My Kyudo Black Belt Test in Japan

Yatta!

I did it!

After almost a year of practicing kyudo (Japanese traditional archery), I took my shodan (black belt) test and passed. A year ago, all I knew was that I was going to start a two month kyudo course with a friend because I had free time in the morning and wanted to experience a different kind of budo. I imagined that I'd taste it, and move on quickly to something else, not giving much thought to pursuing it long or far enough to come to this point. I guess I didn't take it very seriously at the time. Regardless, I took the course, continued on, went through the deepest pits and highest peaks of budo I've experienced yet, and I just kept taking the small steps that were in front of me. Now, I don't know how long I will continue the practice, but as long as I'm living here in Toyama I will be chiseling away at myself through this wonderful practice.

As for the test, many of you may not be familiar with kyudo, so I'll explain some of the details.

For a shodan test, you shoot two arrows in the formal procedure with 3 to 4 other people. This includes particular movements for entering the shooting area, shooting in turn with others, and leaving the shooting area. This process takes about seven minutes. It isn't necessary to hit the target, but your arrows need to at least be relatively close to the target. From there, one's technique needs to be at a certain level of proficiency. I'm not sure how to describe this, but you should generally be adhering to the basics. If you're doing anything too strange then that's not good. But you also don't have to do everything perfect. What judges want to see is that you understand the basics of shooting and can put them into practice under pressure. What's more important than this, is the taihai: entering the dojo, performing the right steps in the right order and timing, and leaving the dojo. Actually this is definitely the most important part, and probably where most people fail the test. It doesn't matter how good you can shoot, if you can't do the taihai correctly, you won't pass.

There is also a written portion of the test. A month before the test, a sheet with about 20 different questions is revealed. On the day of the test, two will be decided by a local teacher and you will have 50 minutes to answer them in writing. Some of the questions are about specific numbers (distance to the target, distance from the ground to the center of the target, angle at which the target is tilted, etc), others are about the specific techniques of shooting (list the eight steps of shooting and briefly describe them, what is so-and-so technique, etc), and some are open-ended (Why did you start kyudo and what have you learned so far from the practice?)

The two that came out were: 1.) Why did you start kyudo and what have you learned so far from the practice. 2.) Describe the toriyumi posture. (The posture you are in when you are standing and holding the bow). These seem appropriate for shodan, as they are fairly easy to answer and concern some of the most basic parts of the art.

One interesting bit about the writing test for a gaijin like me is, do I write in English and Japanese?

What do you think I did?

For a while Sensei had been talking to me about the shodan test, but once the questions came out he came to me and said,

"Ahh, Zac, maybe you can't take the test."

"EH?! What do you mean?"

"Here are the questions for the test."

I looked at them and said, "Yeah, so what?"

"Can you read this?"

"Let me see."

3 seconds later ...

"See! You can't read it."

"Well if you tell me what it means then I can remember it, no problem."

"Really?"

"Of course!"

"Oh, OK. But we need to have a day to go over this with Masami (the other person I'm testing with)."

"And so I have to write this in Japanese?" I said getting excited about the challenge.

"Of course not, just write in English."

"Are you sure? I can do it in Japanese."

"No, no, just write in English."

"How are you going to know what I write?" (Sensei knows about 10 words in English.)

"I'll know what you write."

And so it was decided against my will that I would write in English. "Whatever, it'll be easier. So, I'll just write in English." I thought.

If I were to write in Japanese, I could write some kanji (Chinese characters) for the test, but mostly it would be in hiragana (phonetic alphabet of Japanese). This is a problem for Japanese because there are no spaces between words, so what would result is just a long chain of hiragana, which is cumbersome to read. Kanji is used to differentiate words and such, without them, reading can actually be much harder. I could memorize the kanji for the answers, but Sensei thought that would be too much work. So English it was.

I sat down in the room with a paper and pen, read the questions, and finished writing in twenty minutes.

As for the taihai, I think I did it to the best of my ability, which is sufficient for the test. I made one very small mistake though. When beginning the exit of the dojo, you're supposed to step with the right foot but I just barely started with the left, something I've never done before in practice (go figure). I corrected it immediately. Perhaps nobody noticed, but then there were five judges watching our every slightest move.

