shinai, is an essential part of my practice, knowledge of bamboo and its care is ingrained in my being. Bamboo artisans, no less than kenshi (kendo practitioners), must immerse themselves completely in the materials they use in their chosen art form, making bamboo a common ground shared by both kendo and Japanese basketry. I can also appreciate the audible and tactile qualities of bamboo in the rhythmic clacking of slzinai in kirikaeshi (repetitive recip­rocal side-striking practice) in kendo: when a group of twenty to thirty kenshi engage in kirikaeslzi, the sound and feeling of the bamboo is like a large thicket of bamboo rustling in the wind. Strong, flexible and yielding appropri­ately without breaking, since early times bamboo has been admired in both China and Japan as the perfect symbol of an upright, learning, striving human being. The rustle of a bamboo forest in the wind evokes a visceral response in me, reminding me of a poem by Takahashi Deishu, one of my heroes, a kenclo master much admired for his skill with the yari (spear), who lived during the turbulent Meiji era (1868-1912), when Japan made the transition from semi­isolation and feudalism and emerged onto the world stage as a modern nation state: “Many hardships / are given us in life / but if we learn from them / we will grow straight and strong / as a sturdy bamboo planted in a garden” (2, 3). These qualities of bamboo-like flexibility-willingness to learn and resilience in the face of criticism and adversity-lie at the heart of all Japan’s noblest cultural traditions, not least bamboo basketry itself, whose leaders have faced formidable odds in elevating their practice from a rural craft to a sophisticated fine art form in just 200 years. Their efforts quickly attracted the admiration of Western institutions and individuals from the closing decades of the 19th century. Christopher Dresser, the British critic, for example, opined in 1882: