Furthermore, high school students make up more than half of the *Kyudo* population in Japan. Even if you combine the numbers of junior high students, university students, and working adults, they still don’t match the number of high school students. In other words, *Kyudo* in Japan is positioned primarily as a high school club activity—much like soccer, basketball, or track and field. Consequently, high school students tend to view *Kyudo* as a sport or a competitive discipline rather than a tradition.

This leads to a mindset that prioritizes hitting the target above all else. While that focus is inevitable given that the objective is to strike the target, few high school students enter the world of *Kyudo* seeking tradition or spiritual cultivation. Moreover, many who practice it during high school quit once they graduate; they do it for three years and then make a clean break. To me, that seems like a great waste. For many high school students, *Kyudo* has not yet become a “way of life.” Yet, this is not a criticism. After all, when I was that age, I was so absorbed in the immediate present that such thoughts never even crossed my mind.

It was only after I turned forty that I began to engage with traditional Japanese culture.

In my twenties, I devoted myself entirely to my work. In my thirties, there was a time when I threw myself into futsal. I also climbed 3,000-meter-class mountains with a tent on my back and rode my road bike 200 kilometers in a single day. However, as I approached the halfway point of my life, I began to reflect deeply on the kind of life I wanted to lead. That was when I took up the tea ceremony.

Many Japanese people hold a specific image of the tea ceremony: that it is a cultural pursuit for women. I used to think so, too. In school clubs, it is primarily female students who choose it. Some women begin learning it before marriage to acquire graceful manners. To be honest, whenever I saw a man practicing the tea ceremony, I used to wonder, “Is he just going there to be around women?” I feel embarrassed about that now. After all, the tea ceremony was originally a path of self-cultivation for samurai—a practice exclusive to men. It only became established as a cultural pursuit for women during the Meiji era. Despite having lived in this country all my life, I hadn’t even known that. I suspect that you, reading this from various parts of the world, may have thought more deeply about Japan than I have.

Next—and this is merely a guess—I feel that when people outside Japan first encounter *Kyudo* (Japanese archery), they usually do so through one of two main channels. One is the concept of “Do” (the Way), as seen in Judo or Kendo; the other is the perspective of “Zen,” as depicted in books like *Zen in the Art of Archery*. Consequently, by the time people abroad first hear about *Kyudo*, they may already harbor an image of it as something akin to Japanese mysticism. What about you?

Having passed the midpoint of my life, I began to seek the composure and cultural refinement befitting my age, as well as inner stability and strength. I wanted to learn the tea ceremony to acquire sophisticated etiquette and graceful physical poise. When contemplating the rest of my life, I realized that I want to die beautifully.

I took up *Kyudo* for the very same reason.

I wanted to understand this country through its traditions. Through *Kyudo*, I sought to gain insight into the place where I live and into myself as a Japanese person. I believe I arrived at this perspective precisely because I took up Kyudo after reaching middle age. From the very beginning, what I sought was beautiful form, a correct mindset, and tradition. That sentiment remains unchanged today—though, to be honest, I certainly do feel happier when the arrow hits the target.

There is a saying in Kyudo: “A correct shot will always hit the target.” The arrow strikes the target as a result of having performed the action correctly. Thus, an arrow that finds its mark seems to speak to you, saying, “Your way was right.”

Had I encountered Kyudo during my high school years rather than later in life, it likely would not have become such a cherished part of who I am. I might have aspired to hit more targets, advance further, and compete in national tournaments. I would have likely focused on studying shooting form and equipment, or strategizing how to secure more practice time. I do not mean to imply that such an approach is wrong; Kyudo possesses two facets—”sport” and “tradition”—and neither is incorrect.

People come to Kyudo for a wide variety of reasons. There is no single “correct” way to enter the practice. There are many entry points, and it does not matter which one you choose. Yet, I believe that no matter where you begin, the ultimate destination is the same: a realm defined by tradition, spirit, and self-cultivation.

If you were to take up Kyudo, what would be your reason for starting?

This month: five.

Still small. Weeknight practice draws more people, but Saturday afternoons are harder to fill — work obligations, family plans, the usual pull of a day off. Five was what we had.

This time, I took on a role I’d never done before: kaizoe — an assistant in the yazuwatashi ceremony that opens every tournament.

Before competition begins, two arrows are ceremonially shot toward the target as an offering to the god of the dojo — a prayer for safety. Three people are needed: the shooter, someone who walks to the target and removes the arrows, and someone who receives the arrows and returns them to the shooter. This last role is called dai-ichi kaizoe — first assistant.

I have practiced kyudo for roughly three and a half years. I had watched this ceremony many times, but never taken part in it. The reason is simple: these roles are traditionally filled by the highest-ranked practitioners present. I am still very much a student.

But this time, I was asked.

There’s something about being asked rather than volunteering that matters in Japanese culture. If someone had simply said “who wants to try the kaizoe role?”, almost certainly no one would have raised their hand — not out of indifference, but out of a sense that it would be presumptuous, that one’s seniors should go first. I felt that too. There were people in that room with more experience than me. I wouldn’t have raised my hand.

But I was nominated. And that meant something.

It did not go smoothly.

I had watched the ceremony dozens of times. I still couldn’t remember it when I had to do it myself. Questions I hadn’t thought to ask kept appearing in real time. This is what the body teaches you that observation never can: there is no substitute for doing. I will practice it again. And again. And slowly, it will become part of me. It has to — because this ceremony happens in front of everyone, and I will need to perform it without faltering. That steadiness is something I’ll have to build.

Then the tournament itself began.

The format, as always: two arrows, then four, then four — ten total. First group of two, second group of three. I was in the first group, shooting first.

My opening two arrows: both hit. ◯◯

Good. My mind was quiet. No noise, no extra thought — just the target, soft and unfocused in the distance. Around me, others began to miss. For a stretch, I seemed to be the only one hitting.

My next four: ◯××◯

I want to say something here, though I offer it without excuse.

While I was shooting, two people waiting behind me were talking. Not quietly — I could hear them clearly. One was a senior practitioner, a woman of higher rank than me, discussing what I can only describe as domestic matters entirely unrelated to kyudo.

I wanted to say something. But I was already mid-form, and stopping to speak wasn’t possible. I continued.

The two misses came during that stretch. I noticed a small disturbance inside me — not anger, but a kind of friction I couldn’t fully set aside. I managed to finish with a final hit, which helped settle things.

At that point: ◯◯◯××◯ — four hits from six arrows.

The person in second place had ××××◯◯ — two from six. I was two shots ahead. Last month I had won for the first time. Two months in a row felt possible. I believed it.

My final four arrows: ×◯××

One hit from four. The arrows drifted up and down — which is, honestly, my usual pattern. Vertical drift is correctable. But it’s still a miss.

Then the second group shot.

The woman who had been in second place — the one who had been talking behind me — began hitting. One after another.

I knew before she finished. I could feel it.

She hit all four of her final arrows.

Final scores:

Me: ◯◯｜◯××◯｜×◯×× — 5 hits from 10 Her: ××｜××◯◯｜◯◯◯◯ — 6 hits from 10

The victory I had already started to hold in my mind was not mine.

