“…it’s all a matter of spirit. I have no use for rules—twisting the flowers with your fingertips or choking them at the neck. The point is to have the proper spirit—to be able to make them seem alive, just as when they were picked.”

Spirit of a Perfect Cut
by Donna Morgan

When the swordsman entered the garden gate, he drew his breath in amazement, struck by the colorful scene; and, as if someone had laid strong hands on his shoulders, he stopped in his tracks. Hidden behind the great stone wall lay a garden unlike any he had ever seen. Thousands of multi-hued blossoms of all shapes and sizes lined paths of white stone. Swaying willow branches shaded some of the flowers, while other plants raised their glorious heads to the full sun. Pure whites, vibrant yellows, brilliant reds, deep purples and jade greens swirled like paint on a canvas. Irises raised their bearded heads like old men dressed for a festival. Vines of purple and white clematis climbed toward the heavens along bamboo trellises. Golden yellow honeysuckle blossoms swayed their dragon-like tongues as if tasting the breeze before exhaling their sweet perfume. Flowing water and bird song added music to the garden and the swordsman felt his spirit soar.

Like spokes on a wheel, the white paths led to a stone platform in the center of the garden. In a wicker rocking chair sat the old gardener, enjoying a cup of tea and holding a white peony on his lap. His head nodded as he rocked as if he half-dozed amidst the color and sunshine. Perhaps, this old man would know the warrior who cut the flower, the swordsman thought. He fished the piece of stem from his bag, where he had wrapped it carefully in soft cotton.

As he walked down the path from the gate to the platform, he recalled the conversation from last evening, when the maiden had arrived at the inn with the perfectly cut flower and a message for him. He had come to the village in search of Sekishusai, a warrior of great renown, whom many people said was long dead. But the swordsman had put word out among the shopkeepers and farmers that he wanted to meet this warrior and learn what he could from the man who had seen victory after victory against swordsmen from all over the world. Rumor said that he had retired in this area and lived as a recluse.

The woman had come on horseback, a white peony in her hand. “Many have come searching for the secrets of Sekishusai,” she commented as she handed him the flower. “But none have passed the first test.”

“What test is this?” the swordsman asked.

The woman shook her head, a sign of her inability to answer. Her hand was on the door when he abruptly called out to her.

“Who cut this flower?” he queried, staring at the slashed stem. He looked up to see her smiling.

“Why do you ask?” she parried his question.

“It is cut so perfectly,” he stated, holding the stem aloft for her to see.

“Why,” she exclaimed softly, “you have passed the first test! You have seen and you have asked.”

“Will you answer my question now? Who cut it?!” he demanded.

“I have no answers for you,” the woman said. She pulled a rolled and sealed note from her bag and held it out to him. The paper was old, yellowed and very worn at the edges as though it had been carried a long time. But the seal was intact. “You must follow these directions and come to the garden on this map tomorrow—early in the day. Don’t be late.”

After she left, he examined the cut stem for hours, trying to gauge the angle of the swing, the size of the blade used, the speed of the cut, but nothing came to him. He stood with his sword and swung and practiced and considered every approach to cutting the stem. He finally slept, sitting on the floor with the flower in front of him, his chin lowered to his chest. The sunrise through the window awoke him. The light from the glowing orb caused the peony stem to cast a long shadow across the floor, pointing toward the door, as if to remind him of his appointment this day. So he had arisen and followed the directions to the large wooden gate set in a wall of stone and he now stood in the garden, watching the old caretaker having his morning tea.

“Can you tell me, old gardener, who cut this flower from your garden?”

The old man looked up from his tea and stared at the warrior, scrutinizing his face, his hands, his feet and finally the sword that showed at his waist. The swordsman shifted uncomfortably but took a step closer. He held the peony up for the gardener to see.

“I say, do you know who cut this white peony, old man?” he requested a second time.

“Only those who truly see and understand the way to do take them are allowed to cut the white peonies in this garden,” he answered. “The man who cut this one is truly a special swordsman.”

“Yes, yes,” the young warrior agreed. “I have seen that he is magnificent. I wish to talk to him about his technique. Take me to him.”

The old gardener sipped his tea and looked over the top of the cup at the swordsman. He held up the second white peony from his lap. “He was here this morning, gathering flowers for an arrangement. He chooses only those that are ready.”

“When will he return?” the warrior asked, his voice verging on impatience.

“Perhaps when you are ready for him to return,” the old man retorted, bringing his tea cup down rather loudly onto a small table beside his rocking chair.

“What is that supposed to mean?” the swordsman demanded. He could feel anger beginning to kindle in his heart. “Do not speak in riddles, old man.” His hand went to his sword hilt.

As if to show that the young warrior’s aggressive posture meant nothing to him, the gardener arose from his chair and took the two steps down from the platform on which he had been sitting. He pointed to the man’s hand on the sword hilt.

“You believe using your sword is about yourself and your own skill and spirit; nothing is further from the truth. Do you understand what I mean?”

The swordsman shook his head and started to protest that the old man continued to waste his time with riddles, but the gardener cut him off. “While we wait for the great swordsman who harvests white peonies, I will give you something to consider. Follow me.”

He led the swordsman to a patch of pink peonies, their layers of petals shimmering in the morning sun. Many of the peonies on this bush were only half open, their blossoms straining to burst forth from the green buds that held them tight.

The gardener turned to the swordsman. “Take a peony!” he commanded.

