The Swordswoman and Seven Years of Silence

The summer sun blazed down upon the ancient temple atop Mount Futara. A young man named Matajuro Yagio stood before the gate, sweat beading on his forehead. He had walked for three days from the capital, carrying his last hope: to find a renowned swordsmaster and learn the art.

Matajuro’s father was a famous swordsman, yet he refused to teach his son. "Your talent is too mediocre; it is difficult to expect you to become a teacher to the world," he said bluntly. These words cut deep into the young man’s pride. He resolved to prove his father wrong.

The master he sought was Banzo, a sage living in seclusion within the small temple. When Matajuro expressed his wish, Banzo merely shook his head gently, his profound eyes looking through him. "You want me to teach swordsmanship? You are not qualified."

"I will practice diligently!" Matajuro pleaded, his voice urgent. "If I give my all, how many years will it take to become a master?"

Banzo replied succinctly, "The rest of your life."

Matajuro was stunned. He could not wait that long. "I will endure any hardship, Master. If I serve as your attendant, working while learning, how long would it take?"

Banzo smiled faintly. "Oh, perhaps ten years."

Hope flickered in Matajuro’s heart. But then he thought of his aging father at home and asked again, "My father is old; I must care for him soon. If I practice even more diligently, how long will it take?"

"Oh, perhaps thirty years," Banzo answered, his tone remaining calm.

"Why?" Matajuro cried out, his face flushing with frustration. "First you said ten years, now thirty! I will endure any suffering to master swordsmanship in the shortest time possible!"

Banzo looked at him for a long moment, then spoke slowly. "Very well, provided you stay here with me. A person who is too impatient to achieve results like you rarely learns quickly."

Matajuro realized he was being rebuked for his lack of patience. He gritted his teeth. "Fine, I agree."

But the days that followed were not what he imagined. Banzo never spoke a word about swordsmanship, nor did he allow Matajuro to touch a sword. Day after day, Matajuro performed tedious chores: cooking for the master, washing dishes, making beds, sweeping the courtyard, cleaning the house, and tending the garden. He worked from dawn until dusk, his hands and feet covered in mud, yet received no instruction on the sword.

Three years passed. One afternoon, while weeding the garden, Matajuro slumped onto the ground, gazing up at the gray sky. Salty drops of sweat rolled down his cheeks, mixing with tears. He thought of his uncertain future, his promise to his father, and the years that seemed wasted. His heart tightened. "I have wasted three years just serving an old man," he whispered, his voice choked. "Will I ever touch a sword?"

Yet, in that moment, he suddenly realized something. Throughout those three years, he had learned patience. Every stroke of the hoe, every sweep of the yard, every meal prepared for the master—all were lessons in concentration and discipline. He stood up, wiped his tears, and continued his work with a different state of mind.

The next day, Banzo called him into his room. He handed Matajuro a wooden sword. "Starting today, you will learn."

But the miracle was this: when holding the sword, Matajuro no longer felt impatient. He understood that swordsmanship was not merely about cutting strokes, but a process of refining the soul. From then on, he progressed rapidly, becoming a renowned swordsman who carried on his father’s legacy.

The Meaning of the Story

This tale teaches us about patience and humility. Those who are hasty and desire quick results often fail to learn anything profound. Only by letting go of ambition and living fully in each present moment can we attain true mastery.

Compiled from the dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang