According to Wikipedia, Shodō is the artistic writing, or calligraphy, of the Japanese language. I feel this definition to be too simplistic, though much to their credit, Wikipedia does have an extensive explanation of the basics of shodō and I direct you there, for this post is not about a basic explanation. Instead, I want to direct you to a spirituality of sorts. This is a spirituality of brush and paper. It is a personal spirituality, much of it borrowed from Zen Buddhism, nevertheless a very personal spiritual connection I have with Shodō.
I first encountered Chinese characters, or Kanji, at around 15 years old through my Japanese studies. I was completely frightened by them because I did not understand them. They were so different from the syllabaries of hiragana and katakana, that I was completely intimidated by them. They were squiggly symbols that people could read and understand. At an afterschool program I was attending, my teacher would give me negative scores on all my kanji tests and recommended I repeat the course. That was time and money that my parents did not want to waste and they were eager in taking me out of the program over a hiccup. The program director pleaded with my parents and convinced them that this is common among all students of Japanese. This was not an easy language and I needed a bit of coaxing. She recommended I take a Shodō class in conjunction with my language class.
My first day at Shodō was nerve-wracking. I was in a class of people who knew Kanji and could brush out meaningful things onto paper. I grabbed the brush and much to my chagrin, I was unable to steady my hand to write in regular script. My instructor then proceeded to write in a more complicated form of script known as o sōsho. She told me this style is much more forgiving to my unsteady hand and to imagine what the Kanji may look like if written in this form. For the first month, I was clumsily doling out ridiculous looking writing. After this month, my instructor told me that it was time to become serious about writing: to use my brush to create poetry in strokes. “Shit” I thought. This is where things are going to go awry. “You think too much, Roca-san,” my teacher would say. “Let the brush instinctually guide you and harmonize with it.” Yeah, sure; my work was shoddy and horrendous.
My shodō instructor began teaching the technique I have been attempting my hand at. With great courage, I struggled keeping great discipline in my hands to copy what my instructor was brushing. O sōsho is complicated looking script compared to others because it is a form of shorthand script. Those unfamiliar with shorthand script, such as myself, would have a terrible time trying to read it. Much discipline is required to learn and master this specific style of shodō. I did not have the discipline, then, to master this style. My instructor, I soon discovered, was not looking for me to master this style, but to learn the characters through my struggling with the brush. There was a repetitiveness in the characters he was teaching me. The sayings he was teaching me were koan, or Zen Buddhist riddles that are meant to be meditated upon. This method not only taught me how to write characters, but to stop thinking too much when doing so – in short, instill discipline.
Henceforth, my shodō education was pedagogical, disciplinary, and spiritual. I learned the kanji I needed to learn, my head is full of koans in the event I begin thinking too much, and I have an outlet of expression. Still, though, I make errors through my calligraphy – but they’re mostly personal objections. The spiritual aspect is writing through the heart and becoming one with the brush, ink, and paper. While a shodō master has to take precision into consideration, I discovered long ago that creating personal pieces to calm myself and produce the quietudes of emptiness is what I am after.
-Luis Roca
The Junction Journal 