The warrior quickly pulled his sword and gave a mighty slash and one of the pink flowers, just half open, fell to the ground under the bush and lay in the shadow of the leaves. The swordsman immediately noticed the blunt cut on the stem and shook his head, but again, before he could speak, the old gardener interrupted.

“Why did you choose this peony?” he queried.

“It was the first I saw,” the swordsman offered. “The stem was in the open and available so that I could swing freely to cut it.”

“Tell me, swordsman,” the gardener continued, “would you use the same stroke to take a man’s life that you used to take this peony?”

The warrior faltered at the question, a look of confusion on his face for a moment. “I put my strength behind every swing I make, old man. I have developed my skill and my technique to do so. I am highly trained.”

The old gardener laughed and then remarked, “A true swordsman focuses the use of his sword not on himself, but on the object he plans to take with that sword, whether it be a peony or a life. Do you not understand that basic lesson, young swordsman?”

The samurai felt his face burn with shame and he protested, “Of course, I focus on what I am fighting! How can I not and survive? I had full focus on the flower I wished to take and I took it.”

But the old man shook his head, “What did you see when you took the peony?”

“I saw the stem,” the warrior said. “From among the many stems on that bush, I chose the one that seemed most appropriate.”

“Yet the peony is more than a stem, my friend,” the old man mumbled half to himself. He bent and picked up the half-bloomed flower, cradling it in his hand with a look of regret on his face. Then the look passed and he stared the young swordsman in the eye.

“When you move the sword—the way in which you move the sword—is not devised for yourself but for the peony. You are not cutting yourself; you are cutting the peony. Only when the flashing of your sword becomes one with the flower, will you make the perfect cut. The peony will control your sword and your sword will control the peony.”

The young warrior wanted to question the old gardener. After all, what did a man who lived among plants all day know of swordsmanship? But something in the old man’s eyes stilled the young man’s tongue and instead of speaking, he looked at the garden of flowers, hundreds of colorful heads waving in the summer breeze. If he cut every one, would he be able to make the perfect slice? No, he said to himself. If he sliced every green stem in the garden, not one would be a perfect cut.

“Perhaps you should await the great swordsman’s return here by this bush of red peonies,” the gardener suggested.

The warrior looked at the old man for a moment then nodded his head slowly. He carefully leaned his sword against a tree, then went and kneeled in front of the peony bush of fiery red flowers. A golden butterfly settled for a moment on one of the brilliant blossoms then drifted away. The swordsman chose this flower to study. He put his sword out of his mind and focused on the peony alone, his eyes and mind trying to soak in every detail—how the petals unfolded to the sun, how the stem swayed in the breeze, how the golden pollen in the center stirred in little clouds and traveled to other blooms on the legs of bees and butterflies drawn to the color and aroma of the blossom.

The sun rose to its midday point, and still the swordsman looked at the flower, watching the shadows move and deepen among the petals as the light shifted in the garden. As the heat increased during the afternoon, he watched the leaves shimmer and turn as if the peonies wished to fan themselves or withdraw their green limbs from the hot sun. He noticed veins in the leaves and along the stems that pulsed with life, drawing coolness and water from the earth. He closed his eyes and sighed, as his own body seemed to draw life from roots that went deeper than he ever imagined. He felt himself held fast to the ground and yearning to rise to the sun. Even behind closed eyes he saw the fringed petals, the golden pollen covered center, the lush green stem of the red peony. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see that the sun had moved further to the west, and the flower had shifted in the breeze, giving him a new view. A tiny ant crawled up the stem and became lost in the petals, like so many folds of silk hiding secrets from the outside world. The peony nodded in the breeze.

As night fell, the swordsman still sat, as though he were unaware of the passing time. His sword and the old gardener were far from his mind as twilight deepened and the peony took on the color of a crimson sunset. In the cooler air, the leaves closed slightly and the plant seemed to sleep, slowly waving the red blossom under the rising moon. As the breeze became still, so did the peony and the warrior felt great peace as silver moonlight touched the top of the bloom. Although he could no longer see the lithe green stem, the samurai knew it was there. He could even have reached out and put his hand directly on it, having studied the flower so closely.

The warrior slept as the peonies slept, rooted to the ground, swaying in any breeze that was offered. Once again, the rising sun found the man with his head on his chest, and as the first rays touched his face, he opened his eyes to see the red peony on fire in the morning light, rejoicing in another day.

The swordsman didn’t move as a foreign shadow fell across him and the peony. The flower shifted ever so slightly as the sun was blocked and the man finally looked up into the laughing eyes of the old gardener. He blinked and shook his head, feeling his hair around his ears and marveling at the fact that he breathed the cool morning air with human lungs.

“Now, young samurai, do you understand the spirit of the peony?” the old man asked.

Still unable to speak, the swordsman merely nodded, half expecting to shake loose petals from around his face. He stood and faced the gardener, who had retrieved the warrior’s sword from the tree behind him. The old man held out the sword, hilt toward the younger man and looked pointedly at the flaming red peony.

The young samurai put his hand to the hilt of his sword and his fingers closed around the handle clinging like young vines, rooted and supple. He raised the sword and with a movement as gentle and confident as the spring breeze, he swung at the peony. As his blade slashed through the slender stem, the flower remained upright, spinning slightly, dancing in the morning light and the swordsman dropped to one knee and caught the peony as it spun down toward the earth. Rising up, he looked the old gardener in the eye then bowed and offered the blossom to the old gardener and master swordsman, Sekishusai, who accepted the flower and returned the bow, smiling at the perfect cut and offering a white peony in return.