As for the shooting, my first arrow was high above the target. The arrow went higher than I'm used to, and a bit far off the mark for a shodan test. Generally the technique was OK, but the release wasn't so good, which is what sent the arrow high. Regardless, I sat and waited for my next turn in the painful kiza sitting posture where you sit on your knees and the balls of your feet. Usually makes you shake with discomfort and pain. The purpose of the posture is to strengthen the backs of your legs, and your force of will, I suppose. My turn came again, so I stood and began the shooting process. All of the moments clicked in much cleaner than the first shot. When I was in the full draw, all was well and I took aim. My body put me into what I felt to be a natural position, but I noticed how high the last arrow went, so I lowered it just bit. SMACK! The arrow hit the target, and I began to exit the dojo (not without that first tiny mistake mentioned earlier.)

As I said before, it isn't necessary to hit the target for the test, but damn it feels good. There are two other people who started kyudo in the same two month class last year as me and we've been companions through the whole process, taking the tests and going through the motions together. One of the friends and I hit the target in the test, but one didn't. He knows it's not important for passing the test, but you could tell he had a bad taste in his mouth. The difference in technique can be so minute in hitting or not hitting the target, and we all know it's not important ... but damn it feels good to hit the target.

I remember when I took my first black belt test in Hawaiian Kenpo and my Sensei explained what shodan meant. He explained it was only the beginning, and not a finality. When you look at the Japanese characters for the word (初段), 初 (sho) means beginner/beginning and 段 (dan) means step/rank. It's a simple concept to understand: a blackbelt is not the end but only the beginning, but it's completely different according to experience. This idea hits me on a much deeper level know, and I understand it much more than I did nine years ago when I took the Hawaiian Kenpo test.

The day after the test I didn't go to kyudo practice and just rested. Probably lots of people take a week or so break after such a test. Maybe more. Maybe people just think about it. Maybe no one does. The next day instead of indulging in a longer rest, I went to practice just because I wanted to. I showed up and shot my first few shots at the makiwara (practice hay bail you shoot at before the target). Sensei came up to me and said:

"Congratulations on your shodan ... but we've got to fix your tenouchi ..."

Back to work! The path certainly doesn't end at shodan. Instead, it really is only the beginning.

Japan Blog Carnival: Samurai Sushi

Blog Carnival!

What is it? It's where different bloggers get together and write about a similar topic. Thanks to Sophelia at http://sopheliajapan.blogspot.com who organized all of this , a few of us gaijin here in Japan got together and wrote about food in Japan. Check the links below for some interesting stories  from some very cool blogs.

Then at the bottom you can find mine ... SAMURAI SUSHI!


(NOTICE: AT THE TIME OF POSTING THIS, THE OTHER BLOGS MAY NOT HAVE POSTED YET, PLEASE CHECK BACK IN A DAY TO SEE THEM ALL)


http://sopheliajapan.blogspot.com/2013/04/being-vegetarian-at-japanese-work.html">Being Vegetarian at Japanese Work Parties
by http://sopheliajapan.blogspot.jp/">Sophelia's Adventures in Japan. Sophelia regularly blogs about teaching, adoption, dogs, vegetarianism and general geekiness.

< br />
http://squggly-inkblots.blogspot.jp/2013/04/eating-my-way-around-island.html">Eating My Way Around an Island by http://squggly-inkblots.blogspot.jp/">Big Red Dots and Squggly Inkblots. Furiida blogs about her experiences as a JET Programme participant in the rural prefecture of Oita.

< br />
http://angrygaijin.wordpress.com/2013/04/27/history-of-yakiniku/">The History of Yakiniku by http://angrygaijin.wordpress.com/">Angry Gaijin. Cameron Ohara is a Gaikokujin (foriegner) living in Japan. But get this - he was actually Japanese in a previous life! Now it's all he can do to get his Japanese comrades to look beyond his red hair and tall nose and see the Japanese human that exists within!

< br />
...

Samurai Sushi

“Eat, drink, cook” she said … what a great topic! I’m not sure if the genius was intended, but there is no way gaijin living in Japan could not write on such a topic. That is unless you have your moms send you more than just coffee and oatmeal in the mail. I for one, rate cooking　way down on the list of “things about me”, and yet I have one Japanese-master-secret -technique to tell you about.

 

But before I talk about the process directly involved in filling yourself with Japanese food, I’ll instruct you on the proper scenario required for such a feast. As is with many things in Japan, you can’t just get started putting things together and call it … well, something to be talked about.

 

First of all, this meal is best to on your day-off. This meal is a gold nugget amid a day of doing only exactly what you want. Any hindrance on this purity will only degrade the experience. Ask yourself what your favorite thing to do on your day off is, and do just that.

 

Secondly, this meal comes best after some kind of expended effort. This kind of meal is  something to be earned, not expected. Though the effort expended should be the best you can give, that doesn’t mean the hardest necessarily, but that kind best aligned with your interest. Surely you are interested in something you can expend effort for! I recommend something physical. Personally, I take this meal after a long bike ride into the mountains. This is very important.

 

Thirdly, this is a meal to be enjoyed alone. I hesitate a bit with this very crucial step, but it has less to do with any anti-social behaviors of mine, and more to the fact of enjoying this meal without unnecessary chatter or judgments. … OK, well maybe you can eat it with someone else, but only if they’re really cool.

 

So on with the ingredients; what are we going to eat!? And drink!?

 

Sushi!

 

Or more specifically, sashimi, that which is bought from your local supermarket. You’ll often find different packs of various pre-sliced sashimi, but I don’t mess with that. I go for the long solid slabs of salmon. They usually have tuna available as well, but I happen to like salmon better, so that’s what I do. In my experience, there are two price ranges which aren’t so far apart, but make a huge difference. If I find a one-person-size piece of my favorite sushi and it’s less than 200 yen, it’ll be the bad kind and ruin the whole meal. But, if I go for the 300-400 yen range, it’ll be the best sushi I’ve ever bought at the supermarket. I’m sure there are more ways of figuring out what makes such a huge difference, but translating the label in my head while I’m being swarmed by obaachans in the fish aisle seems like a lot of work.

 

So, you get the fish, and all the rest is super-easy. Make white rice in your rice cooker. Boil hot water to add to the miso soup packets you got at the supermarket with your fish. Then buy lots of Asahi in the large glass bottles, 2 works good for me, and one small-medium sized bottle of sake, I go for Tateyama, largely because it’s from my prefecture and really good. In fact, that’s important too. You should get local sake, or Tateyama because it’s just really good.

 

Now there is one last step and it’s not dessert. The last step is watching a period-film by the famous director, Akira Kurosawa along with the meal. I’d give some recommendations, but the list is far too long. Just rent/buy/download a Kurosawa film involving samurai and you’ll be good to go. This step really adds the right mood to the meal. It doesn’t have to be like preparing for seppuku or anything, but the black and white of it all makes it feel important. Somehow, the stereotypes of samurai and sushi really do go well together.

 

That’s it! So go now to your calendar, mark one of your next days off as “your own sacred day”, go have an adventure during the day, and then treat yourself to this meal of at-home-samurai-sashimi.

Shape of Quality

 

This is the one connecting road I see between cities, mountains, islands.

Posts have been infrequent this month. That does not mean there is nothing to talk about. Rather, it's quite the opposite. Too many things to talk about render me frozen amid sparse breaks from the movement. The changes are too fast. At the moment of impact, I could potentially imbellish curious minds, but the passing of mere moments already begin the rotting process.

Spring winds change the clouds so much in a single day, I can't remember the blue sky under such grey broodings.

Like going to kyudo, I can never predict what kind of practice it will be. False anticipations only make the results more the strange.

A quality form, base, skeleton, is important.

A room's shape, simple and strong. Bland is a quality to build from. Various furnitures can define spaces, pictures can direct moods, plants can breathe. Dirt can accumulate inside, clothes can litter floors. But those walls, that shape, comes before and lasts beyond it all.

In kyudo, aikido, and tai chi bodies are placed into desirable positions in order to maximize all abilities. From those correct positions, various techniques grow out for myriad purposes.

I can see these things, like a magazine. I flip through the pages and let my interest guide eyes to something of an undefined "quality."

But what about the mind? What is the shape of our mind? How is it structured? What is it designed to do? How can we adjust these settings?

It's like trying to see the back of your head.

All you need is a couple mirrors, or a camera.

So, I guess we can just move along and not care about such matters.

Or we can use some tools to figure it out.

The mind, its use and un-use. This is what I've been thinking about lately. How does that base structure of my mind affect my actions and the world I move in.

It's not static.

It's fluid and changing. We cannot stop to rearrange. We cannot accurately judge what's good and bad. We move in directions, falling, floating, swimming, gliding. In that shifting moment we move ourselves in ways beyond what we can conceive.

Like James Bond.

Quality. That single word can be magic. A compass amid worlds of painful complexities. Quality is a shape we color in with the instruments of our decisions.

For me, practicing budo is how I consciously affect my mind. Budo is quality. But it's not the only thing. Budo is a shell, and my guts are the decisions I make.

I don't know. Nobody knows. Some moments I'm peacefully unaware. Other times I'm trying to figure out how to get out.

Sometimes, it all feels just right.

That is quality.

(picture above found at http://www.photographycorner.com/galleries/showphoto.php/photo/25216)

Early Spring Mountain Darkness

A day off. What to do while everyone else packs off to begin the work week and school? Ride.

 

Something about the morning was amiss, so I took the stairs instead of the elevator. This I found, a pot fallen from someone's sill. Or purposely cast perhaps. Regardless, the plant continues to grow.

Things have been strange lately, much like early spring skies. Blue cloudless moments allow golden sunlight down for brief spans until dark clouds sweep back through to remind us of dark winters. Wind blew me sideways the whole ride through the plains, slowing my pace while demanding more effort. Why?

I adjust to each shift, but tire from the change. It's only recently I've begun to realize what people mean by "Hope". A lot of peole like to talk about it, as if it's the one bright sword to fight all demons. It is a special thing indeed. When you fall down cracks, digging further down, concepts of good become so far away, and a small flash of this so-called Hope can change it all. But change it will again, when you forget.

The road I wanted was barred by a flimsy barracade. Obviously it was meant to keep cars from entering, but offered little incentive to avert one's effort. I assume it's less about impending danger or severe penalty, and more about the roads not being maintained to a perfect condition for normal cars to go through. Hesitantly I rode past. Soon I found though that it was one of the best roads I'd been on to date, relatively flat, small one lane smooth road, with just enough debris to make it fun to dodge.

Soon parts of the road revealed long stretches of snow. No one has been here in a long time. I wonder what kind of things have settled here in the absence of humans, during those long months of quiet isolation. People know nothing of this silence; it's not in our nature. Yet, we can see it.

Every once in a while I need a break. When I need a break from riding, I walk and push the bike. When I can't do that, I park the bike.  I couldn't sit because there was snow everywhere, so I just stood there. What am I supposed to do on a break? Why don't I just go? Such a simple question seemed so difficult for me to answer. My own silence in the world seems impossible to grasp.

What am I supposed to do?

What do I want to do?

At one point the snow became to deep to easily push my bike through. I looked in my guide book, stared at the mountains, and judged what I thought to be the mountain I was attempting to climb. I saw the route. It was very long. I calculated the time. 2 hours up. But, I always undershoot the time, and I also had no idea how much snow was on the path ahead. At this rate it was just barely tolerable, and it only came in short patches. What if it was deeper, the whole way? Ascending further, one could only assume so. I made it to the dam pictured above.

This is what lay on the other side of the bridge. I had spats covering my lower legs, but my boots are old and not water-proof. My feet were already soaked from stepping in a deep puddle while looking up at the trees. I was hungry, and only had a couple conbini sandwiches. This was my day-off.

What am I supposed to do?

What do I want to do?!

At an earlier time I decided that riding my bike to climb mountains was what I wanted and should do. I've come here, doing it, but failing the mark. If I succeed, all of the suffering will be worth it. If I turn back now, what will that be?

I quickly stopped the overly-concerned spirit battles and plainly decided that climbing the mountain wasn't nearly worth the risks involved. So I ate my sandwich, and walked back to my bike to descend back to town.

It was a pleasant ride back, as it usually is. Just downhill cruising. The small patches of snow provided entertaining challenges, and most of the time I had forgotten about climbing the mountain at all.

I stopped at onsen, ate at a new restaurant for lunch, and bought food for my at-home sashimi meal which would be accompanied by an Akira Kurosawa film I hadn't seen yet, Kumonoso-jo,"Throne of Blood." It was amazing.

I also got great blue-bird skies to watch the mountains from. Here's our regular friend, Tsurugi-dake below.

When I got back home, I remembered it was the beginning of spring, and arguably the most beautiful time in Japan. The sakura are blooming, and most people take the time to relax, drinking and picnicing with friends. I however rode to blocked off roads in the mountains where snow can still be found, fighting against myself and impossible nature for ...

what?

First Kyudo Tournament & No Competition in Aikido

 

(The pictures included in this post are of a bike ride I took to Jouyama in Kamiichi Town, of my  home Prefecture, Toyama, on this lovely over-cast early spring day-off. Please enjoy.)

Yes! It happened.

The night before I had a very pleasant and relaxing night, going to aikido, watching the current anime of my interest "Darker Than Black", drinking a couple cheap fake Japanese beers ... but then I couldn't go to sleep. So I drank some more, and then fell asleep.

 

The next morning I woke up, nervous, without enough time to drink my coffee, and had temporarily been separated from my wallet. The frantic search-time gave me a chance to finish the coffee and curse about how I couldn't believe I had signed away another precious Sunday to doing something other than not being tied to something I am required to do.

I showed up, signed in, met with Sensei and many others, and got started.

I'd call it a success. It was a great learning experience. It shook me out of my comfortable nest. It introduced me to a lot of new people, dojos, and ways of kyudo. Most importantly, I didn't do anything incredibly stupid, and a few of my shots at the target felt really good.

But as far as awards and hitting the target and all that ...  I wasn't considered a "winner" I guess.

In this kind of kyudo competition you enter in a team of three and shoot eight arrows each ... four arrows in a turn. I hit one ...

One single stinking arrow!

I usually hit more than one in eight, so in a way I am disappointed. But then again, there's a huge difference between one and zero, so I'm happy to get that one. If I got zero though, I probably wouldn't feel any different, and it wouldn't mean anything else at all. I had a couple arrows that felt really good, but just missed. Sensei says that's most important: To know when you made a good shot. Hitting the target represents the achievement of your tangible goal, but doesn't necessarily mean you shot well.

So, overall I feel good about the experience, and in that "overall" kind of wholistic kyudo experience category, I learned a lot. In the dojo every morning I'm chiseling away at the skills I'm developing, putting small bricks into my kyudo castle. But at events like these, you get to step back and look at it all a little better.

 

I spent a lot of time talking to Sensei about certain aspects of shooting, and am making a lot of progress internalizing and slowly producing results. Most of all, in my tenouchi (left hand that holds the bow). This is my weakest point in kyudo, but as mentioned, one that is making progress.

The most memorable part of it all though, is something ... less than exciting. In fact, it might be the opposite of exciting. The tournament was a reminder of how much "not-shooting-arrows" is part of the kyudo experience. I was at the dojo from 9:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. That's seven hours. 10 minutes of that time, I was shooting an arrow. Seriously. That means I spent seven hours and fifty minutes standing around, chatting with people, eating free munchies and drinks, watching kyudo. It wasn't hell ...

but really ...

Seven hours and fifty minutes doing not-kyudo when I was at a kyudo event!

I know how "not-doing-kyudo" is actually also "doing-kyudo" and all those zen philosophical meanderings, but frankly, it's way less interesting when you're actually doing it.

It is true, that we learn a lot about what we do, by not-doing, and sometimes it's fun to talk about these kinds of things in an objective space separate from the mud and sticks of building technique, but it's a space that doesn't require much time. I spend a lot of time "not doing kyudo" in my daily routine. I get it. I'd like to spend that time I devote to "doing kyudo", actually doing kyudo, and leave my philosophical clouds to train rides and drinking parties.

I love kyudo. It's a huge challenge for me. It's a huge challenge for anybody. That's kind of the point. But, budo-wise, sometimes I feel like it doesn't quite click with me like some other arts, like aikido. I love aikido, and I love kyudo, but they are very different. I feel like I can kind of just walk into aikido and fall into the seams of its movement fairly easily. I think I'm naturally good at aikido and pick up on it's nuances quicker than other people. I don't think I'm being over confident, rather just conscious of my strengths and weaknesses. I could tell you a million things I'm less good at than aikido, and a large percentage of those things I'm worse at than the average person. For the discussion at hand, I mention kyudo. Every single movement of the shooting process seems to be a huge leap for me. Improvement takes longer, more obstacles appear, and the truth of failure feels a little more stark than I've felt in other arts. Aside from the techniques, all the other parts seem to take a little more effort to adjust to. With aikido, at least with my dojo, we show up, practice, and enjoy each other's company. We are all searching for truth, but not at the expense of everything else, and we also love drinking together. With kyudo, there's so much extra stuff, and so many different people. That part of doing kyudo, the "not-doing-kyudo", gets to be really big, and sometimes feels like a waste of time.

