By Alex Sawit

29 January 2010

“You think it’s not magic that keeps you alive?  Just
because you understand the mechanics of how something
works doesn’t make it any less of a miracle, which is just
another word for magic. We’re all kept alive by magic.”

When it comes to moon gazing, there are two kinds of people. There are those who love it and those who don’t see what the big deal is. If you’re one of the latter, I can’t explain my story any further other than to ask you not to rationalize a moonlit sky. You either feel it’s magic or you don’t.

Someone once said that there is magic in the world, but we have all become divorced from it. Having embraced the logic of modern living, we now exist outside the boundaries of magic and can no longer enter it except for fleeting moments at a time. “No one on the outside may enter its boundaries,” we are told, “save for the length of a dream or a flash of an inspiration.”

That’s why I love gazing at the moon. On nights when la bella luna is so round and luminous in the heavens, I feel transported, connected to something wonderful about the world that I cannot do justice to define. I only know that whatever that spark of feeling may be, it is nothing less than magic to me.

Still, in light of recent experience, I feel that I owe it to try to explain myself as best I can. So to do this, if I may, allow me to take you back with me one month ago, to the last day of December when the moon was full.

It was late in the afternoon and, it being New Year’s Eve, I was preparing to attend the night’s festivities. Knowing that there was a full moon, however, and with time to while away before the party, I decided to watch the moonrise first. So I drove to my favorite viewing place, a wide open field of grass that is my one sanctuary for gazing at the sky in this busy metropolis. Arriving there, I sat on a bench and gazed across the field above the tree line.

People don’t realize how pretty the moonrise can be in the late afternoon light. It’s all about the warm colors. True enough, hovering above the treetops was an ivory white moon, fully round and plump, floating in a multi-colored pastel sky. Like the haunting subject of an impressionist painting, the pale moon seemed to lose itself in its lovely background, in a powdery haze of blue-gray, lavender and vermillion lined with pillows of clouds whose edges rippled with electric orange from the setting sun.

I smiled. I was lucky to have gotten here when I did. Had I been just a little late, I would have missed it.

As if on cue, the sky quickly darkened. What was left of the sun suddenly began to fade with exponential speed, causing the sky to transform into a silky blur of indigo and magenta. This went on until the light vanished completely, giving way to the dark blue of a newborn evening. Having crossed into night, I watched as the ascending moon, no longer white and pallid, beamed like a golden mirror, lighting up the sky with a satin sheen in every direction.

Meanwhile, the cloud pillows that had appeared at dusk now converged into a single immense vertical pillar, towering from the horizon all the way above me. Impenetrable to illumination, the billowing juggernaut of a cloud stayed shadowy even as the bright moon vividly outlined its monolithic shape from behind.

A little later, the sky altered again. I looked for the cloud pillar but it was gone. Broken up by the air currents, it was reshaped into a spectacular new form, that of a colossal celestial hawk. Silvery and translucent, the fantastic bird of prey filled the sky as its outstretched wing fanned through miles of open space. In breathtaking unison, the shining moon came to rest perfectly inside the hawk’s head, becoming the bird’s dazzling eye. And there it stayed for a while.

Inevitably, the winds returned to disperse the cloud for good. When the time came, the once mighty cloud gently divided itself into delicate white sails, each set adrift on its own silent course across a sea of stars and a creamy ocean of moonlight. Now, high above and with the sky all to its own, the moon finally asserted herself as mistress of the night. Like a lovely host entreating me with her hospitality, she then softly bathed my surroundings in her glow that I might continue to stay. I happily obliged.

As I kept watch, I reflected on the past hour in which I had just witnessed one of the most memorable moonrises in my life. Yet not out of ingratitude, it all felt so fleeting. From the very start, the moonrise never stopped changing, never stopped remaking itself as it moved irresistibly from one beautiful moment to the next. Each moment was precious in its own different way and each departed in its own different way, never to return. Yet, however short-lived each moment may have been, I felt happy to be alive exactly where I was. I felt free.

