Of course, my own tears, too, were leaking thick and fast. This triumph was of course reported again and again, in both the news, and programs combining the high-lights of the day's events; but, each time I observed this particular scene replayed, my eyes would again, if hardly unexpectedly, grow moist. The same is true even now - after there has already elapsed some considerable period of time. And I suspect there are many that - just as in my own case - would unhesitatingly choose that horizontal-bar competition as the moment at which they had found themselves most deeply moved. And it has occurred to me to attempt to think out just why this should be so.

There was once a period during which Japanese Olympic gymnasts ruled the day, standing indeed at the very pinnacle of achievement in their specialization; then, twenty-something years ago, their position became and subsequently remained utterly reversed, producing in many hearts an enduring puzzled concern and saddened disappointment. And any recovery that follows a slump to the very nadir is one that will produce twice as much joy as normal success: the completeness of previous failure and defeat must induce precisely as complete a movedness, over success at long last.

My own first experience of an Olympic competition was of that held in Tokyo. I was then only in my second grade, but certain memories of those had lingered with me, and have now come to connect up in some way with what I have repeatedly felt since the end of this last August. Upon which realization, it occurs to me afresh that what one sees, hears, and learns while still a small child is of makes a great contribution to one's later life.

The spirit at the heart of Tea and the spirit of the Japanese nation and its culture at their best are one and the same. We adults have to think of how to afford our children experiences that will leave some valuable deposit in their minds; and the praxis of Tea is one field that offers many such possibilities.