The Still Point of Kyudo

One of the things I have always liked about Kyudo as a Budo, is the stillness and settling which takes place before the shot. It's almost as if the shot is a side effect of the stillness.

In Chinese martial arts, there is a very deep practice of zhan zhuang, which is "just standing," which seems somewhat related to the stillness of kyudo.

At Zen's Sekai, the author, who has a background in both Japanese and Chinese martial arts, discussed this very phenomenon. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

Wu Standing and Kyūdō: One Shot, No Arrow

Before discussing Kyūdō, it helps to clarify one term that may be unfamiliar: Wu standing.

What Is Wu Standing?

Wu standing (站樁, zhan zhuang) is a foundational practice in Wu-style Taiji. At first glance, it looks like simply standing still. In reality, it is a precise form of internal alignment and continuous expansion, practiced without visible movement.

There is:

No deliberate breath control No visualization No muscle-driven effort

The practitioner stands upright, relaxed, and structurally aligned, allowing the body to organize itself through gravity, balance, and awareness. The work is not to do something, but to stop interfering with how the body naturally supports itself.

Unlike seated meditation, Wu standing is trained fully embodied, under load, and in relationship to the ground. It is not about endurance or stillness for its own sake, but about discovering the point where effort drops away and posture sustains itself.

This is why Wu standing pairs so naturally with Kyūdō.

Wu Standing as the Complete Kyūdō Shot

In Kyūdō, the shot does not begin when the arrow is nocked.

In Wu standing, movement does not begin when the body moves.

Both practices train something far quieter and far more demanding:

Right placement before intention.

When viewed this way, Wu standing is not a meditation about stillness. It is Kyūdō before the bow appears.

The Aging Martial Artist

At Zen's Sekai, the author recently posted his thoughts regarding his Taijiquan and Kyudo practice in the context of aging. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." - Michelangelo

Most people assume that aging means gradual loss: less strength, less speed, less range, less ambition.

Taiji and Kyūdō quietly disagree. They do not promise to keep the body young.

They promise something more durable: integrity without excess. Aging Reveals, It Does Not Automatically Weaken.

In external systems, youth is an advantage. Speed forgives errors. Strength covers imbalance. Endurance masks inefficiency.

But aging removes these buffers. What remains is structure, timing, and honesty. Taiji and Kyūdō are not practices that compensate for aging. They are practices that age well because they remove what aging cannot support.

Taiji: When Less Effort Becomes Necessary

Wu Taiji is often misunderstood as “small” or “gentle.” In reality, it is economical. As the body ages: Excess muscular tension becomes costly Overcorrection leads to injury Forcing posture creates fatigue instead of stability

Wu standing and movement strip practice down to essentials: Vertical alignment Ground connection Continuous expansion without strain.

Nothing in Wu requires speed, depth, or amplitude. What it demands instead is accuracy. And accuracy improves with age, if ego steps aside.

Kyūdō: The Shot That Cannot Be Forced

Kyūdō offers no advantage to youth once form is learned.

Strength does not improve release. Speed does not improve timing. Desire does not improve accuracy. In fact, these often make it worse.

As practitioners age, Kyūdō naturally refines itself:

Draw becomes quieter Kai becomes deeper Hanare becomes less dramatic and more inevitable. The body learns what the mind cannot command.

This is not decline. This is distillation.

The Shared Principle: Non-Interference

Both Taiji and Kyūdō are built on the same foundation:

Remove what obstructs natural organization.

Aging supports this process by making interference expensive.

Excess tension hurts,

Poor alignment fatigues quickly,

Emotional forcing destabilizes balance. Youth can ignore these signals. Age cannot, and does not need to.

 

 

Balance in Kyudo

From the Zen Sekai - Japan 2 @ 70 blog. About the author's search for balance in his kyudo practice. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

 

The Quest for Balance in Kyūdō: More Than Push and Pull

In the stillness of the dojo, a single arrow flies. To the outside observer, it may seem a simple act—draw the bow, release the string, let the arrow fly. But to the practitioner of Kyūdō—the Way of the Bow—it is a profound meditation on balance.

Balance is the silent master in Kyūdō. It speaks in whispers, not in shouts. It is not just the physical symmetry of right and left, push and pull, but the harmony of inner and outer worlds, the unspoken conversation between body and mind, effort and surrender, practice and pause.