I don’t blame her for talking during my round. The responsibility is mine. If I had been truly present — truly inside the shot — her conversation would have been nothing more than background sound. That it reached me, that I could even make out what she was saying, tells me everything I need to know: I was not fully there. I lost to myself before anyone else had a chance to beat me.

There is a saying in kyudo:

“Hasshite atarazaru toki wa, sunawachi onore ni katsu mono wo uramizu. Kaette kore wo onore ni motomu nomi.”

When you shoot and miss, do not blame those who are more skilled, nor your equipment. Turn the cause back upon yourself.

In kyudo, there is no opponent. The only enemy is the self.

That is uncomfortable to accept. We are human. We lose and we want to find somewhere to put it. But that placing of blame produces nothing. If the arrow missed, the reason lives inside me — and only there.

To keep asking that question of yourself, to keep turning back toward your own responsibility — this, I believe, is what kyudo is. It is also what life is.

Because life, too, is a do. A way. A practice without end.

A former colleague’s father had passed away recently.

He joined the company after me and left before me. His sales ability was something to behold — the kind of person everyone naturally took to, the kind who stood out in any room. For someone like me, quietly introverted, solving things through effort rather than charm, I always envied that about him. (Though he had his own anxious streak too.)

It’s been five years since he moved on. We still talk, now and then. When we first joined the company, there was a kind of rivalry between us — something unspoken but real. Then, at some point I can’t quite remember, that shifted. Jokes crept in. We became genuinely close.

He came to me when things were hard. He called when he decided to leave.

“Hey, Masatoshi. I’m thinking of changing jobs.” “I’ll miss you, but why not? It’s your life. Do what’s right for you.” “Thanks. I’ll make it work.”

That conversation has stayed with me.

His family runs a farm. His father was a farmer — and one of my old customers. So the man who passed was both my former colleague’s father and someone I had known through my own work. A genuinely kind person, who always thought about things from the other person’s perspective.

When I heard, I knew I had to go.

We barely cross paths anymore. But this was someone who had been good to me. I brought a condolence envelope and went to his house.

When I pulled up, my former colleague was out front. He looked puzzled at first — he didn’t know I’d changed my car. Then I stepped out, and his face changed completely.

“Hey. You’ve had it rough too, haven’t you.” “Thank you for coming. Please, come in and pay your respects.”

I went inside and put my hands together in front of the photograph. He had passed during farm work. I won’t go into the details.

“Your family farms a lot of land. What are you going to do about your job?” “I haven’t figured anything out yet. But for now, I’ll keep working while keeping the farm going too.”

I know how hard that is. This isn’t a company. It’s personal responsibility, all the way down.

“We’ve both reached the age where we really have to think about life, haven’t we.” “You’ve gotten a lot older, Masatoshi.” “Shut up. So have you.”

And like that, the time passed warmly.

“It’s going to be hard. But if it gets to be too much, call me.” “I will. Thank you for coming today.”

Those were the last words. And I left a place full of memories.

I felt it at yesterday’s exhibition too — the connections made during those years of work are still shaping my life now. I think we’ll stay in each other’s lives. I don’t see how we couldn’t.

In kyudo, we say that right action returns to you as a true result. The arrow doesn’t lie.

Yesterday at the exhibition, people gave me that answer. Today, standing in front of a photograph with my hands together, I felt it again — differently, more quietly.

The years leave something behind. You don’t always know what until moments like these.

Not from lack of strength. My aim hasn’t changed. And yet, where before the arrow flew true, now it drops — just below the mark.

I didn’t know why. I knew that raising my point of aim would fix it. But that felt like a compromise — a workaround that would bend something essential in my practice. So instead, I tried pulling harder. That only made things worse. The form I had built, the balance I had found, began to collapse. My arrows scattered in every direction.

Chōwa — harmony.

In kyudo, this is not a concept. It is the thing itself. Adjustments are made in service of harmony — to move more naturally, not less. Deliberate force breaks it. I had fallen into exactly that trap.

Then my teacher spoke.

“Your aim is too low. Aim higher.”

I almost couldn’t believe it. My point of aim hadn’t changed. What did he mean?

He continued. “For a bow over fifteen kilograms, that aim is correct. What is your bow’s draw weight?”

My bow was a gift from my teacher, back in February. When we measured it then, it was fifteen kilograms.

“Fifteen kilograms, Sensei. You gave me this bow yourself.”

He looked at it. “It appears weaker than that. Measure it again.”

I did as I was told. A spring scale hooked to the string, the bow pressed to full draw. The number:

Thirteen kilograms

.

In four months. I wouldn’t have believed it possible. A bow above fifteen kilograms drives the arrow with enough force to fly straight. Below that, the arrow arcs — and the arc means the aim must rise. That was the cause. Nothing more.

And then it struck me.

This bow is made of bamboo. My previous bow was fiberglass — its draw weight never changed, season to season. But bamboo is a living material. It weakens in summer heat. I knew this, the way you know facts you have read. I had never felt it in my hands until now.

Two paths forward.

The first: use my fiberglass bow through summer, return to the bamboo bow in autumn. My aim stays fixed. But a different bow means a different tenouchi.

Tenouchi — the way the left hand holds the bow. It sounds simple. It is not. The body and bow make contact at one point only, and that point is the left hand. Every archer, no matter how many years they have practiced, spends a lifetime trying to understand tenouchi. Just the left hand holding the bow. That’s all. And yet.

The second path: keep the bamboo bow through summer. Adjust my aim to meet it where it is.

This is the one that feels right.

I am alive. Which means some days are strong, and some are not. The bamboo is alive too. There are times it holds its strength, and times it softens. So I will be the one to compensate. I wrote in an earlier post that I had decided to share my life with this bow. We are one, the two of us. Chōwa — harmony — should include not just my own body, but this bow as well.

I will keep shooting this bow through summer

.

There are archers who carry several bows and choose between them. That is its own wisdom. But this is my choice.

There was a Japanese word I had long misunderstood. Or rather, at first, I didn’t even know it existed.

The word is issha zetsumei — 一射絶命.

It is known within the world of kyudo, but most ordinary Japanese people have never heard it. I hadn’t, until I began practicing kyudo myself. And even after I learned it, I spent a long time misreading its meaning entirely.

The four characters divide into two parts: issha and zetsumei.

Issha is simple enough — to release one arrow. It was zetsumei that confused me. I had always assumed it meant causing the death of the other. Like ichigeki-hissatsu, the old phrase meaning “one strike, certain kill.” I imagined it as some martial ultimate — the arrow that does not miss.

But I was wrong.

The one who dies is not the enemy. It is yourself.

I was born in Japan. I grew up here, lived here for decades. And yet I had misread the meaning of a word from my own language. For some reason, that fact lodged itself in my chest like a splinter.

To stake everything you are on this single arrow.

No next time. No do-overs. The arrow at the edge of existence.

In the age of the samurai, missing a shot meant the enemy closed the distance and cut you down. So embedded in this phrase is not the fear of missing — but the resolve to pour your entire being into this one release.

I’ll be honest. Before I understood this, I was a person who counted arrows.

I wanted to shoot more. I wanted to improve through volume. I’d release, react to where it landed, walk to retrieve it, and do it again. This is a natural impulse. Most people feel it. Hit the target and you’re elated; miss it and you want to try again immediately. It is human instinct.