This certainly is a difficult discussion to conduct.

Lastly, I'd like to end on a positive note with kyudo; specifically, concerning competition. This is a very good thing for kyudo, and any form of budo in my opinion. In a competition, you most likely go to a dojo you're unfamiliar with, other competitors you don't know deeply, and are set out within a limited space that reveals your ability. In front of everybody, most of which are looking very intently at every little bit of you, you must complete the act of shooting an arrow. Actually, you shoot eight, and what you hit is what you hit. There's no "buts" or "maybes". Kyudo is about managing a lot of psychic energy inside of you with a lot of physical technique based on minute movements and balances, and so a lot of getting good at the art is managing these in a place where you can actually start dealing with them: usually a quiet dojo with fellow practitioners and supportive teachers. Competitions shake this all up so that you need to readjust, finding a solid base to shoot from. Some people don't like competition. Some people love it. Most people like the idea of it, but are scared. No matter where you are, participating every once in a while will make you a much better archer. That goes for tests too, but I'll wait for the next one I go through to imbellish this subject.

 

Aikido, my great unquestionable love, on the other hand, has no competition (at least the kind I practice). In aikido, you don't get this kind of experience, which is kind of a shame, really. When you test, you're in a "competition-like-scenario" like I described above: you're set out alone to complete certain techniques, what happens happens, and failure is possible (perhaps the key to all of this competition-testing conversation). However, you can't measure things in a strictly black and white, win-lose, kind of way so easily in aikido. There's too much grey. What is considered winning and success in aikido? Successfully throwing an opponent? Nope, that's judo. Is it successfully being thrown? (A very interesting topic perhaps only aikido could indulge, but yet not clear enough). In aikido there are so many small variables that depend much upon one's partner, it's really difficult to see the benefits of competition might afford, at least for beginners (like me!) You could say randori (aikido's free sparring of sorts where partners attack and one moves with techniques as one would like) is a good form of competition, but first of all, I don't have much experience with it, and two, it's still very difficult to see one's actual ability. The greatest problems I find in people's aikido is when they define a level of success and start chasing after it. The comes in the guise of young agro dudes at seminars throwing each other around with faces that reflect the epic tension of the battle inside. Actually, it's one of the most ridiculous things I've seen in martial arts altogether. These dudes who "go all out" at a seminar showing off to a crowd, of usually none others than aikido practitioners (who should have some idea what's going on) feeling like they're on a battlefield fighting for their lives. You know what is way cooler? The doshu (head of aikido) doing aikido with his partners with skilled technique and a calm expression, as if he's doing this as a demonstration for other practitioners of aikido.

Aikido: such a gem of practical martial arts technique and mode of self cultivation, yet so very often abused.

 

Anyway, this is difficult, too. It seems no matter where you step down with a statement, it leaves you vulnerable to a sweep.

But this blog and budo itself are less about making definitive statements, and more about doing your best and questioning reality.

I'm now left with memories of various very important conversations with my aikido sensei which all ended with the same theme:

"If you think you know aikido, then you have no idea. If you think you're good, then you're failing."

This isn't indulgence in shallow (though helpful) proverbs, but the words of a man who sincerely believes this of his practice.

If you practice an art that has competitions and tournaments, go try one! If not, do your best to shake yourself up. And if you think you know ... well, you probably don't.

My Worlds

Where are you?

Where do you go?

Where do you want to be?

Location is a huge part of our existence, and is not just "the place in which we are". Without trying to explain in too much detail this abstract idea, I'll just tell you how it is for me, and you can see how it effects you.

I spend time in three different worlds: Town, the dojo, and the mountains.

Town is where I do business. It's the place where I earn money, run my errands, and interact with other people who come to town for their own agenda. It's also where I play with others, so it's a place for my social acquaintances. It's where festivals happen. This world is made up of man-made social agreements and interactions. I live a life supported by these systems, so I inherently have to spend a lot of time here, though it's not necessarily where I would like to be. I meet a lot of interesting people in town, marvel at the oddities of the human imagination, and enjoy the base pleasures, but largely this is a place I don't always like to be. If I spend all of my time here, my life quickly takes a downward spiral. What people see of me here is largely limited. No doubt it's the same for my view of other people unfortunately.

