Ornoth

Cambridge Massachusetts, February 23, 2014: I grab a Japanese bow, walk to within two meters of a target, and inexpertly bury two arrows into it. Thus began my excursion into the meditative / martial art of kyūdō. There’s some background info on kyūdō and my “First Shot” ceremony in this blogpo.

However, 18 months later, I moved to Pittsburgh, where the lack of a kyūdō group forced me to step away from the practice. Seven years passed.

When Inna and I were recently evaluating cities to move to, kyūdō was an important consideration for me, and I checked out the local groups when we visited Raleigh/Durham, Denver/Boulder, and Austin. So when we finally moved to Austin, one of my first stops was Austin Kyūdō.

My Second First Shot

In Japan, there are several schools of kyūdō, each with their own slight differences in philosophy, terminology, and technique. Of those, there are only two that are active in the United States. There’s the All Nippon Kyūdō Federation, which I’ll shorten to ANKF, that came out of a postwar attempt to unify all the diverse styles into one common form. That’s what’s typically taught as an activity in Japanese high schools. The other presence in the US is the Heki-Ryu Bishu Chikurin-ha school, which I’ll call Zenko, which is one of those older schools, traditionally headed by the Shibata family of bowmakers to the Japanese nobility, and which was supported somewhat by the Shambhala organization.

Sadly, there’s some rivalry and mutual condescension between these two schools. While that might make more sense back in Japan, it seems pretty counterproductive here in the US, where the differences seem trivial and – since neither has much of a following – a spirit of mutual cooperation would benefit everyone.

All this pertains to me because my practice at Byakko Kyudojo back in Boston was in the Zenko style, but Austin Kyūdō is affiliated with the ANKF. So I’m effectively switching schools and starting over. While there is a Zenko group in Houston with occasional practices in Austin (Emiko Kyudojo), it makes sense for me to get back into kyūdō with the more active local group and consider returning to the Zenko fold after developing a greater level of proficiency.

From the perspective of an American and a novice, the differences between ANKF and Zenko are few, but worth enumerating. Philosophically, Zenko is more focused on the internal, meditative aspect of archery (which appeals to me), and seems more focused on individual practice rather than coordinated group shooting. And – being run by a family of traditional bowmakers – Zenko requires practitioners to use bamboo bows, whereas ANKF is happy to use composite bows that are cheaper, more forgiving, and require less care. ANKF has also added formal ranks, requiring written exams and shooting demonstrations to advance in levels.

With that as background… After arriving in Austin, I learned that Austin Kyūdō was holding a six-week beginners’ course. Between a seven year layoff and joining a different school, that “starting over” route made sense for me. I joined two other newbs for their training series, which culminated on Saturday April 1th with our “First Shot” rite… Which was actually my second First Shot ceremony, having been through Zenko’s equivalent back in 2014, as described up top.

While it’s wonderful being a full-fledged kyudoka again, I’m far from satisfied with my first shot. While passable, my form wasn’t up to my own expectations, so I have plenty of “stuff” to work on.

But I was also put off because my hands are too large for any of the group’s dojo-owned gloves for students. In addition to a bow and arrows, a kyūdō-specific glove is an absolutely essential piece of equipment, since it is the glove that actually holds the bowstring when it is drawn. For my first shot, I wound up borrowing another student’s brand-new glove, and the bow just wasn’t cooperating with it.

While I always intended to send away to Japan and invest in my own custom-made glove, the lack of a dojo glove to practice with has made that purchase a pressing need. The fabrication and shipping will take 2-3 months, during which I really can’t do any shooting, either at distance or at a close-range practice target, as in the photo above.

Despite that frustrating delay, there’s still a lot I can work on in the meantime, so that when my glove arrives I can dive back into practice with diligence, energy, and more confidence in my form.

It’s been a year, so let’s debrief about my experience as a drone aircraft owner/operator.

I’m not terribly good at spatial orientation in three dimensions, so I bought a cheap $50 quadcopter, mostly to see whether I could develop the skills to become a competent remote operator before dropping real money on a quality drone. The craft—a Syma x5c—had a low-quality video camera, but no live video feed or stabilization or other advanced features. And it was light enough to elude most FAA regulation.

Syma quadcopter

Over the winter I flew it around our apartment in an effort to learn fine control, but of course that was pretty limited in terms of the flying I could do. I did get the cat’s attention, tho.

Meanwhile, I educated myself on the existing regulations for drone pilots. What I learned is that you are not legally allowed to fly a drone, period.

That might be overstating the case, but just barely. You cannot fly one within five miles of any airport or hospital. You cannot fly over any public property, including schools, parks, ballfields, streets, cemeteries, etc. You can’t fly over other people, nor on private property without the owner’s permission.

After thinking it through, I think there’s only two places you might be allowed to fly.

I haven’t seen anything prohibiting operating directly over an unregulated body of water like a large lake or river. Of course, that’s not the best place for an unskilled pilot to operate an electronic device with limited radio controller range and a very short battery life… Bloop!

Or theoretically you could operate on private property that’s more than five miles away from any airport or hospital, with the owner’s expressed permission. Which is a resource I don’t really have any access to.

So, basically, I haven’t used my quad outside at all.

No, I did take it outside just once and flew around the tiny cement driveway between our apartment house and the next. That sucked, because the quad’s light weight meant it drifted about in the wind, which increased the danger of crashing into one of the buildings (larger drones are much more stable in the wind). And I was probably still violating some law about flying too close to people’s windows.

There are UAV clubs that rent flying space for group events, but they expect dues, and are for enthusiasts with expensive professional or racing rigs costing hundreds if not thousands of dollars; they’re not accommodating of newbies just learning to fly with cheap, off the shelf toy-store equipment.

So my big aerial adventure was an unmitigated failure. I guess that explains why you never see drones around, even though their prices have come down to the point where anyone could afford one.

It feels a lot like getting a shiny new bike for Xmas as a kid, but having to store it in the attic until all the snow melted and you could ride. Except in this case there’s no summer to look forward to, because recreational drone use will never be allowed to get off the ground.

As I step away from some of my older hobbies, it looks like kyūdō—the Japanese martial art of archery—might be a new activity that arises to take their place.

People who know me will realize that when I commit to an interest, I dive into it with a unique intensity and dedication. Looking back, I’ve had numerous interests which I pursued for years and sometimes decades, such as Tolkien fandom and fiction writing during my youth, or cycling and meditation as an adult.

But every five or ten years, I step back and reevaluate my hobbies and how they fit into my life. Often I can tell when a chapter of my life is about to end because I feel that my interests aren’t helping me grow in the direction I want to go in. It’s at those times that I’ll suddenly walk away from things I’ve been devoted to for years, such as when I left my writers’ group after running it for more than a decade. At the same time, I feel myself looking for what new interests might come along to replace the old.

In the past year or two, I’ve set the groundwork for dropping two time-consuming hobbies. I’ve already publicized that after fourteen seasons, 2014 will be my last year riding in the Pan-Massachusetts Challenge, which will free up a lot of time I’d otherwise spend fundraising. In addition, I will soon stop tracking my money using the Where’s George website, after a ten-year run. These were great activities, but it’s finally time to move on.

Knowing that this would free up time and energy, I started kicking around ideas for what I might enjoy doing next: something I could get involved with that would also appeal to the very different person I have become.

And the first thing that seems to have arisen is kyūdō.

Kyūdō is a meditative martial art devoted to the traditional Japanese form of archery. It’s surprising that kyūdō is not widely known in the US, because it is extremely popular in Japan, where archery and its equipment are viewed as highly sacred. Kyūdō has been refined and distilled into a highly reflective, meditative practice, as reflected in the first western book on Japanese archery. Eugen Herrigel’s 1948 “Zen in the Art of Archery” was wildly popular and was the first book to use the now-popular moniker “Zen and the art of…”

So why have I been drawn to kyūdō? It’s hard to explain, but it boils down to six attributes that appeal to me: it’s social, meditative, physical, elegant, familiar, and Japanese.

Although the focus of the form of kyūdō is internal, participation and instruction are offered in the context of a small, friendly martial arts dojo of mixed ages and genders. This is imperative to me, since social life and connection is revealing itself as the primary project of my fifth decade of life.

I probably don’t need to belabor how kyūdō’s meditative focus complements my longstanding contemplative practice. As a form of meditation that involves a fair amount of movement, Kyūdō seems to nicely fit in the gap between rather sedate walking meditation and full-bore regular life.

For years, I’ve been looking for some technique for integrating physical exertion and meditation, which initially led me toward an exploration of yoga. However, being in a room filled with women in tight skinsuits—all rolling around on the floor in provocative positions—wasn’t especially conducive to internal exploration. Kyūdō allows and incorporates a focus on the body without the detrimental distractions.

However, like the asanas in yoga or the forms in tai chi, kyūdō is strictly choreographed. And when control of the human body and its motions is combined with the natural geometry of the bow, bowstring, and arrow, kyūdō epitomizes elegance and grace: attributes that I strive to embody.

And archery has always appealed to me. Even as a child, archery was my favorite activity at summer camp, and over the years I became pretty skilled at it. And in my medieval recreationist days I bought and used a very powerful English longbow, as well.

And for whatever reason, I seem to be in a phase where Japanese stuff is interesting, so it fits into that, as well.

So as you can see, kyūdō actually complements my interests quite nicely.

Practices are both convenient and a bit of a stretch. During the winter, they use an indoor aikido dojo in Union Square, which isn’t easily reached by mass transit, but is manageable. And in the summer they’re out in Lincoln, which would be really difficult, except that’s just one town over from where I would be training during a regular weekend bike ride, so I’ll probably combine the two.

I first started looking at their website around Thanksgiving, and saw that they were running a new student “first shot” training at MIT in January. However, it filled up before I could sign up.

So two weeks ago I showed up at the dojo just to observe. Fortunately, another new guy was there, and apparently we comprised enough interest for them to schedule another first shot training the following week. So I returned for a second visit and received instruction on most of the form from Joyce and Randy, with the expectation that I’d get to perform my first shots the next time.

This past weekend, I returned for part two of the training. Although the other new guy wasn’t around, I received additional instruction from Joyce, and then Don covered some more details before encouraging me to step up and take my first shot.

To put that into perspective, in Japan new students often take weeks, months, or sometimes years drilling the techniques before they’re allowed to shoot. Due to Americans’ typical impatience, our school has disposed of that, but it’s still a big milestone.

So I felt some anxiety as I stepped up and went through the movements and fired two arrows. When we move outside, we’ll fire at targets 28 meters away, but indoors we shoot at cardboard bales from a distance of about ten feet. I managed to remember most of the steps, but forgot to flip my right arm back upon my first release; I corrected it for the second.

What was interesting to me was how intensely the body experienced it. When I stepped away, my heart was racing and I was breathing heavily. I think much of that is due to the selfconsciousness of taking my first shot under the sensei’s gaze, combined with the physical stress of drawing the bow and the loud thunk of the arrow striking the target.

Of course, I haven’t mastered anything as yet. It’s frustrating but entirely predictable that some of the things I do wrong are common both to kyūdō and cycling, such as tensing and hunching my shoulders. And I also need to pay better attention to keeping my body facing perpendicular to the target, rather than turning toward it.

But it was successful! I’d followed the forms and properly fired and lodged my arrows into the target. So at least I’ve got the basics down.

Over time, I hope to embody some of the elegance that you can see in some of the YouTube videos or Vimeo videos about kyūdō. And if I stick with it, perhaps someday you’ll even get to see a photo of me in a hakama!