But after encountering issha zetsumei, something in my practice changed.

Now consider how much I check before releasing a single arrow. The moment I perform yū — the bow of respect in kyudo — every extreme begins.

• Am I walking without revealing the soles of my feet?

• Is my gaze steady, neither drifting up nor down?

• Are my feet rooted firmly against the earth?

• Is tanden — the point below the navel — filled with ki, with living force?

• Are my bones properly aligned and fitted together?

• Has the desire to hit the target already dissolved?

• Is my breath still moving, uninterrupted?

• Am I pressing force outward from the center of my body?

• After the arrow leaves, can I hold my form — undisturbed by whatever the result may be?

When I pursue all of this to its limit — truly to its limit — I am exhausted after a single shot. Not just tired. Spent. A deep fatigue that arrives alongside a sense of fullness. This is no longer practice. This is discipline — shugyō.

I have heard that the Hanshi — those who have reached the highest rank in kyudo — loose one hundred arrows a day. If that is true, it is almost beyond my comprehension. I once participated in a hyaku-sha kai, a gathering where each archer shoots one hundred arrows. The physical load alone was formidable. To do that daily — and then simply go on with life — I can barely imagine it.

And yet: to do it as issha zetsumei, one hundred times over — that feels impossibly distant from where I stand now.

Still, I will keep reaching for it

.

Whether the arrow finds the target or not, if I have given everything to that single release, it leaves something behind — a question I am made to sit with. What is the correct form? I do not yet know. I suspect I never will, not completely.

One careless hundred arrows — or one arrow, one life.

Lately, I have begun to suspect that this is not only a lesson about kyudo.

When a guest comes to one’s home, the host prepares in countless ways to offer the finest hospitality. Japan has four seasons, and there are ways to let a guest feel each one — small devices to make summer feel cool, winter feel warm. Some gestures are for old friends who know each other well; others are for someone of higher standing. The variations are endless. I still don’t know all of them. But through these combinations, the host expresses the deepest possible consideration for the guest. I continue my practice so that I might one day offer that same hospitality myself — and so that, when I am the one being received, I can sense the host’s care and intention. Chado runs deep. No matter how many years I practice, I still feel as though I’m standing at the entrance.

On the wall of the tea room where I practice hangs a kakejiku — a hanging scroll — usually inscribed with words tied to the season or carrying some particular meaning. It is hung by the host for the sake of the guest. One such phrase caught my attention

.

The scroll read senri dōfū (千里同風). Senri was an old Japanese unit of distance — roughly 3,930 meters per ri, so senri meant something like 4,000 kilometers: very far indeed. Dōfū means “the same wind.”

So senri dōfū can be translated as “the same wind blows even 4,000 kilometers away.” But the meaning hidden within it goes further: no matter how great the distance between us, the same wind reaches us both. Host and guest, however far apart, remain connected in heart. If you knew the meaning of these words, and then slid open the tea room’s low door and stepped inside — what would you feel, seeing them there? The quiet pull of the door, the smell of tatami, and then, just ahead, a single line of characters catching your eye. If you had traveled from a distant homeland and entered this room — I think, in that moment, two hearts would become one.

The phrase carries one more meaning. “Even across a thousand ri, the same wind blows” — meaning, too, that the realm is at peace, calm and undisturbed. A symbol of peace itself.

In a world where conflict never seems to end, I hope these words — senri dōfū — might somehow reach people everywhere. And if someone, after reading this, feels like sharing that same wind with another person, that alone would be enough.

That said, if you were to visit a tea room as a guest without knowing the meaning of this scroll, you would likely feel nothing more than “a simple room, a taste of Japanese culture.” This is true even for Japanese people. Many have heard the phrase senri dōfū, but very few know what it actually means. Even in Japan, chado is not something most people are familiar with. But if you did understand the meaning of that scroll — you would feel peace, and the same wind shared between two people, and the tea room would become something entirely different. Special. And in that moment, your heart and the host’s heart would become one.

I’ve come to realize that conveying what we feel doesn’t require many words. There’s a philosophical question — why do people study at all? — and one answer, I think, lies in moments like this: study lets us notice things we wouldn’t otherwise, and in doing so, it enriches our lives. I was reminded, once again, of why study matters.

There are still more of these wordless words hanging in the tea room. I wonder which one I’ll open next.

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Once a month, our dojo holds what we call a gekkei-kai — a monthly gathering, an internal tournament. No trophies. No audience. Just the members of a small regional kyudo federation in rural Japan, shooting together.

We are not remarkable. No celebrated champions among us. Most of us come after work, or on weekends when our families allow it. We are office workers, farmers, retirees — people who have chosen, for reasons we don’t always fully understand, to spend part of our lives drawing a bow.

This month, even fewer came than usual. Illness. Unexpected work obligations. In the end, only four of us stood on the line.

I have never won this tournament. Not once.

That’s not false modesty — it’s simply true. I know why. Not enough practice. Always arriving close, but not quite there. And this year had been harder than most.

In the spring, I changed jobs. The hours shifted. The rhythm I’d built over years quietly broke apart. I found myself standing at the shooting line feeling like a stranger in my own body — as if the bow and I had forgotten each other.

But somewhere in those uncertain months, something changed in how I practiced. I stopped chasing results. Instead, I started paying attention to smaller things: the alignment of my spine while I walked to the train. The position of my shoulders while I waited for a light to change. Whether my center was holding, or quietly drifting.

Nobiai — the feeling of continuing to expand after the bow is fully drawn, pushing outward from the inside — became my obsession. Not hitting the target. Just that.

Today’s format: zasha itte (two arrows, formal seated ceremony) followed by two rounds of rissha yotsuya (four arrows, standing). Ten arrows total. Whoever hits the most wins.

I shot second.

When the archer before me released his arrow, I raised my bow. I was not thinking about the target. I was thinking only about nobiai — whether I could sustain that outward pressure through the release, without collapsing inward at the critical moment.

The target was a blur. Deliberately so. In my experience, staring at it makes things worse.

My first arrow missed.

But the sensation was clean. My head was quiet. As I nocked my second arrow, a breeze moved through the dojo — our range sits inside a gymnasium, but the gymnasium sits in the mountains, and the mountains don’t care about walls. The hem of my hakama shifted. Somewhere outside, a bird called out. Pii-hyoro-ro-ro.

When the mind is this still, I’ve learned to trust it. Noise comes when I am losing myself. Silence means I am still here.

The third and fourth archers shot. Then it was my turn again.

I drew slowly. The target remained soft, unfocused. The pressure in my arms built — more, push further, both directions at once — and then the arrow left.

Pan.

That sound. There is no other sound like it — the clean strike of an arrow finding its mark. It enters the body before the mind can process it. It tells you, simply and without argument: yes.

After the ceremony, I stepped outside through the rear door, pausing to bow toward the hi-no-maru — the rising sun flag that hangs at the back of every kyudo range — before returning for the standing rounds.

My next four arrows: one hit, three misses.

So it goes, I thought. Same as always.

But I noticed something. The misses weren’t wild. They were drifting up or down — not sideways. In kyudo, how you miss matters. Lateral drift suggests a fundamental problem. Vertical drift is correctable. I filed this away without distress.