The dojo is a place in town where I utilize the manifestations of the human imagination to better myself. This is the actual dojos I practice martial arts. But it is also school, museums, art, sports. It is the location of my extra-curricular activities that involve the accomplishments of mankind. It's where I seek to consciously better myself through practice. I spend a lot of time here because I seek knowledge. Actually, I may have a tendency to allot more time than I should here, ignoring other aspects that require my attention. This place is necessary for me to live an existence I am content with, but a place I must take care not to lose myself in. The relationships that I build here are of a very deep nature. My teachers, my partners, we all strive with full effort towards genuine goals of human progress, often through sweat, blood, and argument.

The mountains are ... a very sacred place for me. It's where I venture alone, with what I have, to explore the ancient world. This place is the most ... something  for me. It is the immortal force of the universe in which I am a part, fully engaging the adventure of my life. This place doesn't change for me, yet it has an infinite amount of variety. It's sacred in a way that makes me suddenly laugh and cry without inhibitions. It's sacred in a way that I really can't talk about it with other people. I have never said nor written words that do it justice, and I'd hate for it to be misunderstood. In a way, it's not something to be talked about, not something to be shared ... though talking about it or sharing it are by no means forbidden.

This is all just an abstraction in my head, and not meant to be taken 100% literally. And so when we really evaluate the different aspects of our lives, we find that they can be combinations of these different places.

Where is art?

Art is a manifestation of the primordial inspiration, yet it lies in fields that require cultivated skills, and it also exists in town where we deal with others in order to make it a full-fledged reality.

Where is family?

It exists in town where I have obligations I may not always willingly accept, but it is arguably the greatest dojo in that we learn the tangible skills of being a human from our family, and then it is a connection with the primordial spirit far stronger than with a rock or tree.

Real life ignores the borders of my faint abstract construction, yet it is a helpful one for me to better understand some details of my life, and allows me to use my conscious mind in order to set me in favorable directions. I live in these three worlds and they are all equally necessary. To abandon one would be to take a leg from my chair. To focus on one, would be turn away from many realities of life. Nothing in the world is excluded from this idea, and so it is all necessary. The trick is allocating the right amount of attention to each place. Perhaps a goal in life is mastering this technique of appropriate allocation.

Thanks for indulging my imagination!

What worlds do you live in?

COMMENT IF YOU LIKE! I'd love to hear.

The Kyudo Gauntlet

As I mentioned in a few posts back, I have been practicing with a local high school kyudo club, as they have invaded the dojo on mornings during their spring break.

This is the kyudo gauntlet: a great path of adversity.

I forgot how hard high school Japanese kids are worked in their club activities. What do you think of when you think of spring break? I think of playing video games, going on a road trip, or ... I don't know, many other fun things. What do many Japanese high schoolers think? Early practice six days a week for their club activity (after school extra-curricular activity).

I really came to appreciate my normal kyudo practice. 3 to 6 people in the quiet of the mid-morning. Sensei relatively all to myself to talk and practice with.

But with the highschoolers, it's joining the ranks, standing in line, and shooting while everyone hurries and stares. The worst day is the one I described in a few posts back where I just did a horrible job in kyudo and hit zero arrows. For the days that followed, I improved in miniscule increments, getting used to the less than relaxing atmosphere. Finally when I started looking forward to the challenge, this highschoolers left, and I had exited the rear end of the beast before I realized it.

My practice was challenged, and I went to the lowest pit I've found yet in kyudo. From there I crawled out, on my own, and am now happy for the experience. A couple days after I still wasn't up to par, but somehow a few more days passed and I blossomed into a form of kyudo that is better than any I've ever done. I overcame whatever demon-hells I fell into, and got to some serious work in my technique. I won't brag, but when I watched a video of myself (pointing out all the glaring mistakes with sensei), I was just a little ... impressed.

"I have improved!"

But like I said, there are still many glaring mistakes, and in the past day I've wound down into another small funk of sorts. The slipping string that slaps me has returned just slightly. It doesn't slap me, because I sense it just before it happens. I am so incredibly aware of this phenomenon. I can't describe it. It's like getting in a car crash and afterwards noticing when you're in a car that's going a little too fast ... or even before that happens. So I don't get slapped in the face, but the string slips a little and I have a crappy shot.

Anyway, none of that matters because I'm participating in my first tournament this weekend, and I couldn't be more optimistic in a "I have absolutley no idea how things are going to go, but who cares" kind of  way.

Surely I'll let you know.

So keep reading! For more duels on the budo path!