Of Distractions and Getting Old
Obi-Wan Kenobi decided he was getting old. Not that he was old, but that he was getting old. He actually believed that his thirty-one years was really quite young, considering Yoda and all. But he was beginning to feel the creaks in the morning when he got out of bed.
He was getting old for classes filled with squirming initiates; old for a Padawan who was tall enough to look him in the eye; old for long meetings with the Jedi Council which usually ended with long missions that made him creak even more; definitely getting old for filling out pages of reports from said missions; and getting old for these late night work-out sessions.
Like many of the knights, Obi-Wan preferred to reserve his practice sessions until after the younglings are asleep. That way, one doesn't trip over initiates too slow to realize that a grown knight isn't paying attention to his surroundings.
The Temple hummed with the quiet ease of beings at rest. The corridors lay hushed, subdued from the chaos of daily life as if the Temple itself was resting.
Not everyone slept. Like Obi-Wan many knights and masters chose this time for betterment of the mind, body and spirit. Even now he could hear several sparring in the adjoining training room he currently strolled into. He preferred to work alone these late evenings so that he wasn't distracted. Force knows he has enough distractions when his apprentice was awake.
He meandered over to a bench sitting alongside the wall. As he walked his robe slid from his shoulders and was placed on the bench along with his belt. He dropped his chin to his chest, noting so the tightness across his shoulders.
Definitely getting old.
Striding to a corner of the room his boots sank into the soft, blue mats. He chastised himself as he sat for not warming-up on the stone center. This once he felt that the luxury of a soft seat far out-weighed personal enlightenment by chilled backside.
Spreading his booted feet apart he rested his forehead on his left knee. He noticed a twittering noise and glanced about as he continued to stretch. He noted a small, blue finch flitting about the arches. It must have gotten loose from the Room of a Thousand Fountains.
Obi-Wan never knew why they kept such creatures in the room. They were forever flying off with bits of thread tugged from his robe as he sat meditating. He also didn't relish being a stationary object on which to preen upon. He swore one day to visit a place with no such creatures. Perhaps then he could come out of meditation without being threadbare and littered with feathers. Perhaps a nice, desert planet would be void of such distractions.
Feeling his muscles heat he laid back for a moment, taking note of a light fixture that needed replacing. He then kicked his feet out and under, launching himself to his feet.
Distractions. Anakin was forever distracted. He always felt an itch to move, to go, to do something! Obi-Wan never understood how a young man who found it so hard to hold still could sit for hours tinkering on a droid part. Obi-Wan knew full well where Anakin got such distractions and had long since decided to ignore it.
Bending over Ob-Wan placed his palms flat the ground, then kicked his feet above his head, catching himself in a hand stand.
Anakin would be distracted on this mission. Obi-Wan had pointed this out to the Council, but they, in their infinite wisdom, ignored the fact.
He shifted his weight onto one hand, holding its pair horizontal to the mat.
Obi-Wan hoped that Anakin would not try anything stupid. They would be working around and seeing a lot of ugly things and Obi-Wan wondered how his apprentice would react to it. Distractions would be rampant on this mission.
Speaking of distractions, Obi-Wan grimaced as the bird released a rather loud falsetto note. He felt his balance slip along with his train of thought. He landed with an oaf, grateful for one giving into his laziness and using the mats. He glared at the finch at it chirped innocently before flitting away.
Bouncing on his feet he moved over to the center of the training room, noticing how cold the stone looked. The cleaning droids must freeze it simply to irritate knights that were getting old.
He began a set of barehanded katas, moving with deliberate slowness. He knew an initiate could perform them full speed, but it took a master to demonstrate the control and balance at a quarter that. He had heard of some knights who worked on a kata for months at this speed until he perfected it. Then and only then would he speed it up, moving just as seamlessly as if in slow-motion.
Gradually he moved through one set to another, gently parting the air with his hands and feet. He tried to feel the space between the air, as if he was merely a ripple instead of a boulder. The tightness across his shoulders released as he captured the Force in his movements. No, not capture, but mirror its swirls and eddies.
Suddenly feeling not so old he bounced into several handsprings coming to stand a few feet from the bench on which his cloak resided. He called his lightsaber to his hand in a way some might call a frivolous use of the Force. He called it practice.
Igniting the saber he repeated the katas, still slow and calm.