It was then that I remembered something – something I heard elegantly phrased not too long ago when I was watching the hit fantasy series True Blood (like Twilight, it’s part of the recent wave of sympathetic vampire stories that have captured the imagination of a global audience). It comes by way of a scene early in the story, shortly after the heroine meets the vampire hero who would become her protector. Talking aimlessly about their new-found friendship, the heroine decides to ask the hero what it is that keeps vampires alive. “Magic,” he replies nonchalantly. She promptly responds with laughing disbelief, refusing to accept that someone as analytical as he hadn’t found a logical mechanism to explain his biology when science had long ago done the same for people. So he returned the question to her.

“You think it’s not magic that keeps you alive?” he asked poignantly. “Just because you understand the mechanics of how something works doesn’t make it any less of a miracle, which is just another word for magic. We’re all kept alive by magic.”

Checking the time in the cold December air, I finally readied myself to leave the field. As I took one last long look at the moonlit sky, I knew I had been touched by something that can only be rightfully called a miracle of creation. However fleeting it may have been, however much I logically understood how it worked, it pleases me to think that maybe it’s the kind of miracle that only Divine Providence could leave behind for us as proof that there is something else at work in the world, something meant to inspire our spirits and give life to our dreams.

That’s if you believe in miracles. And if you believe in being moonstruck as I do, what is a miracle really if not just another word for magic?

POSTSCRIPT: I just want to acknowledge all those Cyrano friends who have shared the moonrise with me at my favorite field. Let me just say that I love being there with you, sitting together on that picnic mat under the stars, drinking wine and conversing unhurriedly with the breeze in our faces while everything around us is bathed in a soft, dreamy glow. You need only ask anytime and I’ll be happy to share it as often as you wish.

By Alex Sawit

13 December 2009

Kendo is now an ongoing topic of pleasant debate at the wine shop.  You see, my old friend and new business partner, Cecile, is a devoted kendoist who insists on reserving her Saturdays for training only.  That means no late nights at Cyrano on Friday and no scheduling of business related activities the following day.

“I want to be mentally prepared for my afternoon sparring matches,” she insists.

I wonder, though, if she puts herself under too much pressure.  She sometimes asks for my advice on how she should prepare for these battles.  As a fellow martial artist, I simply tell her not to think about how good or bad her technique is.  Don’t even think about winning or losing.  Don’t think, period.  That’s what I wish for her to understand. But listening to the way she likes to critique the details of her mock-combat performances, I think my advice still puzzles her.

Maybe this will help.  I remember that I do have something for her to read that completely explains what I mean.  It’s a commentary I wrote years ago about kendo, entitled, “Attaining the Empty Mind: Lessons in Swordsmanship From The Book of Five Rings.”

So I’m posting it here.  I hope she gives it proper thought.  To not think, that is.

——————————————————————————————————–

The following is my re-edited commentary (originally posted in 2002), which I wrote as part of a book discussion about The Book of Five Rings.

Written in the 17th century by the great swordsman Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings is a classic reference in Japanese martial arts. In my commentary, I focus on the subject of “Empty Mind.” It is one of the key concepts in Musashi’s book and I fully explain it in the context of the Japanese fencing sport of kendo.   – Alex Sawit

——————————————————————————————————–

Attaining the Empty Mind

Lessons in Swordsmanship From
The Book of Five Rings

   I was recently watching a documentary whose lessons vividly bring to life ideas from The Book of Five Rings.

   The 1997 documentary is entitled “Kendo’s Grueling Challenge” and follows the events of the Hachi-Dan (8th Degree Black Belt) kendo exam held that May at the Kyoto Martial Arts Centre.  The exam is held twice a year, once in Kyoto and once in Tokyo, and is described as the most difficult test of any kind in Japan (the average pass rate is less than 1%).

