When my teacher died, he left me basically in charge of our dojo. There was one person who outranked me, but, when he came to okeiko, his job was to teach. Generally speaking, this arrangement worked out well. I taught in his absence, which is to say, much of the time. I thought - I hoped, at least - that we would be able to weather the storm that usually sinks so many places when the founding visionary is no longer around.
I had a few reasons to think so: we had a sound organization - I managed, the sempai taught when he was there, the yudansha kai made decisions that affected the place as a whole, I handled day-to-day stuff. My teacher, influencial as he was, had been retired for some time, so we had really been on our own, except when we sought his advice. I felt that I had learned the things he taught me beyond technique - that iai was philosophy, that certain values (romantic values maybe) went along with the resonsibility of learning such arcane stuff - a sense of generosity combined with a sense of caution, for this was an art form that simply did not suit everyone, just as it never suited everyone when it was taught as a more practical matter (and even in those practical days, there was still, among many people, a larger sense of purpose that dated back centuries). I felt that we were well-positioned to carry on his legacy, and that we could uphold my teacher's sense of excellence.
When the situation fell apart and I was left alone, I was not only bereft, I felt as though I had let down my teacher's legacy. However, I knew that if I went back, his legacy would not be upheld in the new order anyway; only three students still training had any direct influence from our teacher, and I was one of them. The sempai, who took charge and kicked me out, had no real interest in the past. "I'm done with that," he said, even before I left. His only interest in the past was using it to show that he should be the one in charge. Any influence I may have had over the place left with me, surprisingly, since I had trained most of the students, but that is what happened.
That very long, hot summer, I would go and rent studio space and train by myself. I was forcing myself to continue, even as, on occasion, I could hear my old group practicing in the same place, a floor below me. In retrospect, it seems crazy, but I was doing what I needed to in order to keep going, in trying to find out what I should do next.
A women's karate group used to meet there also. I am not a fan of women-only groups, any more than I am of men-only groups, but I used to enjoy seeing the women students come in, some with hijabs, taking off their jewelry and putting on their plain, white gi. I had a minimal acquaintance with their teacher, who had a wonderful air of understated, but not-to-be-messed-with authority. During my exile, I ran into her in the women's changing room. She remarked that she had not seen me for some time, and I told her what happened. Irritatingly, she did not seem terribly surprised that an older man had felt somehow threatened by a female half his size and had to get rid of her to make himself feel better. My only regret at that point, I told her, was that I felt that my teacher would be disappointed in me, that I could not carry on his legacy in the place he founded. "You're wrong," she said. "The legacy," and she pointed to her heart, "is in here."
That was four years ago, and with the help of friends and fellow budoka, who cajoled me, trained with me, drank with me and otherwise helped me pick myself up, I am in the process of continuing Sensei's legacy. I am telling this story because I know someone in a similar situation who is still attempting to carry on a legacy in a founder's group after the founder is gone. No one else there has any interest in the founder's goals or ideas. And I would just like to say: It's not so bad, actually, to set up shop elsewhere.
