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CHAPTER 1

Techniques and Principles

Thousands of repetitions and out of one's true self perfection emerges.

Zen Saying

Suhara Osho left Chozen-Ji for Japan four days after I arrived in Hawaii. I left for Japan four months after that. I had planned my stay in Japan so that it would be convenient to train with Suhara Osho. My wife and I both arranged part-time teaching jobs through the University of Maryland's Far East Division. I had chosen Yokosuka as my teaching site in order to be close to Suhara Osho's dojo in Kamakura. Even though my plans were based on training with Suhara Osho, I hesitated to ask him directly, before he left Hawaii, if I could study with him in Japan. I thought that such a blunt question, coming from a near stranger, would be a violation of Japanese customs. Instead, I told him I was planning to spend some time in Japan and that I would be working near Kamakura. He gave me his address and invited me to stop by and see him.

I called Suhara Osho the day I arrived in Japan. Through an interpreter I explained I had trained briefly with him in Hawaii and that he suggested that I look him up. I had no idea if he remembered who I was. To my dismay, he told me he was very busy and that I should call him back in two weeks. Exactly two weeks later I called again and was told that he was still very busy and could not see me for one month. My disappointment grew. My time in Japan was limited; I wondered if I would be able to train with him at all. Exactly one month later I called back and this time was told that he could see me later in the week. He gave me instructions on how to get there and told me he would have somebody there to interpret.

It was a two-hour train ride from where I was living to Kamakura. I got off the train at the Kita-Kamakura station and walked up the steps towards the entrance of Engaku-Ji. It was mid-April and pouring rain. The ground was muddy and the air smelled of cherry blossoms. The gate keeper to the temple had obviously been warned that I would be coming. He took one look at me and said asked, "Suhara Osho?" I nodded and we both laughed nervously. He then proceeded to lead me to the kyudo dojo.

I entered the grounds of the dojo alone. Seeing no one, I walked over to the main building of the dojo and looked in. There was no one there. Thinking that I would go in and wait, I looked for a place to take my shoes off. I wanted to avoid a repeat of my entry into Chozen-Ji. Just then, I heard somebody yell "Hallooo." I looked around and saw Suhara Osho, dressed in black temple work clothes, waving his arms at me. I went over, bowed, and he motioned me into a little wooden building (I was to find out later that Mrs. Suhara runs a small concession selling tea to tourists on the grounds of the dojo and that this was where she prepared the tea).

After I entered, a Japanese woman appeared. She introduced herself in English as a kyudo student whom Suhara Osho had asked to help find an interpreter. She went on to explain that an interpreter would be coming soon. She excused herself and left me alone with Suhara Osho. He made two bowls of matcha, the type of tea used in tea ceremony. We set in silence as I watched him froth up the tea with a bamboo whisk. We drank in silence, unable to converse. After some time, the woman arrived with the interpreter, an American who was a friend of hers.

Suhara Osho and the woman very politely started asking me questions. First they wanted to know the nature of this visit. I said that it was to say "hello" and to see if it would be possible to train here. They asked where I was living. I said in Zama (which I had learned that day was two hours away by train). I was told that perhaps commuting from Zama would be too inconvenient. I told them that I did not mind the train ride. I was told there was a kyudo dojo in the city of Zama. I told them I would check but that I would still like to study in Kamakura.

The conversation went on in this vein for some time. In my view, they were doing their best to discourage me from training there. It is not uncommon for Japanese teachers to test prospective students by trying to discourage them. I hoped that was why Suhara Osho asked me to wait six weeks before agreeing to see me and why they now seemed so intent on my studying elsewhere. I decided to wait patiently until I got a clear acceptance or rejection.

At one point Suhara Osho left, leaving me alone with the woman and the interpreter. She continued to ask questions. She asked me about my experiences training at Chozen-Ji. She wanted to know if I had shot at the mato or only at the makiwara.

A makiwara is a practice target made out of bundled straw. It is shot at from a range of three to four feet, as opposed to the paper mato, or "real target", shot at from a distance of 28 metres (90 feet). In traditional kyudo training, students could spend years shooting at the makiwara before they were allowed to shoot at the mato. Most training described by Herrigel in Zen in the Art of Archery involved makiwara training. I have been told that Herrigel shot at the makiwara for four out of the five years that he spent in Japan. In contemporary Japan, makiwara training is not stressed as it once was, and students are often allowed to shoot at the mato after only a few weeks. Students, particularly Westerners, are often overly impatient to shoot at the mato.

I replied that I had shot at the mato in Hawaii. I was then told that people shoot at the makiwara for a long time at this dojo. I was given the example of a Westerner who had done so for many months. I replied that it would be fine with me.