   In order to qualify for the exam, a candidate must be at least 46 years old and should have spent at least eight years as a 7th Degree Black Belt.  The exam itself consists of two elimination rounds of matches against other candidates in order to reach the final round.  What is most significant is that passing has nothing to do with winning or losing.  Instead, judges will only acknowledge a candidate if his strikes show that he has truly matured as a kendoist.

   One of the candidates in Kyoto that year was former All-Japan Champion Ishida Kenichi of Osaka.

   When he was still an active competitor, Ishida was feared for his amazing agility and uncanny ability to strike from any angle.  Even at age 48 (in 1997), his skills remained undiminished.  Still, his previous attempts at passing the exam had been a struggle.  On his very first attempt, Ishida failed because he tried to score hits as furiously as he used to do as a competitor.  On the next attempt he tried to deliver strikes with deliberate, perfect form after hearing someone say that style was important; the judges, however, disagreed.  On another attempt he tried to emphasize delivering only meaningful blows, but this only made him nervous during his matches.  After his last failed attempt, Ishida became convinced that his competitive instinct to win, which once brought him so much success in tournaments, had become a wall thwarting his efforts to pass the exam.  This led to a fateful decision: Now on his fifth attempt, Ishida committed himself to effortlessly unleashing his strikes, moving casually in a natural manner.

   “At the risk of sounding grandiose,” Ishida reflected, “I’d say the ultimate goal is to master a strike in which the mind, sword and body are united as one.  When [they] become one, you can strike as freely as you wish.  It’s not something you try to do – it just happens.  That’s what’s difficult about it.  The more you’re self-conscious about it, the less possible it is to deliver.”

   He did exactly that in the first elimination round, striking effortlessly and naturally.  But for Ishida the feeling was unfamiliar.  It did not feel as if he had done anything special.  On top of that, he had faced very tough opposition and could only produce scores that were very close.  After completing the round he assumed the worst.  Indeed he had already showered, changed and packed his bags when it was announced that he had qualified for the second round!  It was the first time in five attempts that Ishida had cleared the first screening.  Encouraged that his approach had been validated, he got back into gear and did as in the previous round, striking effortlessly and naturally but now clearly outscoring and trouncing his second round opponents on his way to qualifying for the finals.

   For all intents and purposes, Ishida is articulating the state of “Empty Mind” that every swordsman strives for.  He speaks of striking spontaneously with undivided mind and sword (or mind and body, since the sword is just an extension of the body).

   The concept of Empty Mind often mystifies students.  Yet this is something we use all the time in daily life.  Take the simple act of typing on a computer keyboard.  Most people learn by “punch” typing, looking at and hitting one key at a time.  Gradually they learn to hit the keys without constantly looking down to see where they are.  Eventually those who get used to it no longer take their eyes off the screen.  Without looking at the keyboard and consciously thinking about it, keystrokes flow freely as the words come to thought.  Mind and fingertips strike as one.  This is Empty Mind.

   But while a keyboard won’t hit back, a sword-wielding opponent will.  The thought of retaliation, of suffering negative consequences for one’s actions, can cloud a swordsman’s mind.  Such a swordsman cannot act single-mindedly.  He will act with indecision or hesitation.  This is what makes attacking with Empty Mind difficult.

   The master swordsman Yamaoka Tesshu believed that a warrior who is like this is subconsciously hoping to escape getting hurt or even killed.  But Tesshu says escape is an illusion.  In a sense, there is no escape from injury or death.  Only if you embrace this idea can you attack single-mindedly.  Only when your heart is resolved to accept injury or death without regret can you attack with Empty Mind.

   The experience of one of Tesshu’s students provides an entertaining example.  Kagawa Zenjiro was undergoing one of his teacher’s ultimate marathons: A seven-day fencing challenge that pitted trainees against each other until each had completed 1,400 matches.  After day one, Kagawa succeeded in completing two hundred matches, yet he received a message from Tesshu informing him that he was slacking off.

   “On the second day,” Kagawa recounted, “I resolved to give it everything I had.  Tesshu had also ordered my opponents to give me no quarter.  By mid-afternoon I was in great agony because of fatigue.  I was somehow able to complete the required number of matches and limped home.  My legs were so badly swollen that I couldn’t stand up to go to the lavatory.”

   “Near the end of the third day, I was staggering around the training hall, barely able to stay on my feet.  It was at that moment that a former student entered the hall, readying himself as one of my opponents.  This guy was a sneaky, ill-mannered jerk, notorious for his dirty tactics.  There was nothing he enjoyed more than seriously injuring his opponents.  My pain and fatigue disappeared.  I was now totally focused on my treacherous foe.  Even if he were to smash my skull, he would be struck down as well.  Raising my wooden sword above my head, I was about to leap across the training hall to intercept him when Tesshu suddenly yelled, ‘Excellent!  Excellent!  Stop now.’”

   The next day, to Kagawa’s astonishment, Tesshu exempted him from the remaining sessions.  Tesshu saw that he had finally attained a state of undivided mind, unperturbed even by fear of injury or death.  Since this awakening was the ultimate goal of the marathon, Kagawa was judged to have fulfilled the challenge.

   As one might expect, in The Book of Five Rings, Musashi expounds on the same idea.  “Generally speaking,” he says, “the Way of the warrior is resolute acceptance of death.  Although [other kinds of people] have been known to die willingly in the name of duty or out of shame, this is a different thing.  The warrior differs from other people because studying the Way of strategy is based on defeating opponents.”

   What Musashi describes is not some kind of death wish.  Far from it, it is merely something that he believes is a prerequisite for all those who wish to study the Way of strategy.  If you seek to defeat your opponent, you must first accept death in your heart.  Once you do so, you no longer become self-conscious about how to act.  Unburdened by worries of what may or may not happen, you strike without hesitation.  Without “thinking,” you just know where to strike, how to strike and when to strike – I should say you can feel where, how and when to strike.  Thinking and doing happen as one and the same thing.  This is Empty Mind.

   There are, of course, those who rely purely on physical strength or technique to win.  Because their advantages allow them to act with impunity, they fight without fear or doubt.  However, this is not genuine.  Such individuals fight casually only when facing an easy opponent, but when suddenly confronted by a superior foe they become demoralized or even cowardly.  This is why Tesshu believed that all students, regardless of natural ability, must be pushed toward a moment of truth – a “do or die” situation so to speak – through relentless training.  “One must depend on spiritual strength,” he wrote.  “This is true swordsmanship.”

   This brings us back to Ishida.  Of the 721 candidates who took the exam in Kyoto that year, only Ishida and five others managed to reach the finals.  Exhausted after two rounds of battling against the best kendoists in Japan, the six remaining candidates had one last hurdle: A written test.  They were asked to reflect on the maxim, “The sword is the mind.”  It was a fitting theme for a challenge that had tested the spirit of each candidate.  In the end all six passed and were awarded the new rank of Hachi-Dan.

   Looking back, Ishida’s undertaking admittedly required a significantly different level of skill to overcome the odds.  Yet there are lessons here for students of all levels and of all martial art backgrounds.  I personally like reflecting on how Ishida packed his bags and almost went home after the first round, perhaps thinking that his approach looked too easy to be true (it’s funny how great players always seem to make things look easy without realizing it).  But that’s what Empty Mind is about.  You stop being self-conscious of whether you will win or lose and just do it.

   Ultimately the greatest lesson is that Empty Mind is a leap of faith that needs to be nurtured through devoted training.  Whether or not it requires the kind of training that provokes a “do or die” moment of truth is the only thing the student needs to think about carefully.

   “The most important thing in kendo is a flexible mind,” wrote Ishida at the conclusion of his exam essay, “which makes one humble enough to recognize one’s own weakness and to overcome it through practice.”

   Here’s to practicing, then, that we may all continue to train with single-minded determination.