The Body: Divided, Yet One

At the heart of Kyūdō is the Yumi, the asymmetrical bow. Already, balance is challenged. Unlike the symmetrical bows of Western archery, the Yumi demands a different kind of equilibrium. In the draw, there is not just pull with the right hand and push with the left, but a spiraling expansion of energy—Nobiai—a dividing and yet unifying of forces. The elbows extend outward in opposite directions, and in that division, unity is born.

Balance begins in the Ashibumi—the stance. Feet planted shoulder-width apart, stable like mountains, yet not rooted like stones. The knees remain soft, the pelvis gently tucked. The shoulders must be low, but not collapsed; open, yet not tensed. In the Daisan, the arms rise, and tension begins to accumulate—but it is a natural tension, like a bowstring waiting to sing. It must never become stiffness.

Here, balance is found in paradox: tension that supports relaxation, structure that births freedom.

The Mind: Focused, Yet Free

If the body seeks balance through form, the mind seeks it through stillness. Yet this stillness is not blankness. It is the Zanshin, the remaining mind, the lingering presence that follows the arrow long after it has left the string.

Focus is essential. In Kyūdō, every breath, every blink, every step is a point of concentration. The mind must attend fully to the task at hand. And yet—here again—we meet paradox. That very focus must be free of attachment. The matomae (aim) is precise, but the archer must let go of the desire to hit the target. The kaiken-chu, the release, is cleanest when it arises without self. The archer disappears; only the arrow flies.

To aim with all your heart—and yet not mind where the arrow lands. That is balance.

The Rhythm of Training: Effort and Rest

Too much training, and the spirit hardens. The body grows weary, and the joy fades. Too little, and the body forgets the form, the breath, the center. Balance must be struck in the rhythm of practice itself. The bow does not reward aggression; it responds to rhythm, timing, and sensitivity.

The seasoned practitioner knows when to practice and when to walk away. When to focus on Kihontai—the foundational body movements—and when to simply draw the bow and breathe. There is a time for technique, and a time to let the technique dissolve into presence. 

 

Bows of the Samurai Documentary

Below is a documentary on the bows used by the Samurai, which have evolved into Kyudo.

 

 

 

Documentary on Kyudo

 Below is a short documentary on Kyudo.

Ritual Archery in Japan

Below is an excerpt from a Japanese based website about the use of archery in important Japanese Shinto rituals. The full post may be read here.

...

 Bows and Popular Shinto Rituals

 Bows are not just associated with samurai, but are also more broadly seen as a part of Japan’s culture. Bows and arrows make appearances in Japanese myths, and as a result, many Shinto shrines feature rituals related to them.
One of the most well-known is horseback archery, Yabusame. However, stationary archery, Obisha, is also performed as a Shinto ritual in many areas throughout Japan. The Obisha festivals are held either to pray for a good harvest or to divine how crops will grow that year. In the Shinto ritual called Omato shinji held at Kifune-jinja Shrine in January in Togane, Chiba Prefecture, an archer shoots 12 arrows to divine the harvest for the year. Also, in a festival called Musayumisai, held at Samukawa-jinja Shrine on January 8 in Sagami, Kanagwa Prefecture, arrows are shot at a target marked with the word Oni (ogre) in order to tell fortunes for the year.

 　Are both of these styles held as Shinto rituals? If so, I suggest revising to say: Both stationary archery, Obisha, and horseback archery, Yabusame, are held as Shinto rituals in many areas throughout Japan.
　
 Words relating to archery also appear in every day language. The phrase Te no uchi wo akasu (“to show one’s hand”, reveal one’s thinking, plans, or skills) comes from the positioning of the hand on the bow (te no uchi). Since one’s technique in holding the bow influences the accuracy of the shot, precise techniques were a carefully kept secret. Another common phrase, Kakegae ga nai, refers to something irreplaceable or very precious, is said to refer to Yugake, an archer’s leather glove for the right hand used to draw the bowstring. There are other words, such as Yaomote ni tatsu (to stand in the line of fire, that is, to take blame or criticism), Mato wo hazusu (to miss the mark, to be off target), and Zuboshi (to be on target, to hit the bullseye), that were derived from archery.
 　The bows and arrows seen in archery training halls all over Japan have a long tradition associated with them, and the practice of archery has been a significant part of Japanese culture, contributing to everyday language, religious rituals, and even divination.

Archery for Self Development

We're all familiar with Japanese Archery, Kyudo, as a method of self development. It wasn't just Japan that used archery in this way. Cultures all over the world recognized that the practice of archery had positive characteristics.