Then the final four arrows.

One. Two. Three. All hit.

With one arrow remaining, I was one shot away from kaichuu — a perfect round. And more than that: if this arrow hit, and my score held, I would win the tournament for the first time.

I said to myself: The last three arrows went in. Just shoot the same way.

The arrow went to six o’clock. Just outside.

In kyudo, we have a word for this: sukebe.

It is, in ordinary Japanese, a word for a certain kind of desire — the word you might use for someone who can’t stop reaching for what they want. In the dojo, we use it for the archer who hits three and misses the fourth. The wanting got in. The purity broke.

I had wanted it. And wanting, in that final moment, had been enough to undo me

.

The scores were tallied. I was tied with one other archer.

A shoot-off: one arrow each, alternating until someone misses.

I shot first. My arrow struck the frame of the target — the sound different from a clean hit, different from a miss, somewhere unresolved in between. Kaan. I couldn’t tell if it had crossed the line.

The other archer shot. His arrow missed cleanly.

If mine had counted, I had won. But when the judges checked, my arrow had grazed the outer edge. A miss.

We shot again.

This time, standing at the line, I noticed something had changed inside me. The desire was gone. Not suppressed — simply absent. What remained was physical: feet pressing into the earth. Spine rising. The bow’s resistance spreading through my skeleton, joint by joint, bone by bone. My hands were not holding the bow. My bones were.

I drew past the limit of what felt possible.

The arrow flew.

Kaan — but this time, clearly inside. The flag moved.

The other archer shot. He missed

.

It was only the monthly club tournament. Four people, a gymnasium in the mountains, an ordinary Tuesday.

But I had never won before.

I stepped outside into the afternoon light, still wearing my dogi, and stood there for a moment doing nothing in particular. The mountains were doing what mountains do. The bird was still somewhere, calling.

Hō-hoke-kyō.

A bush warbler, somewhere in the trees.

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I thought: that second shot in the shoot-off — the one that went in — I wasn’t trying to hit the target. I had stopped trying entirely. Something else had taken over. I don’t have a better name for it than the body knowing.

Maybe that’s what all this practice is for. Not to build skill. To get out of the way.

I hadn’t used many different bows, but I was genuinely fond of those fiberglass ones — they felt easy to draw, natural in my hands. Still, I wanted a bow of my own. The ones at the dojo belonged to everyone, and therefore to no one.

Since fiberglass had always felt right to me, I assumed I’d buy something similar. But I knew that most experienced archers gravitate toward carbon. Carbon offers better arrow flight, and as people grow more comfortable with their form, they tend to follow the crowd toward it. Everyone else is doing it, so I should too. It’s a very Japanese way of thinking — we find comfort in sameness, in belonging to the majority. Even so, I didn’t know whether what everyone else chose would suit me. And within any single material, there are countless variations.

So I went to my teacher.

“I’d like to buy my own bow,” I said. “Which would you recommend?”

I had already rehearsed the answer I expected: Stick with what you know. Build your experience with the bows you’ve been using. Looking back, the fact that I had anticipated that answer tells me I already knew what I wanted — fiberglass, familiar, safe.

What my teacher actually said was something else entirely.

“I’ll bring two of my bows. Try them both, and take the one that suits you.”

I hadn’t expected that. I thought I’d receive advice. Instead, I was being offered his bows.

What kind of bows would they be? What if neither one felt right? I walked into the next practice day carrying a strange mixture of anticipation and unease.

Then my teacher arrived — with two bamboo bows.

I hadn’t seen that coming. There’s nothing forbidden about bamboo, but the general understanding is that you don’t reach for it until fourth or fifth dan. I was first dan. I was years too early. Most practitioners in Japan would have thought the same thing.

But you don’t refuse a gift from your teacher. So I drew them both.

The first was Ittōsai. The second, Ogura Shihō Tokusaku. Both are masterworks — traditional crafts bearing the names of renowned bowmakers.

I drew the Ittōsai first. It moved through the draw with an ease I hadn’t expected — smoother, even, than the fiberglass bow I’d always loved. It felt like a bow I had used for years. The difference wasn’t at the beginning of the draw but at full extension: a softness, a give, unlike anything I’d felt before. Is this what bamboo does?

Then the Ogura. This one had force — a strong, centered core. The tsuru-ne, the sound the string makes as it snaps against the bow after release, was extraordinarily clean. But there was something else, too: a faint vibration lingering in my grip after each shot. The same material, and yet so completely different. Is this what I felt? Yes. That was exactly what I felt.

I am not yet skilled. My grip will need a lifetime of refinement. And the Ogura seemed to know it — as if the bow itself were saying, not yet.

I chose the Ittōsai.

Not fiberglass. Not carbon. Bamboo — a bow I had no business holding yet, by conventional measure.

But this bow is honest. It reflects my form back to me without flattery, like a partner invested in my growth. And bamboo, being a natural material, demands care: attention to temperature, to humidity, to how the string is set. Bamboo is alive. And so am I.

From that day, the Ittōsai became my companion.

I intend to live in a way worthy of this bow — and of the teacher who entrusted it to me.

Who Is Really Keeping This Culture Alive?

A quiet unease from the kyudo range

She doesn’t stand out in any obvious way.

She laughs with the others during breaks. She struggles with the Japanese the way any beginner would. She makes mistakes, corrects them, and tries again. In most respects, she is just another member of our kyudo club.

But watch her when she draws the bow.

There is a stillness in her form that takes years to find. No unnecessary tension in the shoulders. No forced angles. Just a natural, unhurried alignment that many practitioners spend decades chasing. Her release is clean. Her follow-through is honest.

She is American. She is preparing for her 2nd-dan examination this autumn. On weekends, she studies koto.

When I asked her once about her plans, she said she wants to stay in Japan as long as possible.

I nodded. And somewhere beneath that nod, something quietly shifted.

This spring, nobody signed up for our local kyudo class.

Not one person.

I heard this and did not react immediately. I filed it somewhere in the back of my mind and continued with practice. But it stayed there. It keeps staying there.

Zero is not a small number dressed up as a number. Zero is an absence. A door that nobody walked through. A question that nobody thought to ask.

I have been practicing kyudo long enough to know what it asks of you. It asks for time in an era that treats time as a currency to be spent efficiently. It asks for stillness in an era that rewards constant motion. It asks you to fail, repeatedly, without the consolation of visible progress for months at a time.

I understand why people hesitate.

But I keep coming back to that number. Zero.

I am Japanese.

I grew up with this culture around me. Not as something exotic or precious — just as the texture of ordinary life. Kyudo existed. Chado existed. These things were simply there, the way old buildings are there, the way certain foods appear at certain times of year. Present. Unremarkable. Easy to walk past.

And I did walk past them, for a while.

If I am honest, there were years when traditional practice felt like something for older people, something from a Japan that was slowly becoming a museum exhibit. I came back to it eventually — something pulled me back — but I did not come back with the urgency of someone who had chosen it from the outside.

She chose it from the outside.

She arrived in Japan from a country with no tradition of the bow in this sense. No centuries of accumulated practice. No concept of shin-zen-bi — truth, goodness, beauty — embedded in the physical act of drawing and releasing. She found it here and decided, for reasons she may not be able to fully articulate, that it mattered.

