Chapter 7: The Drop Is the Teacher

Chapter 7: The Drop Is the Teacher

Grip and Flow – A Kendama Memoir

You don’t grow when you land the trick.

You grow when you miss it.

When it slips.

When it stings.

When it clatters to the floor and every eye is watching.

That’s when the teacher shows up.

The drop is the teacher.

There were times Bella brought her Kendama to the bowling alley.

Not for the crowd.

Not for the win.

But for the quiet reset.

A way to wake up her focus.

To bring herself into the moment between frames.

She’d drop it sometimes—sure.

But then she’d breathe.

Pick it up.

Try again.

And walk to the lane with her spirit sharpened.

Evelyn wanted to learn alone.

She stood outside, Kendama in hand,

while other kids ran to swings, slides, tag.

But Evelyn?

She stood in the grass, dropped the ball,

picked it up, dropped it again—

and smiled.

Because something in her knew:

This was hers.

And that every drop was one step closer to landing something real.

Audie just wanted to hold it.

She didn’t need a trick.

She just wanted to feel what it was like to have something in her hand

that could grow with her.

Even if she didn’t know the moves yet—

she was holding her future with reverence.

Logan was different.

Quiet.

Driven.

He didn’t talk much,

but he showed up to get better at what didn’t come easy.

And when he dropped the trick—he didn’t complain.

He just tried again.

Because that’s what the Kendama gave him:

a way forward.

Sometimes, a kid would drop the trick and hand it away,

ashamed, frustrated.

Not wanting to fail in front of others.

But I’d walk over and kneel down and say:

“Hey.

When you drop the Kendama… or you drop the ball…

or you drop yourself…

what matters is what you do next.”

You get back up.

You learn from what caused the fall.

You get better.

You become better.

Not just at Kendama—but at life.

Resilience isn’t magic.

It’s not even talent.

It’s just the decision to rise.

To not let the miss define the moment.

To see failure as a doorway—

not a wall.

In Kendama, you’ll be disconnected more often than you’re connected.

That’s the truth.

But instead of whining, complaining, or making excuses—

you learn from the drop.

No whining about your results.

No complaining about the weather or the wind or the noise.

No excuses about why it didn’t land.

You control what’s in your hand.

You own your breath.

You reset your focus.

And sometimes—

when the room gets quiet after a hard drop—

a whisper rises from the corner of the class:

“Nice try.”

Because they’re learning.

They’re learning that every try is a training.

That each miss is a mirror.

That the drop is not the end.

It’s a beginning.

We reflect.

We refine.

We rinse.

We repeat.

We figure out what we did well.

We find what can be better.

And we ask the most important question:

“How can I do it better?”

That’s what the drop teaches—

if you’re humble enough to listen.