Below is an excerpt from a post at Modern Stoicism on the use of archery by Stoics as a means of developing character. The full post may be read here.

I've recently taken up archery.


The Stoic philosopher Antipater is reported to have drawn an analogy with archery when trying to explain the goal of Stoic ethics. The good Stoic, Antipater suggested, is like an archer: he does everything he can to hit the target, but his happiness does not depend on whether he hits the target or not (Stobaeus 2,76,11-15). What matters is shooting well, for whether the arrow hits the target or not depends on other factors outside of the archer’s control.

 
In the ancient literature this led some to characterize the Stoic’s art – the art of living – as a stochastic art, like navigation or medicine, meaning that the outcome depends in part on factors other than the practitioner’s skill (Alexander, Quaest. 61,1-28). It also led to concerns about whether Stoicism in fact had two slightly different goals: to live a good life and to do everything one can to live a good life (Cicero, Fin. 3.22). In his discussion of this point Cicero wrote:

“Take the case of one whose task it is to shoot a spear or arrow straight at some target. One’s ultimate aim is to do all in one’s power to shoot straight, and the same applies with our ultimate goal. In this kind of example, it is to shoot straight that one must do all one can; none the less, it is to do all one can to accomplish the task that is really the ultimate aim. It is just the same with what we call the supreme good in life. To actually hit the target is, as we say, to be selected but not sought.” (ibid.)

For the Stoic, then, what matters is not always hitting the target but rather becoming an expert archer, with archery understood as a special kind of art in which expertise does not always guarantee success.

This Stoic idea shares something in common with the account of learning the Japanese art of archery in Eugen Herrigel’s Zen in the Art of Archery (London, 1953). Herrigel’s book is a personal memoir recounting his own experience of trying to learn the art of archery from a Japanese master, something he tried to do in order to deepen his own understanding of Zen. Along the way Herrigel makes a number of remarks about Zen and archery that resonate with Antipater’s image of the Stoic archer and may offer a fresh perspective on it.

Herrigel begins by reflecting on the artificiality of learning a medieval military art taken out of its original context and turned into a hobby for people who have no need to learn how to shoot arrows. 

Archery is no longer a matter of life and death. Yet, he comments, “archery is still a matter of life and death to the extent that it is a contest of the archer with himself” (p. 15). It has become a “spiritual exercise” in which “the marksman aims at himself” (p. 14). The modern Zen art of archery “can in no circumstance mean accomplishing anything outwardly with bow and arrow, but only inwardly, with oneself” (p. 18). The goal, then, is ultimately one of self-transformation.
 

One of the greatest challenges Herrigel faced was to relax. His master made the art look effortless, and for him it was. The more Herrigel tried to achieve the desired result (hitting the target) the more he failed. It was a classic case of making a strenuous effort to keep relaxed. The key, his master told him, was to stop caring about the arrow: “what happened to the arrow was even more a matter of indifference” (p. 40). The less one cares about hitting the target, the more smooth and relaxed one’s shot will be, which paradoxically will increase one’s likelihood of hitting the target. So not caring about reaching the goal will in fact improve one’s chances of reaching it.

 
Far more important, though, is a shift in the very goal itself. The real goal should not be hitting the target at all; the real goal is something internal, not external. This “the right art [of archery] … is purposeless, aimless” (p. 46). One must become purposeless, on purpose. One must aimlessly aim the arrow. This will enable one to reach both goals, internal and external: to perfect the art of archery and to hit the target, but wanting to hit the target now looks like part of the problem rather than contributing to either goal.

Passing Along the Family Martial Tradition

Below is an excerpt from an interview which was conducted by Nippon.com. The subject is Kiyomoto Ogasawara, who teaches his family's 850 year old art of yabusame (Japanese mounted archery). His father is the 35th generation head master of the art.

The full interview may be read here.

INTERVIEWER You’re an instructor in a long line of teachers. How far back does it go?

OGASAWARA KIYOMOTO We have a tradition of over 850 years. My ancestor Ogasawara Nagakiyo founded the Ogasawara-ryū school in 1187. He instructed Minamoto no Yoritomo, the first shōgun of Japan, in etiquette, archery, and mounted archery, arts known as kyūhō. The school’s first display of yabusame mounted archery was given at Tsurugaoka Hachimangū Shrine in Kamakura, and you can still see this performed today every September. My father Kiyotada is the thirty-first-generation head of our tradition.

INTERVIEWER What are the origins of yabusame?

