Finding Your “Ikiai” — and Other Life Lessons from Japanese Archery
And, no, it’s not a misspelling of “ikigai”
If you’re even vaguely familiar with the concept of wabi-sabi and its origins in Zen Buddhism and Japanese tea ceremony, then it shouldn’t come as a surprise that traditional culture — arts, sports, and spirituality alike — is a treasure trove of life advice.
But, whilst finding the beauty in impermanence is sage advice (joke not intended, but it’s a nice touch), there are many other disciplines, each with their own unique vocabulary, which can be applied to real life situations and give a fresh perspective on the mystery that is life.
One of those disciplines is “kyūdō” (弓道), or Japanese archery, a sport and martial art that can be argued is more about spirit than hitting a target with an arrow.
What’s the difference between kyūdō and (Western) archery?
First and foremost, kyūdō bows are 221 cm long, making them the longest bows in the world.
The method of setting the arrow into the bow is also different. With Western archery, the string is drawn by the index, middle, and third fingers of the right hand, whereas only the base of the right thumb is used in kyūdō.
Unlike Western archery, no additional equipment like stabilizers can be attached to the bow, so shooting literally depends only on the bow, the arrow, and of course, the person holding it.
But the most interesting thing about kyūdō is its contrasting principles.
Like archery in general, winning competitions hinges on the athlete hitting the target, with kyūdō pushing it a step further by not even differentiating whether an arrow lands in the outer or inner rings.
So long as it hits the target, it counts, and you move up the roster if you manage to land more hits than your opponent in each round.
But if was really only about landing hits then there would be no need for such things like the “hassetsu,” the eight stages of shooting which kyūdō archers must proceed through, usually slow enough that you can recognize each stage with enough time between.
In kyūdō, good form is as important — if not more — than winning with accurate hits.
And that’s the basis behind three of the life lessons that this article will introduce, starting with our confusing doppelganger of a word that probably made you do a doubletake:
1. Ikiai (息合い)
Taken at face value, “ikiai” (literally, “matching breath”) is simply a method of controlling your breathing. Breath is ultimately important in kyūdō because it affects your form and the flow of your movements.
If you stiffen and take only shallow breaths — sometimes pausing in the middle of one whilst drawing the bow — you might not be able to draw it fully, resulting in poor form and a poor shot.
Focusing on your breathing, when to inhale and exhale, and matching it with your movements when drawing the bow make a lot of difference in kyūdō.
But I think most of us (hopefully) know how to breathe in daily life. So, rather than applying it to ourselves, ikiai might be better applied to our relationships with the people around us.
Now, to be clear, this wasn’t my genius idea.
The whole second season of one of my favorite sports anime, Tsurune: Kazemai Kōkō Kyūdōbu (“Tsurune: Kazemai High School Kyūdō Club”), is all about finding your own kind of ikiai with the people who share the same goals (such as winning the national high school kyūdō tournament) or values.
With “ai” (合い) also meaning “to unite” or “to come together,” the five boys in the club (five people make a team) struggle to find their “rhythm” after a seemingly minor setback in one competition.
And whilst their method of trying to be more physically in sync with one another didn’t produce results on its own, it’s when they’ve finally gotten over their differences and become aware of their own strengths and weaknesses that they were able to move in rhythm.
In other words, it’s only when you learn to listen to other people and know what role you play in a group that you’ll be able to work together.
But even outside of this competition and teamwork setting, knowing your own weaknesses is key to improving — whether in specific skills or as a person in general — and moving forward in life.
It’s also important to acknowledge the people who’ll support you when you hit a roadblock, those who’ll give you that much-needed, metaphorical push on the back until you find your own rhythm again.
Going back to the characters in Tsurune, their friendship and impressive synchronicity won’t necessarily work for other groups, one of whom has undeniably good chemistry even when their shooting rhythm is all over the place. This leads us to our second important lesson of the day:
2. Jibun no Sha (自分の射)
There are two significant forms for raising the bow and arrow in kyūdō: shōmen-uchiokoshi (shooting from front-facing position) and shamen-uchiokoshi (shooting from slanted position), with the shōmen form being the more common.