And now her form is cleaner than most.

I want to be precise about what I felt when I understood this.

It was not simple admiration, though admiration was part of it.

It was not resentment or defensiveness. Nothing like that.

It was closer to embarrassment. A specific kind of embarrassment that comes not from being caught doing something wrong, but from being shown — quietly, without accusation — what you had been taking for granted.

Nihon-jin, nani yattenda.

Japanese people, what are we doing?

I say this without anger. I say it as a genuine question directed partly at myself. Because I am Japanese and I nearly missed this too. I grew up inside something valuable and treated it, for too long, as wallpaper.

She crossed a cultural and linguistic distance to get here. She practices in a language she barely speaks. She laughs easily, focuses completely, and her form is, without exaggeration, beautiful.

Meanwhile, the sign-up sheet stayed empty.

There is something uncomfortable about admiring someone for loving what is yours.

I have been trying to understand this discomfort.

Part of it is simple gratitude — she is keeping something alive that deserves to be kept alive, and I am glad she is here. Part of it is something harder to name. A feeling that the people who should be the natural inheritors of this practice are drifting away from it, and that the practice is being held instead by people who came to it by choice, by effort, by a kind of love that has nothing accidental about it.

Is that a loss? Is it a continuation? Is it both?

I do not know.

What I know is that watching her practice makes me feel something I did not expect to feel: a renewed seriousness about my own presence in the dojo. Not guilt, exactly. Something more useful than guilt. A reminder that being Japanese does not automatically mean I understand or honor what that means. That proximity is not the same as appreciation. That you can be born inside a tradition and still be a stranger to it.

She is not a stranger to it.

The dojo will be quieter this year without new students.

That is simply true.

I do not know what it means for the future of kyudo in this country. I am not a historian or a cultural critic. I am someone who shows up, draws the bow, and tries to pay attention.

But I think about mottainai — that Japanese concept that carries the grief of things wasted, things not properly appreciated before they are gone. I find myself feeling mottainai about something that has not disappeared yet.

That might be the strangest part of all this.

The practice is still here. The dojo is still standing. My American teammate will take her examination in autumn, and I believe she will pass. There is still time. There are still people — Japanese and otherwise — who are carrying this forward.

But zero applications this spring.

And I am still sitting with that.

I do not have a conclusion.

I am not going to tell you that traditional culture is dying, because I do not know if that is true. I am not going to tell you everything is fine, because that zero will not leave me alone.

What I can say is this.

There is a woman in my dojo who barely speaks Japanese, whose form is quietly beautiful, who laughs during breaks and focuses completely when it matters. She is here because she chose to be here. That choice cost her something — distance, effort, years of work in a practice that gives nothing back quickly.

Watching her, I feel respect. I feel something like shame. And underneath both of those, something that might be the most important feeling of all:

The reminder that nothing valuable stays simply because it has always been there.

You have to choose it.

Again and again.

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There’s a guy on my team who bleeds Kyudo.

Younger than me, but he’s been doing this since college. Six days a week at the dojo — every day it’s open. While I show up twice a week, sandwiching practice between family and work, he’s already there when I arrive and still shooting when I leave.

I respect the hell out of him.

Then one day, he snapped.

“Would you please shut up!”

The room stopped. Not just the noise — everything.

Two other teammates had been training loud. Laughing, joking, but also genuinely helping each other — calling out form corrections, talking through technique. It was noisy. Honestly, yes. But watching them, I couldn’t call it wrong.

Here’s the thing: we all want the same thing. To get better. To hit the mark. But the path looks different for everyone. He needed silence to find his center. They needed energy. Same destination. Different roads.

What I noticed, though, was this: his arrows weren’t landing that day. Not one clean shot. And this is a guy who outworks everyone in that room. All that discipline, all those hours — and the results just weren’t showing up.

I know that feeling. I’m not gifted at this. Some days, no matter what you do, the bow doesn’t lie.

The two teammates apologized. The air cleared. Everyone moved on.

But I didn’t, not entirely.

Since I started Kyudo, I’ve developed a habit I didn’t expect: I talk to myself. Not out loud — inward. A quiet, ongoing conversation with whoever I am that day.

On the good days, I feel it immediately. That clean release. The arrow going exactly where it should. A stillness that spreads from the fingertips inward.

On the bad days, I check in: Hey. What’s going on with you today?

Not in frustration. More like curiosity. Because the version of me that’s off-target is still me. The version that’s struggling is still worth showing up for. I’m not trying to defeat my bad days. I’m trying to work with them — to show up tomorrow just slightly more aligned than I was today.

That’s what Kyudo has become for me. Not a sport. Not a performance. A conversation.

People come to Kyudo for different reasons.

Some are drawn to the discipline. Some to the aesthetics — the stillness, the ritual, the weight of a 400-year-old tradition. Some just want to see if they can hit a target from 28 meters away.

The reasons are endlessly different.

But underneath all of them, I think there’s one shared pull: the desire to draw the bow. Something about that act — the breath, the draw, the release, the wait — speaks to something that doesn’t need translation.

It doesn’t matter where you’re from. What language you think in. What you believe.

The bow doesn’t care. And somehow, that’s exactly the point.

Kyudo (弓道) is the Japanese martial art of archery. Practitioners shoot a asymmetrical longbow called a yumi at targets 28 meters away. Unlike Western archery, the emphasis is less on accuracy and more on the quality of the shooting form — and the state of mind behind it.

Changing jobs.

For me, this was a very big decision.

Looking around the world, many people build their careers by changing jobs regularly.

Even in Japan, in recent years, changing jobs has gradually become more common.

However, things were different when I became a working adult 20 years ago.

Lifetime employment was the norm, and I was part of that system.

At that time, it was the period of economic stagnation after the collapse of the bubble economy.

Companies drastically reduced new hiring, and finding a job was extremely difficult.

No matter how many resumes I sent, they would not pass.

In such a situation, I was able to join this company as a full-time employee.

The working environment was not good.

During busy seasons, there were more than one and a half months without a single day off.

I worked from morning until past midnight, day after day.

Still, I did not quit.

I believed that if I left, there would be no next opportunity.

I even remember laughing and saying,

“I didn’t have a day off for one and a half months,”

and feeling strangely proud of it.

Looking back now,

perhaps I was simply enduring.

Even so, there were people there—

colleagues who remain important to me even now.

And now, after 23 years,

I have decided to leave this company.

Even though I went through so much to stay.

And now, the environment had improved.

Working conditions were much better.

My performance had been steadily rising in recent years.

Even so, I am leaving.

Doing the same work every day,

before I knew it, the year would end,

and I would think, “Another year has passed.”

“Is it really okay to continue like this without ever taking on a challenge?”

This question never left my mind.

There was only one thing that kept me there.

A senior who had taken care of me since I was a new employee.

As long as that person was there, I had decided I would not leave

.

But that senior left the company last November.

He has dedicated himself to this company ever since joining as a new graduate, and

has finally reached retirement age.

It felt as if the chain that had been holding my heart in place was suddenly removed.

A part of me wanted to challenge myself.

Another part of me stayed out of loyalty.