OGASAWARA The tradition began as a samurai discipline for fighting and was called kisha or horseback archery. But only one ritualistic form of this can be called yabusame.

INTERVIEWER How was your family able to preserve this through the upheavals of Japanese history?

OGASAWARA When the shōgun system ended in the nineteenth century, other families commercialized their arts to support themselves, but we decided to preserve ours while working regular jobs. Kiyokane, the twenty-eighth head of the household, opened the Ogasawara-ryū school to the public in Tokyo’s Kanda while also teaching etiquette at schools. To maintain the purity of our tradition, it’s our rule not to make a full-time living from instruction.

INTERVIEWER What do you do to support yourself?

OGASAWARA I’m a researcher in a Japanese pharmaceutical company during the daytime. In the evenings and on weekends, I practice the disciplines of etiquette, archery, and yabusame.

INTERVIEWER Please describe the Ogasawara school’s activities today.

OGASAWARA We teach the arts of archery, yabusame, and reihō, or etiquette. In our practice, we teach the essence of etiquette, not simply what to do in a given situation. For these disciplines, students learn a variety of forms including standing, bowing, and walking, as well as drawing the bow and mounting the mokuba wooden horse for yabusame. We hold a training camp two or three times a year; it involves real horses and lasts several days.

We also organize training sessions on the day before and the day of yabusame festivals. We participate in approximately ten festivals across Japan, including those at Kamakura’s Tsurugaoka Hachimangū Shrine, Kyoto’s Shimogamo Shrine, Nikkō’s Tōshōgū Shrine, and Sumida Park in Tokyo’s Asakusa. We even teach the art of tying knots used for samurai armor, horsemanship, boxes, wrapping objects, and other situations.

INTERVIEWER Yabusame festivals certainly draw crowds, but how popular is the art in terms of studying?

OGASAWARA Right now we have roughly 700 students, of which about ten are foreigners from place like the United States, France, and Poland. Those from overseas are particularly interested in yabusame and the art of the bow.

The Fine Art of Samurai Manners

INTERVIEWER How would you describe your approach to teaching etiquette?

OGASAWARA It’s important to practice with a focus on how to use one’s body and practice mindfulness, the art of being aware of what one is doing at any given moment, and to use that for one’s approach to modern life while staying in harmony with one’s environment.

A tradition that lasts more than 800 years does not change. It’s not a question of changing the main teachings of the tradition which is the essence; we only change the minor details according to the times. The essence of our tradition is two texts, the Shūshinron and Taiyōron, compiled by my ancestors Sadamune and Tsuneoki. The former outlines how to govern the heart and mind, while the latter concerns the body. Preserving this essence for posterity is very important.

INTERVIEWER What would the samurai of old think of Japanese today and how they use their modern tools―smartphones instead of swords?

OGASAWARA The greatest difference is in how people think. For instance, the Bushidō virtues of justice, loyalty, and piety were strictly upheld in the past, unlike now. The concept of chūgi, or obedience, and kōkō or filial piety, were woven into the fabric of everyday life. But if we uphold those virtues, then people of yesteryear would be fine in today’s world even though all the nonessential tools of life, such as smartphones, have changed.

INTERVIEWER In terms of etiquette, foreigners generally see Japan as a polite society, full of time-honored customs like bowing. But what you teach goes far beyond that, doesn’t it?

OGASAWARA Etiquette in Japan today is taught according to the social situation: when you express appreciation or an apology to someone, for instance, you should bow deeply. This does not go into the essence, however, and that is the focus of our practice. We believe students should think about what to do in a given situation based on their knowledge of this essence.

The Ogasawara-ryū forms of etiquette were for the shōgun and those who met him. But moving one’s body according to one’s position in the social hierarchy also served as a means of defense against attack. After all, the higher one was in the hierarchy, the greater the chance of attack. For instance, through hand movements, one could easily observe the possibility of a sword being drawn and take precautions. That’s why they would, in observance of etiquette, naturally position their hands in such a manner that it would be impossible to quickly draw a sword, thereby assuring others they had no ill intent. But at the same time, they would assume a posture that would eliminate any delay in their response in the unlikely event that they would be attacked.

Promotion Test Jitters

Have you ever found yourself nervous about taking a promotional test? Have you ever really thought it through to figure out what you could do about it?

Our friend Zacky Chan at Green Leaves Forest had a very nice post about just that. An excerpt from that post is below. The whole post may be read here.

I’ve been running myself down a dark little tunnel in my training lately.

