When the Sword Breaks

I've only been doing longsword for a little over a year. This week (for the first time), I saw a sword snap and break during a fight.

I just wrote about swords bending to absorb the impact from a thrust, but this sword didn't. This sword had been hit, stabbed, and blocked (probably for years), and it said, "I'm done." The initial lesson in class was, "Swords break. This is why it's important to control your power. Because we're not actually trying to kill each other."

My takeaway was different. I feel like the sword today. My morning was particularly unpleasant, and I feel like I was supposed to bend, but I broke instead (metaphorically speaking).

And that's okay because swords break.

Swords receive so much brutality over their lifespans. They are forged in violence and exist primarily for combat. They can represent authority, courage, and decisiveness. And when a sword breaks, it becomes even more dangerous. The broken edge is sharp, perhaps jagged, and the balance is off.

When a sword breaks, it's typically retired. The thing is, I'm not actually a sword, and in this economy, I definitely can't retire anytime soon. I'd prefer not to reforge myself with more violence. But swords can also represent intellect. Intellectually, what can I do?

I can take a step back—or, as it's called in HEMA, I can void. I can get out of the way, rest, recover, and make a plan for my next move. I can regain my balance, heal the raw and exposed edges, and use logic where violence failed because even swords break.

And so we come to the title of this blog: Longswords & Lullabies. This is about action and recovery. Violence and rest. Breaking and healing. It's about the tension of being pulled in opposite directions, and whether we bend or break.

This week, I learned that swords break. And that's okay.