After wavering between the two options, I decided to leave.

It was truly an adventure.

I was ending, by my own will, a life that had continued for 23 years.

However, when I received the acceptance notice from my new workplace,

my heart was shaken deeply.

Was I really going to let go of everything I had built?

Was I going to leave behind the people I had shared so much with?

Just when things were about to become interesting?

My mind was moving forward,

but my heart was being pulled backward.

I could not stop the tears.

It did not feel like leaving a job.

It felt like letting go of a part of my life.

At such a time, I drew my bow.

But nothing changed.

My mind did not become calm—

it became empty.

It was not a peaceful emptiness,

but something closer to being lost.

Even so, I decided to leave.

No—at least, I thought I had decided.

Even after accepting the new position

and informing my company of my resignation,

my heart did not clear.

Instead, I felt as if I were being crushed by sadness and regret.

Then, I was invited to a farewell party at my former department.

It was supposed to be a gathering to send off another colleague who was leaving.

But in reality, it was also a place to announce my departure.

That day, I joined as if I knew nothing.

I laughed, talked, and spent time as usual.

And then, at the end, my name was called.

I could not speak.

Only tears came out.

“I will also be leaving at the end of this month.”

That was all I could manage to say.

The room erupted.

Surprise. Confusion. Tears.

I realized then

how many people had truly been watching me.

That night, I cried many times.

My seniors sang songs to send me off.

We laughed, and we cried at the same time.

“How fortunate I have been,

to be surrounded by such people.”

That was what I felt.

And then I understood.

I was not simply leaving a job.

I was bringing one chapter of my life to an end.

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I am currently First Dan, but I have been eager to move on to the next level as soon as possible.

As I have written before, my hit rate has dropped significantly since the beginning of this year, even though my practice frequency has not changed.

Perhaps this has something to do with the major change happening in my life.

After 23 years, I decided to leave the company where I have worked for most of my adult life.

Next month, I will begin a new chapter in a completely different environment.

In Japan, compared to many other countries, a relatively high number of people stay in the same company until retirement.

My generation entered the workforce during what is often called the “employment ice age,” when companies were hiring very few people.

Finding a job was difficult, and once you secured one, you tended to stay, even if the working conditions were not always ideal.

Fortunately, my seniors at the company were kind, and we shared not only work but also many moments in our private lives.

We played golf together, rode road bikes, and even spent long nights playing mahjong.

In many ways, they felt like family.

In Japanese, there is a phrase: “to eat from the same pot.”

It refers to people who have shared both hardship and joy together.

Because of this, even after deciding to change jobs, I kept asking myself whether I had made the right choice.

To be honest, I still struggle with that question sometimes.

But let me return to the examination.

As my environment changes, I also wanted to progress quickly in kyudo.

Yet my condition has not been improving.

On the day before the exam, my bowstring suddenly broke during practice.

I had to spend time preparing a new string, which meant I could not practice as much as I wished.

A new string takes time to become familiar.

I told myself that life rarely goes exactly as planned.

Then came the day of the examination.

My mind was filled with only one thought:

“I must hit the target.”

However, in kyudo examinations, hitting the target itself is not the main point.

What is evaluated is the entire sequence of movements—from entering the dojo to leaving it.

Your posture and state of mind are revealed through those movements.

I knew this.

Yet in that moment, I was obsessed with the result.

My first arrow missed slightly below the target.

The second arrow also missed in the same way.

I felt deeply discouraged.

After the examination, I watched a video that my teammates had recorded.

My movements before releasing the arrow were not bad.

But what shocked me was my posture afterward.

All tension had disappeared from my body.

My mind had been captured by the result.

In kyudo, a shot does not end at the moment of release.

The posture and spirit that follow are also part of the shot.

At that moment, I remembered something from long ago.

When I had just begun practicing kyudo, my teacher told me:

“Kyudo is not about trying to hit the target.

When correct movement, correct spirit, and correct conduct come together,

the arrow will hit as a natural result.”

This idea is known as Seisha Hitchū —

“Correct shooting leads naturally to a hit.”

In the past, I understood this well.

When my arrows missed, I would reflect on my own actions instead of chasing results.

But what about now?

I had been completely fixated on hitting the target.

Somewhere along the years of practice,

the feeling I had as a beginner seemed to have drifted far away.

I still do not know the result of the examination.

However, whatever the outcome may be,

I want to remember that it is right conduct that gives birth to results.

As the name suggests, the goal was to shoot fifty arrows and compete based on how many hit the target.

Shooting fifty arrows is quite demanding.

Students at well-known kyudo universities may shoot even more.

I sometimes see such dedication on social media.

Still, for ordinary practitioners like myself, fifty arrows is a considerable number.

In many competitions I have attended before, results were decided after only around ten shots.

With that in mind, I joined this event.

We began with seated shooting, two arrows.

I managed to hit one.

However, even at that moment, I felt that something was not quite right.

After those two arrows, we moved on to standing shooting.

Four arrows at a time, repeated twelve times.

From there, my difficult struggle began.

I simply could not hit the target.

It felt completely different from my usual shooting.

One reason was that I had changed bows during my previous practice.

I normally use a 14kg bow, but one of my teachers suggested that it might be too light for me and recommended trying a 15kg bow.

Not only the strength but also the thickness of the grip was different.

In kyudo, the points where the body connects with the equipment are limited: the bow grip, the arrow, and the string.

In this case, both the bow and the string had changed.

The grip leather was also worn and slippery.

To prevent slipping, I found myself gripping the bow more tightly.

But gripping too tightly made it harder to release the arrow naturally.

This uncomfortable feeling never disappeared until the end.

To be honest, at one point I wanted to go home.

This was not what I had expected.

Even if hitting every shot is difficult, I had not imagined struggling this much.

Still, there must be something I could do.

So I began checking each movement I believed to be correct.

How I held the bow.

How I raised it.

How I focused on my body center.

How I emptied my mind.

How I breathed.

One arrow at a time, I continued.

In the end, I hit sixteen out of fifty arrows.

A success rate of thirty-two percent.

It was not the result I had hoped for,

but perhaps I managed to endure.

Life is not always smooth.

What matters may be how we continue without giving up when things are not going well.

That day, I felt I learned something more important than simply hitting the target.

She works as an English teacher and has been living in Japan for several years.

She began practicing kyudo about two years ago and attends training seriously and consistently.

Her Japanese is limited, but not nonexistent.

Using a mixture of simple Japanese and English, she communicates with us.

Although there is a language barrier, we naturally accept her as one of our training companions.

This was her first grading examination.

In kyudo examinations, evaluation is based on the entire sequence of movements—from entering the dojo to leaving it.

At this level, whether the arrow hits the target is not the main focus.

What matters is whether the movements are performed correctly.

So I told her, “The exam is easy.”

However, while her shooting technique was good, she was not yet familiar with the formal etiquette of entering and leaving.

When I explained this, she jokingly said,

“You are a liar.”

One of the biggest challenges was explaining kyudo terminology.

Still, our teacher and teammates communicated using fragments of English and many gestures.

Thanks to everyone’s effort, she quickly learned the necessary movements.

Before the examination, there is a preparation seminar where candidates confirm the required procedures.

The main concern was finding the venue.