I’ve got the shinsa shakes.

“Shinsa” are tests in kyudo, and when you’ve got one coming up, it’s going to start messing with your brain sometime. Some people get them on test day. Some a week earlier. Some maybe midway through the test.

I can just imagine someone standing up just before they make their shot, realize all of the judges are sitting right in front of them staring at them, and say, “Holy crap, this is happening right now!”

For me I got the shakes about 5 weeks before the actual test, and I’ve got two weeks left until the day. Which I’d say is pretty long. Perhaps the time gets longer as the stakes get higher. I’m planning to move back home in the near future, and this may be my last chance at 6-dan before heading home. This means I only have two arrows to try my chance at this goal of mine. I’ll probably still be a number which puts me at the very beginning in the first sitting (No. 1, No. 2, or maaaaybe No. 3 or No. 4, I assume), which means if I don’t hit both arrows, then there’s no chance at passing.

I can only imagine the kind of stress that goes with taking tests from abroad. Taking time off work, spending hundreds or thousands of dollars, being jet-lagged, shooting in an environment completely different from one’s own, in a whole different country. Shooting your best under such conditions is really something special.

There may be a lot of different things that come up with the shinsa shakes, but I would bet the number one topic that comes up for everyone is …

hitting the target.

“Don’t worry, you’ll pass if you just hit the target.”

This is one thing you’ll often hear from other training partners. I think it’s meant to help you relax and stop worrying about all the little things you can worry about. Or maybe they really mean it, and that you’re shooting is good enough just the way it is at this level, and all you need to do is do your best shot and hit the target. Surely everyone has the capability of doing this, be you ikkyu or hanshi.

But that’s just another piece of poison that can mess with your brain.

“Maybe they’re right. All I have to do is hit the target and I’ll pass.”

And so you start either trying too hard to hit the target, throwing off your form and making it even harder to hit the target. Or you let up all your energy and don’t put enough effort into your shooting.

So what should we do?!

What is the best way to prepare yourself mentally and physically for a test?

What is the best way to train?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. And you know what？

It’s different for everybody.

And what works for you will continue to change with your experience and progress.

Because you’re a living being! And change is the only constant.

But here I’d like to finally start talking about what I set out to talk about, and that is the importance of hitting the target in kyudo, and finding a practice that includes this without focusing only on hitting the target.

So, my reaction to all these shinsa shakes has been extremist. Since 5 weeks before the test, I decided I was only going to practice zassha (ritual test-style shooting that takes a lot longer than normal shooting practice) with the kimono, and shoot at the makiwara (practice hay bail).

My reason for this was to get my body so used to the movements and kimono and shinsa atmosphere, so that when the day came for the test, the only shooting I would know would be that of the shinsa atmosphere and I could shoot my best arrows without any question. I also thought that by doing such a practice would allow me to put my entire focus into each arrow … since each one took so long to shoot, and the mental stakes of a shinsa are so high. With the makiwara, I could make sure that my shooting form was as close to perfect as I could tell with my own eyes.

My very first teacher told me to do only zassha shooting for the week before the test when I first started. At that time I thought it was overkill, but I’ve kept with that tradition since then and I think it’s helped me immensely. This is the first time I’ve extended that time, and perhaps I’ve gone overboard … way overboard.

I’ve been doing this for 3 weeks now, and sure there are lots of benefits, but you know what?

I’m getting farther and farther away from hitting the target.

When missing, I don’t curse myself, and instead move on to the next shot anew. This is also good mental practice. But yesterday I thought,

“I hit the target so infrequently now … and I don’t feel like I’m getting any closer. In fact, I think I’m getting worse!”

I’ve had good intentions, but maybe I’m really sabotaging myself!

What is happening is that I’m just hoping that my hard work pays off and I will naturally hit the target when the time comes. It’s all “hoping” and “praying.” It’s putting me in a position of weakness, when what I really need is one of confidence. I need to go into the test with the confidence that I can hit both arrows in the target.

For a while now I’ve really been thinking a lot about the importance of taihai (all of the movements other than shooting like walking, standing, sitting, etc) and how they must be done to the best of your ability every time in order to help your shooting and art. I’ve thought a lot about the mental strength to not worry about hitting the target and always remaining relaxed, unaffected by the temptations around. I’ve thought about making the best of our shooting, and trying to fix our bad habits instead of just forgetting about it all and caring only about hitting the target.

But what about hitting the target?

Hitting the mark?

Achieving the goal of what you set out to do?