Kyudou ga sukina no

I have been saying all along that I am participating in kyudou, or Japanese archery, here in Kyoto, but I have yet to show any evidence. Well, there may be no direct evidence here that I was present, but there is certainly evidence that I saw people practicing kyudou (thus the pictures). It is an amazing sport, as much spiritual as physical. There is certainly a great deal of technique to be learned, but there is also a mindset, and that is perhaps the reason this has been called a zen sport in the past. 

          The image above is of a pose in the "classical kyudou" style. I did not know there were two styles (I simply thought some of the more advanced students were, well, more advanced) until I was told when I asked to take pictures. If I was worried that my picture taking desires would be frowned upon, I could not have been more wrong. The moment I asked, they set up a demonstration, and sensei (teacher) sat next to me to say when I should snap photos (this is such and such pose, she would say). I have a hard time remembering what the pose are called even when I am doing them myself. 

I have a working theory that it is impossible to look uncool while shooting an arrow (unless, of course, you happen to fail in quite so epic a fashion as I did on my first shot - more on this later); I believe this image proves it. Notice he has shrugged out of the left sleeve of his kimono. That is the typical male fashion, I believe, while women who wear kimono while shooting tie their sleeves back instead. The male hakama is also different, and is tied in front. 

          These are, of course, the moto (targets) that one is supposed to hit. They are 150 m from the stage, if I remember correctly,and 15 m apart - it is very possible that I remember incorrectly. I will follow with some sentimental rambling about the nature of the kyudou club and what it has meant to me through my stay in Japan, so read on if you so desire, but consider yourself warned. 

           Perhaps most importantly, kyudou club has been one of the few places in Japan where I feel like I really belong - aside from the classroom and my host family, of course. It is easy to feel like a gaijin (foreigner) in Japan. In my case I have concluded that this is in part because I clearly look different, but in greater part because I understood only around half of what is said to me and closer to a tenth of the cultural concepts underlying Japanese life. In my kyudou club, though, before I am a foreigner, I am a student. If the rigorous traditions of the sport seem alien to me, they are strange to the Japanese students as well. Moreover, the more I see of those rigorous traditions the more I realize I am seeing an older framework on which the entire society appears to be based. One of the most interesting aspects of Japan is that there is a cultural framework old enough for that to be the case. I will also say that having the uniform means expressing a certain level of commitment, and by extension, truly entering the club. My education became the responsibility of all of that club's members at the moment I dawned my hakama, and so I was taught to bow properly, give greetings, excuse myself, and so forth. Interestingly, the deeper I delve into kyudou, the more life outside of the sport makes sense.

The structure of the club itself also uniquely gives it a special place in my life. It consists in large part of people older than me, middle aged or slightly older, with a few younger individuals who largely come in the evenings, and the sensei (teacher). Perhaps for this reason and since I inevitably know no one’s name, I am mostly called ojō-san, meaning young lady. Foreigners looking in on Japanese society tend to use the word “family” to describe the various social organizations, and I would apply the same word here without hesitation. We are in many ways a family. When I first wore my kyudou uniform, most people came to congratulate me on the fact that it suited me well. Afterwards, they would occasionally fix me if I came in with my collar mussed or some tie misplaced, and took great glee in telling me to bicycle home without changing because “all the young women in the club do it that way.” They still do. 

Moreover, their attitudes towards my quirks and successes are those of a family. The women titter when I put on my knee boots beneath my hakama, and everyone together finds their daily amusement in watching me drag five-minute conversations into thirty-minute ones due to a variety of comical misunderstandings. Everyone watched when I fired my first arrow at the outdoor targets, and everyone managed to somehow hold their laughter until I finished the entire ceremony after my arrow rebounded off of the roof nearly the entire 150 m back to the stage (I did say I would explain later, did I not?). Another day, sensei waited until practice was over to have me fire the final arrows before clean-up so that everyone could see how I had improved (or so I would surmise). I had no mishaps with the arrow this time, but firmly corrected myself when I began to leave the stage leading with my left rather than my right foot, much to the amusement of all of my observers. Finding that I had a tendency to stuff my clothes into a paper bag at the end of the day, sensei found me a suitable cloth to bundle them into. Indeed, whenever I lack something, someone tends to show up with it in hand, and even now I worry that she will next show up with a pair of traditional sandals (I insist on wearing flip-flops). 

Our typical kyudou practice is as follows - at the beginning and end of practice, we thank the sensei formally for her teachings, and greet each other. The less experienced students than watched the more experienced ones complete two ceremonial shots, at which point practice begins in earnest. This means exchanging gossip, and for many of the more experienced students, correcting my posture, the way I wear my clothing and associated kyudou accessories, etc. More than once, people have taken me aside to carefully explain what I am inevitably doing wrong. They have done this slowly, however, day by day, one mistake at a time, so that it has never been overwhelming. Everyone cleans up together at the end of the day. I frequently stayed late to practice afterward when I can, since the stage clears and the club quiets down as darkness falls. At that point, I can relax before heading home for the night, and the sound of snapping arrow strings and nighttime insects will forever color my thoughts of the long winter evenings in Japan. You can see the stage at night in this image. 

I would like to conclude with some advice, perhaps, to anyone else who thinks they might be interested in kyudou. There were a number of other American students present at the same time as me, and I have no doubt that they had equally wonderful and trying experiences within the club. I do not, however, believe that they had as much of a chance to become a part of it. They were too frequently together in a small group, too frequently speaking English, and too frequently too busy with classes to attend lessons. My advice is to throw yourself in head first. I, being the oddball that I am, wore my uniform to school, and even added a kimono beneath it just for fun. I was embarrassed and nervous at first, but I was also proud. Learning Kyudou has never just about learning to hit a target with a bow and arrow; rather, it has been about the form, the mindset, and the people whom I stood beside as I released my arrows. But really, you should also challenge the target, as you see in this image of the beginning of the classical style ceremony.