Bulls-Eye!
Stepping into the dojo, the archery practice hall,
last Wednesday morning, I got a bit of a surprise. In addition to the
familiar faces of my fellow students and our instructor, I noticed
three strangers seated against the wall. They seemed quite timid, and
sat somewhat nervously, watching the activity all around them. They
turned out to be new 'recruits', here for their first lesson, and I
realized that six months must have passed since I myself first came
here. I had started in the beginner's class last spring, and it was
now time for the autumn session to get under way ...
As we members of the 'old' group went about our
practice, we were conscious that the eyes of these newcomers were on
us, just as our eyes had followed the movements of the archers who
had been here practicing that spring day when we first started. And
we knew what they would see, and what they would not notice ... They
would not see that our feet were carefully placed, exactly in line
with the target; they would not notice that as we lifted up the bow
our arms scooped up the air just 'so'; they would not notice that we
held the arrow exactly horizontal as we drew back the string; they
would not notice that our breathing was timed to match these motions;
they would not notice ... oh, there were so many things they would
not, could not see! They would see but one thing, and one thing only
- did our arrows hit the target ...
And of course, beginners that we still are, even
after six months of practice, our arrows do not indeed, very often
hit the target. We joke among ourselves about the 'safest place in
the practice hall' - that little target sitting down there, 28 meters
away. We are still so inconsistent in our shooting ability that the
arrows go anywhere but where we have aimed. This time off to the left
... next time down into the grass ... then up off to the right ...
and so on, and so on. Indeed, when we are cleaning up at the end of
the day's practice, re-smoothing the banked-up sand that supports the
target, we notice the wide circular pattern of our many 'hits', and
the large blank area in the centre where only a few arrows have
struck.
Now actually, this doesn't bother us at all. We
are well aware of why we are so inaccurate, and fully understand that
target accuracy will only come after we have learned to be completely
consistent in the mechanical details of the process: the way we
stand, how we hold the bow, the position of our hands, and a myriad
other points. It will simply take time. In the meantime, while our
muscles and bodies are learning their lessons, our minds are trying
to develop something of the (choose my words carefully here ...) the
right attitude for this. And this is indeed a very interesting
process ...
On the face of it, the proper 'mental state'
should probably not be too difficult to achieve. The books on archery
I have consulted spend many pages discussing 'zen' and other fairly
esoteric things like that, but I would rather approach this in a more
straightforward fashion. It seems to me that if I simply spend enough
time practicing kyudo, and watching others more experienced than I, and train my
body to the point where it can go through the process without any
conscious effort on my part, then that should encompass most of what
is necessary to become a good archer. Let me illustrate what I mean,
with a bit of a silly analogy - the way we use chopsticks (or say,
for our western friends, a knife and fork ...). Each of us adults has
spent so much time in our lives using these implements that they can
almost be said to have become a part of our own bodies. In the
beginning, we spilled food everywhere, but over the years our muscles
bit by bit became expert at the job, and with that expertise came a
gradual lessening of mental control over the process. And now, we
have no need to utilize our conscious mind at all. We are masters of
the 'zen' of chopsticks ... we use them in a completely natural,
'thought-less' manner.
I think that this should be the goal of our
'kyudo' practice. To advance to a point where we have no need of
conscious thought. And also, I would like to think, no need even to
consider whether or not we had actually hit the target. Surely, if
ones attitude and movements were completely 'natural' and
un-selfconscious, anything else would be irrelevant, wouldn't
it?
But when I look around at the others in the
practice hall, even the teachers, I have to wonder if it really is
possible to separate ones body and mind in such a way. For example,
the other day we sat quietly and watched as A-sensei (who is no
longer quite as young and strong as he once was) sent off four
arrows. I enjoyed everything about his 'performance', the elegant
movements across the polished floor, the control over his body as he
first knelt, and then rose with an arrow in place, the quiet strength
flowing through his limbs. I enjoyed it all. All but one thing ...
the tightening of his lips and the crease appearing on his forehead
as three of his four arrows missed the tiny target. For of course, he
is not only a kyudo expert, he is also a human being. A teacher
demonstrating his craft in front of students - sometimes well, and
sometimes less so ...
I wanted to tell him, "Please relax. It doesn't
matter. We're quite happy just to watch you shoot, and absorb the
correct forms of the ritual. To enjoy seeing the 'ballet'. The target
is irrelevant." But of course I said nothing. Because my own actions
just a little earlier in the day had given the lie to these words.
For the hundredth time, I had taken my turn standing on that polished
floor, had gazed at the target and slowly raised my bow, had tried to
think of nothing, and had let the arrow fly, unconcerned about where
it would strike. Unconcerned ... And then, for the first time ever
for me, it had struck the target. Had struck absolutely dead center,
with that incredibly satisfying sound:
'Pok.'
I froze solid in my tracks. I couldn't even lower
my arms. Maybe my heart even skipped a beat ... And after a long,
long pause, as I unfroze and my heart started up again, I turned to
return to my place, and the big broad grin on my face, that just
could not be suppressed no matter how hard I tried, gave the lie to
that word 'unconcerned'.
It seems to me that all the talk of 'zen', and of
'higher states', ignores some pretty fundamental realities of what
human beings are like. Was it wrong for sensei's forehead to register
his disapproval of his 'less than perfect' performance in front of
his students? Was it wrong for my heart to involuntarily jump at
achieving success (even a lucky and temporary one!) after six months
striving? I can't believe that it was. These are normal, basic
reactions of our emotions to events such as these. To erase such
feelings would be to erase our personality, our human-ness. We are
not robots ... And although I will still stand by my earlier
description of things like kyudo as processes that should be mostly
conducted by the body alone as a well-trained machine, I am under no
illusions about my ability to isolate my mind from what is going
on.
Maybe somewhere, up in the topmost levels of the
sport, there are people for whom neither forehead nor heart show the
slightest flicker of reaction to their performance. Maybe. But I must
confess that I do not find that a standard that I particularly wish
to emulate. That is not a mountain I wish to scale. I think I will be
quite content to ramble about the foothills with frequently furrowed
brow, and then sometimes (but I suppose not too often) feeling that
leap of the heart when I hear that wonderful ... 'pok'.