Whilst the two forms can be difficult to distinguish to the untrained eye, an archer can’t easily switch from one form to another.
Think of it as initially wanting to drive a car down one lane then suddenly swerving into another just before hitting the divider.
Or — if like me, you cannot drive — then imagine having to suddenly think about doing an action that should come instinctively.
Something you’ve done over and over to the point that you can do it in your sleep then having to replace a section of it on short notice. It’s only one bit, but that alone is enough to throw off your rhythm.
In Tsurune, the moment the protagonist tries to emulate another archer’s splendid shamen form (his team adopts shōmen instead), he not only disrupts his own rhythm, but throws his entire team into chaos.
It’s alright to try something new, of course. But oftentimes the problem stems less from the obvious and superficial — “adopting a different posture or using better equipment might help me shoot better”— and more about what’s happening inside.
That’s why it’s important to find “your own form” (“jibun no sha” or “shakei”) because what works for others might not work for you.
And whilst you can definitely ask for advice or glean inspiration from people around you, they are ultimately just guidelines (like adopting either the shamen or shōmen form) that you must mix-and-match, oftentimes through trial and error to figure out what works best for you.
Every path is supposed to be hard, and you need to stick to one long enough to understand if it’s right for you before switching gears. But once you figure that out, then that’s one less thing to worry about and one step closer to the place you want to be.
Speaking of switching gears too quickly, our final word-of-the-day might sound familiar to you (and not because of an apparent misspelling):
3. Tsurune (弦音)
This beautiful-sounding word (no pun intended) refers to the sound that is produced when the string hits the top of the bow after the arrow is released.
There are several factors that affect the tone of the tsurune, from the weather to the material of the bow to the condition of the archer themself, so that even if the same person shoots with the same bow and arrows, they won’t produce the same tsurune each time.
This website (in Japanese) includes sound files for three different tsurune, all produced by the same archer, who shot twice using the same bamboo bow and once using a carbon bow.
So even if you stick to one path, there is no guarantee that you’ll succeed or reach all your goals.
I want to be a writer, and — if you would allow this humble brag for one moment—I believe I already am one.
But all I can do is write about topics that I love and try to create stories that I would want to read whilst hoping that other people will love them as much as I do.
You can’t control the outcome, but with constant practice, honing your skills so that they slowly inch closer to your impossibly high standards (reading my favorite novels after a bad writing day truly heals my soul whilst ripping away the last shreds of my confidence), you might be able to produce some beautiful tsurune in your search for that perfect one.
Of course, though there is no such thing as perfect and you’ll be killing yourself in search of it (think wabi-sabi again), there is nothing wrong with wanting to come close to it — to be able to bring out the best you have every time.
So make it your sound, make it beautiful — whatever “beautiful” sounds like to you — and don’t forget to ask for help whenever you’re stuck and can’t figure out the problem on your own.
You will solve it eventually, but that nudge from a loved one alongside the promise of an alluring reward at the end of the tunnel should be motivation enough to leap over that darn divider and continue traveling down your own path.
In case you haven’t realized this already, no one really knows how to live life.
We used to look up to adults to tell us how to do it correctly but become an adult yourself and you’ll realize our parents, teachers, and guidance counselors didn’t have the slightest idea what they’re doing either.
The reason is because there’s no one “right” way, and it’s up to each of us to patch up our own shakei— a personal collage of pretty phrases like “ikiai” that maybe, just maybe, will nudge us back onto our own right path whenever we’re feeling lost or alone.
That sudden, ringing wake-up call of a tsurune reminds you you’re going to be alright, that life is still beautiful despite the imperfections — the chaotic foils to our grand plans — which it too-often throws our way (way to bring it back to wabi-sabi, huh?).