Actually, I never expected that I would be allowed to shoot at the mato at all in Japan. While I had shot at the mato in Hawaii, makiwara training was still stressed there and I had been told this would most likely to continue if I studied with Suhara Osho. When I was told that I should expect to train only with the makiwara I was not surprised.

After the questions about the makiwara the tone of the conversation became less serious. Suhara Osho came back and told me that I was welcome to train there. I was given a tour of the dojo and my training schedule was arranged. Two days later I returned to Engaku-Ji for my first lesson with Suhara Osho. The first thing that he asked me to do was shoot at the mato. Suhara Osho suggested that I also study with Onuma Sensei at the Toshima-ku dojo in Tokyo. I was fortunate that he also accepted me as a student. He also asked me to shoot at the mato.

In retrospect it seems that the question of whether I was willing to train at the makiwara was a test of my seriousness as a student. For the contemporary kyudo student, perhaps particularly for an American, the willingness to forestall one's attraction to the mato and to concentrate on the makiwara can be an important test of whether or not he has the discipline that kyudo requires.

Written on the makiwara stand in the kyudo dojo at Chozen-Ji, in calligraphy done by Omori Sogen Rotaishi, is the Japanese phrase "Hyakuren Jitoku." Jackson Morisawa translates this saying as "Thousands of repetitions and out of one's true self perfection emerges." In explaining this saying in his book, Zen Kyudo, he writes:

To make a good sword takes repeated heating, pounding, and sharpening which require tremendous discipline in a state of order and control. If one instills this kind of discipline in repetitive, innovative, and observant training in kyudo, he will be able to taste the satisfaction of his own effort within himself.¹

The placement of this saying on the makiwara stand is most appropriate, for traditionally the makiwara has been the anvil on which the kyudo student forged his technique. Because it is shot at from point blank range, the makiwara provides a way in which the student can practice the basics of kyudo without being distracted with concerns about hitting the target. Omori Rotaishi's calligraphy gives caution not to abandon the makiwara prematurely. There is no substitute for makiwara practice, just as there is no substitute for dedicated and repetitious practice of the art itself.

Kyudo training, whether shooting at the makiwara or the mato, is a formalized procedure for shooting arrows. This procedure is called "hassetsu," which is usually translated as the eight steps or stages of kyudo. The specifics of hassetsu may differ slightly across the various schools of kyudo. While there is some variation in the movements preceding the performance of hassetsu, depending on the formality of the occasion and on the specific school of kyudo, the student practices the same eight steps over and over through the years. To the uninitiated, it may seem that the techniques of kyudo are simple, for how long can it take to master a sequence of eight steps? However, nothing could be further from the truth. The techniques of hassetsu are extremely complex. Every aspect of shooting, from the distribution of the body's weight on one's feet to the rhythm of one's breathing, is standardized. The more one practices kyudo, the more one becomes aware of the subtleties of the techniques of the eight steps. It is said that it takes a minimum of thirty years to master the grip. The eight stages of kyudo are described and illustrated in the drawings at the end of this chapter (pp.19—27).

The idea of teaching an art through standardized sets of techniques is found in all of the Ways. In kyudo, there are relatively few such techniques, and those are found in hassetsu. In this regard, kyudo is similar to tea ceremony which involves the repetitive practice of the same ritual of preparing and drinking tea. Other Zen arts, particularly the martial arts, have more techniques. Judo, aikido, and kendo, for example, all have hundreds if not thousands of techniques which must be mastered by the student. A student will spend years copying and imitating the techniques he is taught by his teacher. Modification of these techniques is not encouraged and is likely to be frowned upon by the teacher. Such uncritical acceptance and practice of standardized techniques is difficult for many Westerners, who are accustomed to questioning and modifying what they are taught to suit their own needs.

There is a Japanese word — ji — which refers to the technical aspects of a Zen art. In kyudo, ji refers to the techniques found in hassetsu, the eight stages of kyudo. However in kyudo, as in all of the Zen arts, mere mastery of ji, or techniques, is not seen as the endpoint. In order to understand this, it is necessary to consider another Japanese word that is closely related to ji. This term is ri and it has no English equivalent. Ri can best be understood as universal truths or as the underlying principles of the Universe.

Ri is formless and unchanging. Ri is ineffable; it is impossible to describe adequately underlying principles in words. Because principles have no form, the way they manifest themselves will vary from situation to situation. Specific manifestations of ri also are referred to as ji. Thus, in the Ways, techniques are seen as specific manifestations of the underlying principles. Ji is an embodiment of ri in specific situations, but is not itself ri in the same sense that a specific recipe is not in itself the underlying principles of cooking.