I explained the location using Google Maps, but I was still worried whether she would arrive without difficulty.

Fortunately, one of the instructors spoke English.

Even so, I decided to guide her through the venue beforehand.

On the day of the seminar, I showed her the parking area, reception desk, waiting room, examination hall, and introduced her to the English-speaking instructor.

Once she understood the environment, I knew she would be fine on examination day, since the test would follow the same process.

The day before the exam, I sent her a message:

“If your arrow misses the target, I’ll send it to boot camp.”

It was a joke I came up with.

I’m not sure if it was truly American humor, but she laughed, so I believe it worked.

I simply hoped it would ease her tension.

On the day of the examination, she successfully passed.

Later, I heard that one of her two arrows struck the very center of the target.

Her effort paid off, and I felt genuinely happy for her.

She will now challenge First Dan, while I plan to attempt Second Dan on the same examination day.

We will continue training together as teammates.

Through this experience, I realized something.

In kyudo, we learn correct form.

But perhaps what truly matters is with whom we share that form.

Even when language is imperfect,

even when cultures differ,

people become companions simply by standing in the same place and practicing together.

Inside the dojo, nationality matters very little.

What exists there is only the shared wish to improve.

Perhaps tradition is not something already completed,

but something that continues quietly through people practicing together.

Because of that, I have been writing mostly about kyudo recently.

Both kyudo and tea ceremony are Japanese traditions that have continued since the time when samurai actually lived.

Kyudo may have changed slightly over time, but its spirit has remained.

In tea ceremony, Hatsugama marks the beginning of the new year’s practice.

It is the most important event of the year.

Originally, it is an event that lasts for several hours.

Many people think that tea ceremony is simply about eating sweets and drinking matcha.

To be honest, I believe most Japanese people think that way.

I used to think so too.

But after I began practicing tea ceremony, I slowly realized that what we usually see is only a very small part of it.

About two years ago, I visited Kyoto with my teacher to meet her own teacher.

In the tea world, this person is called a gyōtei—someone like my teacher’s teacher.

For me, that person is far above my level, almost someone who exists in the clouds.

I would like to write about that Hatsugama on another occasion.

But for now, I would like you to understand that Hatsugama is truly a very important and serious event.

This time, we practiced hosting our own Hatsugama.

The guests were my relatives.

Four guests were seated in a small six-tatami room.

This time, after serving matcha, we also served tenshin, a light kaiseki-style meal.

Even so, this was still only a small part of the entire Hatsugama.

I sometimes wonder how many Japanese people actually know this.

Perhaps fewer than one in a hundred.

Especially men.

Tea ceremony originally belonged to the world of the samurai.

In that sense, it was once a men’s culture.

Today, however, I would say that nearly eighty percent of practitioners are women.

Times really do change.

In tea ceremony, our attention is directed toward the guest.

In kyudo, my attention turns inward, toward myself.

For me, tea ceremony is about focusing completely on hospitality.

Hospitality here does not mean kind words.

It means giving the guest the greatest possible care and consideration.

More advanced practitioners may feel something different,

but this is how I understand it.

For the guest, we prepare many small arrangements.

These are not tricks.

They are quiet ways to help the guest feel the season.

Because this is Hatsugama, a special and celebratory occasion,

we prepare slightly more special utensils than usual.

For example, there is a wooden frame called ro-buchi.

We replace only this frame from our usual one.

The tea room has tatami flooring, so of course shoes are not allowed.

We are also told to wear only white socks.

Even so, we still carefully vacuum the room.

After all, everything is for the guest.

There is also a tea container called a natsume.

On it, you can see snow crystals and a winter landscape.

I am not an artistic person.

But I can clearly feel how much work is hidden inside this small object.

From the craftsman who shapes the wood,

to the lacquer artisans who apply many layers of lacquer,

and the artists who paint the maki-e design on the surface—

many people work together to create this single piece.

When I think about that background,

the natsume feels even more beautiful than when I look at its surface alone.

Instead of flowers, we displayed pine branches,

which remind us of the Japanese New Year.

I am still in training, so all of these items belong to my teacher.

I placed them while listening carefully to her explanations.

The sweets served before drinking matcha are also designed to express the season.

(The blue and red faces are actually for Setsubun in February,

so they are slightly ahead of the season.)

There was also a hanging scroll.

Do you know what it says?

It reads:

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I strongly felt how difficult it is to hit even a single arrow.

During the following week, I kept thinking about the reason.

In the car, or in quiet moments.

Was it a technical problem?

Or was it something mental?

When I looked back, I realized I was not nervous.

The cold air kept my mind clear.

I was not in panic.

I could feel my breathing.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

When I can feel my breathing, I feel that I can stay with myself.

But perhaps I had desire.

“Last year, I hit half of my arrows. This year, I should hit more.”

Wanting to improve is not bad.

But when this desire becomes too strong inside me, everything starts to fall apart.

I also noticed a technical issue.

In the movement called Daisan, my right hand was too close to my head.

It should be about one fist away.

But at that time, my attention was not there.

This was because I was trying to change the way I hold the bow.

I cannot focus on many things at once.

Some people can, but I need to work on one thing at a time.

In Japan, there is a proverb: “If you hurry, you go the long way.”

It means that rushing often leads to failure.

This feels very true for me now.

First, I will let the new way of holding the bow become natural in my body.

Then I will move to the next challenge.

This, perhaps, is the way of the bow.

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Hatsusha-kai is a traditional gathering held at the beginning of the year to pray for safety, improvement, and steady practice.

At the beginning, a ritual called Yawatashi is performed.

Yawatashi is when two arrows are shot as an opening ceremony, usually by senior practitioners.

This may sound religious, but I feel that Yawatashi is like offering arrows to the gods of the bow, while praying for safety.

In Japan, there is a belief called Shinto.

It teaches that gods exist in all things.

So perhaps there are gods watching us in the dojo, and we shoot while quietly offering our arrows to them. That is how it feels to me.

After Yawatashi, the actual competition begins.

The match consists of six shots in total.

Two shots while seated, and four shots while standing. The winner is decided by the number of hits.

This is not practice. It is a match.

Last year, I hit about 50 out of 100 shots. So I believed I could hit once every two shots.

During the New Year break, I reflected on my shooting and thought about what I wanted to improve: how I hold the bow, how I release the arrow. Many ideas stayed in my head.

On the day of the competition, I tried to change a small part of my shooting.

That was not a good decision.

Something felt off.

That small discomfort never disappeared, and I missed all six shots.

After that, there were small side events: a tiny golden target, a folding fan, and breaking a wooden board. I missed all of them too. Last year, I could hit the golden target.

In total, I shot twelve arrows that day and did not hit a single target.

Trying to change my technique on the day was a mistake.

But more than that, I think my mind was too busy. I focused too much on improvement, lost my calmness, and my balance collapsed.

No need to stretch beyond myself. Just shoot as usual.

I believe this is what happens when I forget the quietness of the mind and the harmony of the body.

The year has only just begun.

I want to improve not by breaking myself, but by slowly blending small changes into my usual practice.

Throwing a large stone into water makes big waves.

Instead, placing a small stone gently into the water allows the surface to adjust naturally. That feels closer to what I want.

