My two-month stint in Papua New Guinea checking out the missionary life began with a short training program. One day we divided up into small groups and spent the evening out in the bush with local guides. My group spent some time hunting crayfish along a small stream. It wasn’t a serious hunting expedition: there was only one spear to go around, and we were reasonably satisfied when we caught only one of the pinchy little things.

Actually, for much of the time we were walking in the stream. And as I was stepping oh so lithely though the gentle current I ran into something unexpected: a large hole right in the middle of the water. You can guess what happened next.

As I sat there up to my waist in the hole, my first thought was, What’s a hole this big doing in the middle of a tiny stream? (My second thought was, Why me?)

I got the same kind of surprise when I started reading Flashing Steel: Mastering Eishin-Ryū Swordsmanship, by Masayuki Shimabukuro and Leonard J. Pellman. I originally ordered the book as background for a novel I want to write. I was looking for some insights on sword-fighting technique, maybe even some tips on strategy. I was only expecting to slosh through ankle-deep ideas. That made the depth of the book hit me all the harder.

Sure, I expected the authors to weave broader principles into the details of swordsmanship. That I would expect any master of a skill to do. I even expected the authors to draw some parallels to real life. What I did not expect was the completeness of the philosophy the book presents. In its pages I am finding a compelling, engaging perspective on the whole of life, a strong sense of direction for the road ahead. And the authors speak with the conviction and authority of ones who have been on that journey for some time. They also speak with incredible clarity, using language and analogies that make sense to Westerners.

One precept in particular inspired the name for this blog. In the book, the famous samurai Miyamoto Musashi is said to have told his disciple Jōtarō that he should “aspire to be like Mt. Fuji. . . . With your mind as high as Mt. Fuji . . . you can see all things clearly. And you can see all the forces which shape events; not just the things happening near you” (2nd ed., p. 14). What an enticing delight I found dangled before me! Is it possible that we can look at our lives without getting dragged down by the little things that threaten our perspective? Is it possible not to let our circumstances affect our judgment (p. 23-26)? I don’t know how attainable that perspective is, but I know I want it. And that’s what I want to keep before me as I blog.

The syntax is carefully chosen. “Pierce the Clouds,” not “Piercing the Clouds”: an aspiration, a place where I want to be, not a place where I am now. Every time I deal with an issue at work or home, my goal is to look at it from above, as if I were standing on the summit of Mt. Fuji. It’s also an invitation, as blogs are: come think through this with me.

A final thought: When we experience disaster, like falling into holes, our first reaction may be to get upset by the inconvenience or the pain. But instead, these are opportunities for us to practice looking at our lives from the top down, from the summit of the mountain, where we have pierced the clouds.

Jonathan West