It is possible to gain a high level of proficiency in an art by mastering techniques. For example, one might be able to become skillful in self-defense by mastering the techniques of judo or karate-do, just as one might be able to become an accurate archer in kyudo. But this is not the intent of the Ways. Mere technical mastery is not true mastery. To rely on techniques means that one is limited to the specific techniques at which one is proficient. In this vein, Leggett writes:

The individual techniques learned in one of the arts will never fit the circumstances. Even in judo, where the techniques are very numerous, one tends to rely on certain ones which have been mastered, even if they are not absolutely appropriate. There are means of forcing the situation a little to bring off a favorite trick. This is skillful ji, but it cannot be said to be ri.²

True mastery comes when one understands the underlying principles of the art.

One example of ji and ri, techniques and underlying principles, in kyudo is found in the process of aiming. There are several accepted techniques of aiming. In one such technique, called the "moon at daybreak"³ the kyudoka (practitioner of kyudo⁴ ) positions the bow so that the area of the bow directly on top of the grip blocks the center of the target from the kyudoka's vision. Since that part of the bow is wrapped with thin pieces of cord, it is possible to count, or estimate, the number of wraps one sees below the center of the target when one hits the target. Through trial and error the kyudoka can find a sighting point on the wrappings which is likely to produce accurate shots, just as one adjusts the cross-hairs on a rifle sight. However, to rely on this technique has certain limitations. First, the level of wrapping used for sighting will vary from bow to bow depending on the thickness of the wrappings. Second, the thrust of a bow varies with the temperature and humidity. Thus, different sighting points would have to be established in accord with different climatic factors. Similarly, the speed and the direction of the wind can also affect the arrow's trajectory and thus would also have to be taken into account. Finally, to say that one can actually establish an exact sighting point is an oversimplification of what actually happens. No kyudoka, regardless of his level of proficiency, can hold the bow and arrow perfectly still. This is more true in Japanese than in Western archery due to the mechanical differences between modern Western bows and the traditional Japanese bow. Even with a kyudo master, at full draw one will notice that the tip of the arrow oscillates. While the range of the oscillations is slight, it is enough to mean the difference between hitting and missing the target. The kyudoka must somehow "decide" at what point in the cycle of oscillations to release the arrow. It is not possible to describe adequately how this is done, for it is done by feel, by intuition. Any technique, such as the moon at daybreak method of sighting, is only an approximation of what occurs in a proper shot. Such a technique can only bring a kyudoka to a certain point. After that, his intuition must take over. When done properly, the specific techniques of shooting are transcended as the kyudoka transcends ji and acts in accordance with ri. In the Ways, ji connotes skill and ri connotes inspiration. When one sees into the underlying principles, one's performance becomes inspired.

Understanding the principles underlying a Zen art is not based on cognitive or intellectual understanding. Rather, it is based on an intuitive awareness of the underlying principles of the Universe as they apply to that particular art. It is a form of Zen insight as it applies to that particular activity. For that reason, Leggett describes the Ways as "fractional expressions of Zen in limited fields."⁵

Because they are formless, the underlying principles of an art cannot be fully described nor directly taught. The philosophy of teaching in the Zen arts is to teach underlying principles through the repetitive practice of techniques. The techniques of the arts represent formalizations of the masters' understandings of the principles. They can be seen as approximations of the underlying principles. Thus, hassetsu is a set of techniques that are at best approximations of the naturally correct way to shoot an arrow. These techniques can only bring the student to a certain point. Each student ultimately must see into those underlying principles by himself. This can only be done by endless repetition of the eight stages of kyudo. This leads to a deeper explanation of the saying "thousands of repetitions and out of one's true self perfection emerges." In kyudo, as in the other Ways, Zen understanding—discovery of one's true self—comes only through disciplined, repetitious practice.

HASSETSU

(The Eight Stages of Kyudo)

CHAPTER 2

Breathing, Posture, and Concentration

Zen without realization of the body is empty speculation.

Omori Sogen Rotaishi

During my first week at Chozen-Ji, Tanouye Roshi gave a special lecture to the four of us who were live-in students. The topic of the lecture was the principles of zazen. It was then that I first heard the above quote of Omori Sogen Rotaishi. It is a fundamental reality of Zen and a corner stone of the philosophy of training at Chozen-Ji. The statement emphasizes that Zen is not just a philosophy or an intellectual system; Zen realization is physical as well as mental. This is a difficult concept for many Westerners, especially those exposed to Zen by books only. In fact, it is common for books on Zen to begin with caveats about overemphasizing the value of words. Unlike some of the other sects of Buddhism and other religions, Zen does not stress the study of written scriptures. Direct experience and action are the important things to the Zen student. The Zen student is not asked to accept to doctrine on faith. Rather, he is asked to train so that he might have personal experience of the Oneness of the Universe. The key to this experience is the discipline known as zazen. Zen training has no real significance without it.