By Alex Sawit

05 October 2009

Here’s a gag that the Brits tell from the Second World War. On a desert battlefield in North Africa, a duel ensues between a German soldier and a British Army Gurkha. The tall German is brandishing a rifle with fixed bayonet while the diminutive Nepalese mercenary is wielding a large boomerang-shaped knife. Confident of his superiority, the German lunges first, charging headstrong and grazing the Gurkha’s collar with a bayonet stab. The Gurkha sidesteps and counters with a swing of his blade.

“Hah! You missed!” the German soldier yells smugly.

“You shake your head,” replies the Gurkha.

Puzzled, the German gives it a shake and his severed head promptly falls to the ground.

It’s a grim joke but it makes a point. They’re tough fighters those Gurkhas, which is why they’ve been prized recruits of the British Army since the 19th century and have been exalted by generations of British officers as “the best soldiers in the world.”

But that’s not to say the Germans don’t make for good soldiers. It’s simply that in most of the Allied war stories I’ve read, the Germans always seem to get portrayed as bullheaded troopers who insist on doing things the Teutonic way – the “superior” way.

To be honest, that also happens to be how they are portrayed by the global media, with Hollywood being the guiltiest in perpetuating the image of Germans as overbearing, square-minded authoritarians (no disrespect to the Terminator, now also known as the “Governator,” who is actually a creative thinker and is technically Austrian by birth). It is of course an unfortunate generalization considering that I have encountered and befriended more than enough Germans who are nothing like this stereotype.

So I found it amusing, even startlingly refreshing, when the wine shop recently played host to a guest who exhibited basically all the stereotype characteristics described – a tall German with a wide frame, straightforward demeanor and a library of opinions that he was not the least bit shy about insisting upon. Whoa yeah, he was very opinionated.

“Let me tell you,” he said to me with a poker face from across the bar. “Don’t be angry but the way your place looks is DUMB.”

Yup, he said that. And he was just warming up.

“Don’t be angry but who designed your place? Your sister designed it? Is she a licensed interior designer?”

“Don’t be angry but your place feels like a house, not a store.”

“Don’t be angry but I wouldn’t pay good money to build my counter behind the bar like that.”

“Don’t be angry but your location is not good.”

For someone who didn’t want me to get angry he sure was laying it thick. And I actually wasn’t angry. The fellow is a really friendly and decent gentleman who has been living in the Philippines with his wife for the last two decades. Together they make arguably the best charcuterie products in the country, which was the reason I had asked them to meet me at Cyrano in the first place. But the gentleman seemed determined to discourage me from using him as a supplier.

“Let me get this right,” I asked. “Are you telling me that you don’t want me to buy your products?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you won’t make money selling my products here. I’m sorry.”

“My friend,” I said, exasperated by the complications of what was supposed to be a simple request for supplies. “I’m NOT turning my place into a deli. This is a wine shop. My core business is wine, not deli products. What I’m trying to do is carry a few of your items so that customers who order them will also be encouraged to buy more wine.”

“Well, I will supply you if you really want but I tell you, you won’t make money. People won’t like your location. Don’t be angry but you asked me my opinion.”

“Actually, you volunteered,” I pointed. “I didn’t ask.” Gee, I must have said something right because his wife, who had kept quiet the whole time her hubby was freely dispensing advice, suddenly burst out laughing after my remark.

When our meeting finally ended, I wasn’t surprised that we hadn’t reached any agreement, not even in principle. But I made him a promise that we would talk again.

“I believe in your products,” I said as I escorted him and his wife to the exit. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement that works for both of us.”

Believe me. He’s one of the good guys. His opinions may flatly contradict what Cyrano friends have been telling me for years but I respect what he had to say because his heart is in the right place. He was just trying to look out for Cyrano in his own insistent, Teutonic way.

But I needed a drink right after that meeting.