So that tomorrow will be slightly better than today,

I will continue to practice, step by step.

If you’d like to read these notes from time to time,

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It started with a simple comment from my tea ceremony teacher.

“You practice every week.

Why don’t you make tea for your parents?”

I think she meant, “Show them how you have grown.”

I understood her feeling.

But I had never made tea for my parents or family before.

Not because our relationship is bad.

There was a simple reason.

Tea ceremony uses many tools.

There is a container for tea, a bamboo scoop, a bowl, and many more.

The tools change with the season and with the style of tea.

In my practice, I always use my teacher’s tools.

It has been like that for five years.

Someday, I may prepare my own tools.

But for now, I just focus on making one bowl of tea.

Still, I decided to make tea for my family on January 1st.

At first, I thought it would be easy.

Practice is usually about one hour, so I thought this would be the same.

But the hard part started before the day.

I borrowed tools from my teacher.

I wrapped each bowl carefully in newspaper so they would not break.

We had six family members, so I prepared six bowls.

I put the tools in a wooden box and wrapped everything again.

In tea ceremony, taking care of tools is also part of practice.

I also practiced the steps many times so I would not forget them.

At the same time, I was busy with New Year cleaning and preparations.

Sweets are also important for tea.

On December 30th, I went to a traditional sweets shop.

Each sweet had a name and meaning.

They reminded me of New Year and early spring.

I bought six and went home.

On December 31st, we had a family event at my parents’ house.

I brought all the tools there.

I also sifted the matcha carefully so there would be no lumps.

Finally, January 1st arrived.

That morning, I went to my parents’ house at 10 a.m.

There were six people: my parents, my siblings, my sister-in-law, and my nephew.

None of them practice tea ceremony.

In fact, even in Japan, not many people learn it.

Tea ceremony is usually shared between a host and guests who both understand it.

But this time, I wanted it to be casual.

I was not even wearing a kimono.

The guests entered the room first.

It was time to begin.

Then I suddenly thought:

“How do I open the sliding door again?”

I never forget this in practice.

But this was not practice.

I felt nervous.

I entered the room.

My family was there, as always.

But my mind was not calm at all.

Tea ceremony should be done with a peaceful heart.

But mine was not peaceful.

I served the sweets first.

Sweet taste goes well with the bitterness of matcha.

I cleaned the bowl, added matcha, and poured hot water.

I turned the bowl and served it first to my father, then to my mother.

When they held the bowl, they looked a little happy.

I think that was real.

After they finished, I cleaned the bowls and packed the tools again.

Later, I returned everything to my teacher.

The actual tea time lasted about 30 minutes.

But I spent more than six hours on preparation and cleaning.

This experience taught me something.

We often see only the surface of things.

But behind a simple experience, there is often much time and care.

Maybe this New Year, I learned that.

…At least, I hope I showed my parents a little gratitude.

My last practice of the previous year was on December 27th.

So there was about a one-week break.

The kyudo dojo I go to is located inside a city sports center.

Because of this, it is closed during the New Year holidays.

In Japan, the New Year period is a special time.

At the end of the year, we clean our houses, write New Year’s cards, and prepare to welcome the gods into our homes.

On New Year’s Eve, we eat soba noodles and listen to the temple bell ringing 108 times.

We welcome the new year with the final sound of the bell.

At my parents’ house, making rice cakes together is also a yearly tradition.

I think many Japanese people spend the New Year in a similar way.

But it is a very busy time.

To be honest, during those days, I had almost no time to think about kyudo.

In the New Year, we visit a shrine and tell the gods our goals for the year and our wish for world peace.

We check the New Year’s cards that arrived at our homes and gather with relatives.

This is also a common way to spend the New Year in Japan.

But this year, it felt especially busy.

Before I realized it, one week had passed, and the first practice day of the year had arrived.

A busy life.

I think many readers can relate to this.

The day before practice, it snowed.

In the morning, I helped clear snow with a shovel at the houses of elderly women living in front of and behind my home.

Because of this, I arrived late to practice.

My heart rate was high, and my breathing was rough.

I changed into my uniform and entered the dojo.

I saw familiar faces there.

Since I was late, everyone else had already arrived.

But strangely, my rough breathing had already calmed down.

We hung curtains in the shooting area and turned on the stove.

we shoot at a straw-wrapped object called makiwara.

In the dojo, there is a wall that looks like a door or a window.

It is made of glass, and part of it can be removed.

We shoot our arrows through that small opening.

The actual target is 28 meters away outside.

In winter, only the minimum opening is left open to the cold air.

It is a quiet and closed space.

I took two arrows, and my first kyudo practice of the year began.

Before that, however, we always bow.

In Japan, bowing is not something special.

It is the same in kyudo, tea ceremony, and daily life.

This is simply “normal” in Japan.

I draw the bow.

Draw.

Draw more.

Wait.

Endure.

Endure a little longer.

Then I release.

Hit.

Five o’clock from the center of the target.

Good.

The second arrow.

I draw and release in the same way.

Another hit.

This time, four o’clock from the center.

Shooting two arrows is called hitote.

When both arrows hit the target, it is called kaichu.

My first practice of the year was hitote-kaichu.

Considering my usual accuracy, it was better than expected.

It felt like a good sign for the year ahead.

The busy New Year period ended quietly, with my mind settled through kyudo.

There are many ways to write about Japanese culture.

You can approach it through history.

You can define concepts like wabi-sabi or Zen.

You can package it as a philosophy that travels easily across borders.

I understand why this is often expected.

From the outside, Japan tends to appear as a collection of beautiful ideas.

But I am not outside.

I am Japanese, living in Japan, and I continue to practice two traditions that are often romanticized abroad: tea ceremony and kyudo.

This newsletter is not an introduction to Japanese aesthetics.

It is not a guide to becoming “more Zen.”

What I want to record is this:

what Japanese people who practice tradition regularly think about during training, what they discover through history, and how that process changes the way they see themselves.

I write from within ordinary, contemporary life.

Not as theory.

Not as slogans.

But as practice.

2) Two rooms, two kinds of stillness

Tea ceremony and kyudo take place in entirely different spaces.

The tea room is small, and movements are quiet.

The hands learn an order that cannot be rushed.

The kyudo hall is open, and the bow is large.

The body learns an order that cannot be forced by strength.

At first, I thought I was studying two separate worlds.

One refined, one martial.

One still, one dynamic.

Over time, however, I noticed something they share.

In both, there is an unspoken intention beneath every movement.

You want to be calm.

You want to be precise.

But the moment you move,

the truth appears.

3) What I will write about here

This space will not offer:

• Exotic explanations

• Motivational life hacks

• A romanticized image of Japan

Instead, you will find:

• Observations born from practice

• Concrete relationships with Japanese history

• The everyday thinking of people living in Japan today

Some days I will write about tea ceremony.

Some days about kyudo.

Often, I will write about what exists between them.

I am not selling enlightenment.

I am describing training.

If that feels useful to you, you are welcome here.

In future notes, I will write about:

• What I have discovered through practice

• What even Japanese people often misunderstand

• How tea ceremony and kyudo are actually seen in Japan

For now, this is simply the entrance.

From Japan.

From Japan as a lived, everyday practice.