The process of zazen has been traditionally divided into three aspects: regulation of posture, regulation of breathing, and regulation of mental activity (concentration). Actually this division is only a convenience for the sake of explanation. In practice zazen is the unification of breathing, posture and concentration. Each aspect affects and is affected by the other two. In the Ways, one finds these principles of breathing, posture, and concentration applied to specific activities.

I will now discuss in turn the three component processes of breathing, posture and concentration.

BREATHING

The importance of proper breathing in Zen cannot be overstated, yet the concept that breathing can be a key to spirituality is still a foreign one to most Westerners. While Western people may accept the importance of breathing in athletic endeavors or in relaxation exercises, they do not generally see breath control as a prerequisite for a spiritual experience.

The major differences between breathing in Zen and what most people would consider "normal" breathing is that in Zen it is much slower and is controlled by the muscles of the lower abdomen, not those of the chest. The average person breathes at a rate of approximately 18 respirations per minute. Zen masters have been found to breathe at a rate of 4 respirations per minute or less during zazen.

In order to understand the nature of abdominal breathing in zazen, it would be helpful for me introduce two important Japanese terms that are generally unknown to Westerners. The first is hara. Physically, hara refers to the entire lower abdomen, the part below the navel. The second term is the tanden, which is the point approximately one and one half inches below the naval and is the center of the hara. In the Zen tradition, the tanden is seen to be the center of the person, both physically and psychologically. Physically, it is the person's center of gravity. Psychologically, it is seen as the center of the personality.

To say that breathing in Zen is abdominal is to say that it is controlled by the muscles of the hara. Inhalation is accomplished by relaxing the muscles of the hara. This automatically relaxes the diaphragm and air is effortlessly brought into the lungs, just as relaxing the bulb of a medicine dropper draws water up the pipette. The result is that the lower abdomen protrudes. Once the lungs are full, the person bears down on the muscles of the hara and begins the exhalation. This initial bearing down at the beginning of an exhalation is referred to as "setting" the hara. The exhalation lasts considerably longer than the inhalation. The feeling is that the air is being forced directly downward into the hara. Actually, the tensing of the hara muscles contracts the diaphragm, forcing the air out of the lungs. The muscles are contracted in such a way that the hara remains protruded and the area immediately above the naval becomes concave, with the naval pointing up. The lower abdomen remains protruded throughout both inhalation and exhalation; hence the origin of the term "Buddha belly." After continual practice, the contour of the Zen student changes. His lower abdomen remains slightly protruded and the area above it remains concave even when he is not sitting zazen. In zazen, the student constantly monitors his breathing. When he notices that the quality of his breathing has deteriorated, he adjusts it so that it is correct.

Hara is a word that has no equivalent in English. Not only does it literally refer to the geographical area of the body roughly described as the lower abdomen but it also is a word replete with psychological and spiritual connotations. To say that someone has "hara" conveys the sense that he is balanced, secure both physically and psychologically.¹ From a physical standpoint, the person with hara has a lower center of gravity than does the person with the traditional Western postural ideal of "stomach in and chest out." It is literally more difficult to tip over a person with hara, a principle that is very important in all of the martial arts and in Japanese Sumo wrestling. The person with typical Western posture is top heavy due to muscular tension in the upper body, and thus is less balanced.

To say that someone has hara also conveys the sense that he is in balance emotionally. He does not fly off the handle, he can take in his stride whatever problems come his way. In Japanese, to say that one's hara rose or that one "lost his hara" means that he has lost his temper.

To say that one has hara also implies a sense of courage, the ability to face adversity with poise and dignity. In this regard, Von Durckheim related the following account of an event that took place during World War II:

When the leader of the Japanese Women's Associations, on her return from a visit to Germany, spoke in a lecture of the impressive air-raid precautions she'd seen there, she added "we have nothing of all that but we have something else, we have Hara". The interpreter was greatly embarrassed. How should he translate that? What could he do but simply say "belly"? Silence, laughter. Only a few Westerners understood what was meant, but the Japanese knew that the lecturer had quite simply meant that power which, even if it gave no protection against annihilation by bombs, yet made possible an inner calm from which springs the greatest possible capacity for endurance.²

Hara also conveys a sense of generosity. While in English we would say that someone has a big heart, in Japan they would say that he has a big hara. Hara also implies strength. To do something with hara means to do something with all your might, to give it your best. The person with hara is seen as being physically stronger and stronger of character.

The connections between the physical and psychological aspects of hara are not just metaphorical to the Zen student. With training, he comes to understand that his psychological state fluctuates with the quality of his breathing. He learns that when he is carried away by anger or when he is overcome by fear or anxiety, his breathing becomes fast and shallow. He loses the pressure in his lower abdomen and his center of gravity rises towards his shoulders. He becomes physically less stable. He also learns to control his emotional reactions by controlling his breathing. Through proper breathing in the middle of adversity, he can maintain his psychological equillibrium.