Steve Lyons

Snow falls, big soft flakes drifting silently in the still, clean air of a somber North Fork Valley winter afternoon. In my snow-covered yard, a tall, bearded young man stands calmly, shoulders relaxed, his gaze meditative. He wears a dark blue kendogi and hakama, the thick cotton blouse and pleated skirt of a Japanese swordsman.

With a slow, smooth movement, his large right hand grasps the silver hilt of his sword and draws it from its scabbard with a whooshing sound. He lunges, blade thrusting straight ahead, pauses, then swiftly lifts the flashing instrument to parry the blow from an imaginary opponent. He dances across the snow, dodging the snowflakes, his weapon slicing the air, engaging the blade of his invisible foe. No rushing, no jerks or awkward starts; he steps and glides smoothly, with absolute control. As he completes his final move, he slips the tip of the sword into the dark, lacquered scabbard and eases the blade home with a sliding metallic clink.

“Practicing kendo--the way of the sword--leads one to develop greater ease, greater strength and greater confidence,” says the twenty-two-year-old swordsman, Michael Bailey, “And therefore greater effectiveness in all endeavors of life.”

Later, Michael sits in one of my living room chairs, both bare feet flat on the carpet, the palms of his hands resting on his thighs with all the fingers pointed inward, elbows out: the posture of a samurai warrior at ease. The pose is not affected; his composure is genuine. He wears his long, wavy brown hair in a neat ponytail, with two and half feet of it hanging down his back, wrapped with black elastic bands every 5 inches and ending in a small braid.

Bailey, who recently created his own school for swordsmanship, started on his path with play. “Like most kids, I would swing a stick around and imagine I was fighting,” he says with a strong, yet gentle, voice. He watched movies like The Seven Samurai and Star Wars, imitated the moves he saw, and later “filled in the holes” by studying books, taking classes in tai chi and karate, and finding the occasional lesson from a kendo teacher. As his studies deepened, he found the philosophies behind the martial arts as captivating as the sword play itself. He recently spent 6 months in Thailand, Cambodia and Laos, attending spiritual retreats, visiting temples and immersing himself in Asian culture.

Michael acknowledges that he had a leg up on his path because his parents exposed him to Eastern philosophies from birth. His father practiced meditation and martial arts at times and both his parents practiced macrobiotics, a discipline with Japanese roots, based on the art and science of understanding how our personal relationships, the food we eat, our lifestyle choices and our environment interact to promote health.

“I came out of the womb loving sushi,” Michael laughs, blushing slightly, “because my mom ate it while she was pregnant with me.”

Bailey named his school Ochi-Ba No Dojo, the School of the Falling Leaf. “The leaf that falls and is struck by a passing breeze is no less sure of its goal,” he explains sagely. “As we follow the path of our life, no matter where it goes, we can use those movements to enrich ourselves, as long as we maintain our integrity, our goal.”

He refers to what he does in Ochi-Ba No Dojo as ´leading´ rather than ´teaching´. “I have a long way to go before I can call myself an accomplished swordsman,” he says. “I know a fair amount, but often we are practicing something that I’ve just discovered, and I’m learning it, too.”

In order to grasp Ochi-Ba, he says, you must understand the nature of conflict.

“ Conflict is a fact of life. You can’t get rid of it. It’s in the home between brothers and sisters, husband and wife, father and son; and outside the home between a boss and an employee, between neighbors, between a citizen and politicians, even between friends.”

Bailey defines conflict as one force trying to match or overcome another force for its own advancement. It doesn’t have to be malicious. “A starving wolf will chase and kill a deer because it needs to eat,” he says. “ A healthy deer will run away and escape. The conflict makes both the deer and the wolf stronger.”

Bailey compares conflict, which is present in all forms of life and is without personal animosity, with conquest, which he defines as the need to dominate. “A conqueror wants to subvert so that he can feel he reigns supreme. It’s the desire to have absolute and ongoing control,” he says. It is ruthless and goes against nature.


Bailey compares the difference between conflict and conquest to the difference between arguing and debating. In an argument, each person is trying to overwhelm the other with the force of his or her own opinion, while trying to undermine the other person’s opinion. This he compares to war, in which there is no middle ground.

In a debate, on the other hand, two people meet with the strength of their own convictions, an understanding that their views differ, and an openness to hearing and understanding the other’s views.

“In the old days, two samurai warriors would approach each other to test their opponent’s philosophy and skill against their own. They wanted to find their own strengths and weaknesses. The meeting was more like a debate than an argument. Hatred, pride, or the desire to dominate did not motivate the true warrior. He approached his opponent with humility and respect.”

Michael says he seeks to cultivate this attitude in his students. Of his 19 swordsmanship students, over half are taking the classes he leads in Bushido, the way of the samurai. Students study the Hagakure, the samurai code of conduct, The Book of Five Rings, a practical guide to life by Mushashi, the most revered samurai of all times, and the study of formal procedures like the tea ceremony.

“I’m trying to create an environment that allows students to break free of some of the unhealthy boundaries that society imposes on us,” he says, his large hand resting gentley on the hilt of his sword, “And that sometimes means seeking friendly conflict.”