By Alex Sawit

06 September 2009

I was rummaging through my computer files recently when I found something that I’d sadly forgotten about, something that’s been in the laptop for a few years.  I’d originally intended to edit it so that I could share it with Cyrano friends except that I’d set it aside when I was busy and lost track of it for one reason or another.

It’s a copy of the Sullivan Ballou Letter.

I have a profound appreciation for personal correspondences of historical value.  Unlike historical documents such as treaties, decrees and other grandiose political effects, personal letters offer us a special window not only into unfolding moments in time but also into the hearts of the individuals who wrote them, allowing us to relive their thoughts and emotions as though we were there when it happened.  More than the feeling of history, it’s the human experience that really touches me.

Not surprisingly, love letters are the most compelling.  Often the most famous ones are those written by great figures whose sheer statures imbue their writing with a feeling of consequence.  Napoleon’s letters to Josephine, for example, are filled with the bullying passion of an alpha male always wanting to have his way even if love be the battlefield.  Ludwig van Beethoven’s emotionally wrenching letter to his “Immortal Beloved” was so mysterious that it inspired the fascinating premise of a movie of the same title (with actor Gary Oldman portraying the brooding composer).  And the intoxicating words that Lord Byron and his scandalous lover, Caroline Lamb, imbibed between themselves in their letters serve to transport the reader into a world of reckless mood swings and unbridled notoriety.  And so on and so on.

Sometimes, though, the most moving love letters are those written by everyday heroes whom history would deem as mere footnotes.

I first learned of the Sullivan Ballou Letter nearly twenty years ago from a magazine review about the PBS documentary by Ken Burns, The Civil War.  Acclaimed as the definitive film series about the American Civil War, this masterwork of television presented U.S. audiences with a deeply insightful yet heartrending remembrance of that bloody and decisive period in their nation’s history.  I do recall the magazine praising the filmmakers for the sensitivity with which they used long forgotten mementos to bring to life stories of ordinary people who endured the war.  And I particularly recall that, of all those resurrected keepsakes, the magazine singled out Ballou’s haunting letter as the most enduring one ever written by any soldier on either side of that great American conflict.

To learn more about the Ken Burns documentary The Civil War, click here.

I’ve thought about discreetly putting it on view at the shop, framed and placed perhaps in some corner nook or quiet space on the wall where it wouldn’t be intrusive.  But I just don’t know if it would be as appropriate to display as hanging a poster of Robert Doisneau’s Le Baiser de L’Hôtel de Ville on an easel or displaying copies of Cyrano de Bergerac on our bookshelf.  I just don’t know if it’s too much sentimentality even for a place like Cyrano.

So I’ll settle for posting the letter here. I guess I’m more of a sentimental fool than I thought.

The Letter of Sullivan Ballou

   In the summer of 1861, one week before the first major battle of the American Civil War, an officer in the Union Army, Maj. Sullivan Ballou of the Rhode Island Volunteers, wrote home to his wife Sarah as she awaited his safe return.

   The letter he wrote is presented here in condensed form.

July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington

 

My very dear Sarah:

   The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days – perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .

   If it is necessary that I should fall on the battle field for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing – perfectly willing – to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .

   But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows. . . is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?

   I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death – and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

   I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one . . .

   Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.

   The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me – perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .

   But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again . . .

 

   Sullivan

*          *          *          *          *

   A week later, Sullivan Ballou was called upon to lead his regiment against Confederate forces at Manassas, Virginia. He was killed at the First Battle of Bull Run.

POSTSCRIPT: Sullivan Ballou never mailed this letter. His wife Sarah received it along with his other personal belongings after his death. Although the original document has since disappeared, the letter survived through a few hand-written copies. It is probable that Ballou’s widow permitted those dearest to her to copy the letter for the sincerest of reasons, keeping the original safe in her possession for as long as she lived.

