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I Tried Japanese Archery (Kyudo) and Failed at Every Shot —But That Was the Point

Jan. 16. 2025 PR

Stepping into the YUUKEI BUDOKAN in Tochigi Prefecture felt like crossing a threshold into another world. The air was crisp and charged with an almost sacred energy as sunlight reflected off the pristine wooden floors. This area is steeped in the legacy of Fujiwara no Hidesato—a revered figure in the world of Japanese archery and founder of the Hidesato-ryu archery style, whose influence spans centuries. The entire place seemed to demand a kind of reverence, one that immediately made me stand taller, my posture almost instinctively corrected by the atmosphere alone.

As I watched the performative demonstration that began the session, I was anxious to start practicing myself. While it didn’t seem easy, I thought I’d hit the target at least once, within a few tries. After all, I had four hours. How hard could it be?

 

As I learned the basics, however, I realized there was far more to Kyudo than a physical skill set. The lesson started with the instructor guiding us through each movement of the arms, a structured flow of slow, deliberate movements designed to instill the grace and balance necessary for Kyudo. I quickly learned even the act of holding the bow required focus. We started with rubber simulators to understand the bow’s tension and the strength required to draw the arrow. With each step, I was more aware of my body—the positioning of my feet, the tension in my muscles, the steady rhythm of my breath as I aimed.

Finally, with the bow in hand, I began the ritual of aiming. The first time I drew back the arrow, the distance between me and the target suddenly felt immense. I was wholly aware of every sensation within my body, a tiny shift in my stance, the brush of the bowstring against my cheek, and even the slight creak of the bow as I pulled.

Despite all my concentration, however, I didn’t hit the target—not a single time. Each attempt brought a mix of frustration and awe. Kyudo demands not just strength and coordination but unwavering patience, both of which I quickly realized I lacked. Each time I stood in front of the target, I was acutely aware of my racing thoughts and urge to capture a perfect moment to share later. Ironically, I realized my eagerness to hit the target was exactly what was keeping me from succeeding.

Observing my frustration, my instructor explained that in Kyudo, the target is secondary. The practice isn’t about whether you hit it or not; rather, it’s about the pure intent behind the shot, the absolute clarity of each movement. Kyudo is an ephemeral art—each arrow drawn and each stance taken is meant to be mindful, unaffected by external results. I couldn’t help but reflect on my own impatience, my habit of seeking validation in success rather than in process, and I felt almost ashamed at how much I wanted to hit that target to “prove” I could.

 

As I struggled to reconcile my expectations with the art of Kyudo, I found myself drawn into the quiet philosophy that underpins it. Every time I missed, a reflexive flash of frustration rose in me, but I learned that emotion was frowned upon. In Kyudo, one does not display elation or disappointment. Instead, the practitioner strives for a calm, collected poise, both inside and out. Here was an art form that captured the essence of Japanese culture—a celebration of stillness, patience, and discipline.


After hours of practice, I left the dojo with a profound sense of gratitude. Wearing the hakama, a traditional pleated skirt-like garment that flows gracefully, I felt its weight and a connection with the generations of practitioners who came before me. The instructors, with their quiet encouragement and attentive guidance, made the experience feel like much more than a tourism experience. For anyone interested in Japanese culture, I can’t recommend Kyudo enough. It’s one thing to wear a kimono in Asakusa and take photos to post on social media, but it’s an entirely different experience to put on a hakama and immerse yourself in a centuries-old art form. Kyudo demands that you go beyond the surface, that you engage not just with the sport but with yourself. You meet people deeply committed to preserving this culture, and you come away with a renewed connection to both body and mind.

 

In the end, it was less about mastering the bow and more about understanding myself in unexpected ways. As I reflected on my time at the dojo, I realized Kyudo’s philosophy extended far beyond the bow. It was a lesson in mindfulness and intention,     reminding me to focus less on outcomes and more on the clarity of each action. It’s a perspective I hope to carry with me, not just in archery but in life itself.

 


Tochigi Prefecture, the host of this Kyudo experience, has been promoting martial arts tourism that utilize sports, culture, and history, and this trial tour was conducted using a FY 2024 Japan Sports Agency national subsidy project. Based on the feedback from the participants, the prefecture plans to promote regional revitalization through “Tochigi’s Budo” and to contribute to the preservation, succession, and development of Budo.


Text and photos by: Kotono Yamada

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