By Alex Sawit

24 August 2009

Most Cyrano friends know by now that, thanks to my still unresolved dusk-till-dawn routine at the wine shop, I more or less keep an odd bedtime schedule that drastically reduces my exposure to daylight (if you have to ask, no, I’m not that kind of an immortal). Most of you know this well enough that you probably won’t even bother calling me on my cellphone until late in the afternoon. Heck, most of you may even suspect that the reason I can recite with uncanny dramatic effect the lines of The Architect (you remember him in The Matrix: Reloaded… you know, the Colonel Sanders look-alike?) is because that’s what my voice is like when I’ve been liberated all too soon from the sweetness of sleep – a deep, slowly reverberating voice that feels very tired, very ancient and not particularly amused by the unwelcome effort of speaking.

Albert del Rosario, however, is not most Cyrano friends.

“Alex,” asked Sir Albert with an amused, slightly chuckling voice that gently but firmly roused me over the cellphone the other day. “Did I just wake you up again?”

“No problem Sir Albert,” I answered lucidly and with genuine pleasantness. “Yes,” I continued, “how may I help you?”

Hey, no problemo. If it’s Sir Albert on the line, it’s cool. It’s all just part of the “Bro Code” that we both live by.

I’ve been hearing a lot about the Bro Code lately thanks to folks who’ve been bringing it up at the wine shop via email and i-Pod audio playback (and also thanks to my happy-go-lucky cousin who dropped into the shop exclaiming “Bros before hoes!” as a pledge of loyalty). Since most Cyrano friends already have a general understanding of the code, I won’t bother to explain. I do feel compelled, however, to point that although the basic code applies universally to all bros, there are Bro Codes and then there are Bro Codes.

As most of you are already aware, I belong to a small but tight knit group of black belts who have stayed a steadfast family through the collective blood, sweat and tears of our martial arts training. I wish I could fully describe the process by which this sort of brotherhood comes about, but truly you had to have been there with us to understand – been one of us, one bloody grueling day after another repeating kick after kick, strike after strike, grapple after grapple, pushing each other and never giving up till we got it right. If you’d been there, then you’d know why those who endure hardship and emerge as brothers-in-arms always develop a unique feeling of obligation to each other that transcends everyday friendship. Call it a warrior’s Bro Code if you like, but that’s what ours is.

That’s why I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I’m especially proud to call Sir Albert a Cyrano friend – the only Cyrano friend who is also my fellow Hwa Rang Do black belt.

Strange as it may sound due to the generation gap between us (he’s close to my father’s age, illustrated by the fact that I went to university with one of his sons), Sir Albert and I have been bros ever since we started training as classmates in Hwa Rang Do nearly a quarter century ago. Nowadays most folks in town know him only as a highly esteemed businessman and as a former Philippine ambassador to the United States. But for me that doesn’t say nearly enough. If you’d ever trained with him as a bro as I did, you’d know that his is the kind of stuff – that prized combination of courage of heart, strength of mind and integrity of spirit – of which real gentlemen are made of. I only wish he’d been given the opportunity to take up the martial arts much earlier in life so that we might have seen what he could have attained given the advantage of youth.

I hope Sir Albert gets to meet the rest of his fellow Cyrano friends someday soon. Although he is actually one of our best customers, regularly ordering vino for private functions and as gifts for friends, due to his never ending busy schedule he’s only ever been to our wine shop once and on a slow night at that, when there was no one I could introduce him to. Hopefully someday he will.

For now…

“I’ll need another case of the Cabernet I ordered from you last time,” Sir Albert said with his trademark civility. “I’ll be giving it as a gift, too.”

“Very good, one case,” I replied. “I could bring it to you by, say, Thursday?”

“That’s fine Alex. Thanks.”

“No problem Sir Albert,” I said as I ended the call. I jotted it down mentally: twelve bottles of blended Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon Reserva, which I planned to personally deliver to the Ambassador’s residence on…

Wait, did I tell him Thursday? Hah-hah, I delivered it to him Wednesday morning. Hey, no problem going the extra mile. That’s part of our Bro Code.