Drawing on Silence
From LaurasWiki
Kyudo at Genjo-Ji
Published in Mountain Wind, July-September 2006, newsletter of the Sonoma Mountain Zen Center (http://www.smzc.net/)
I didn't realize till I was asked to write this that silence was a theme of the kyudo program at Genjo-Ji. I thought it was more of an issue. I mean, I'd noticed that Kwong Roshi mentioned silence repeatedly -- at the start of silent work practice each morning, and from time to time in the dining room, where meals began in silence. Our kyudo teacher, Don Symanski, opening and closing kyudo practice each day, sometimes mentioned silence, too.
Still, I thought they were just urging us to mind the protocols put in place to deepen the contemplative dimensions of our practice at Genjo-Ji. Which I suppose is really what a theme is meant to do, after all.
From the end of evening zazen till breakfast, following zazen, every day, we were asked to maintain silence. Kyudo practice, too, is governed by a rule of silence. In kyudo, though, this protocol is flexible, variable. One of the challenges of kyudo as a meditation practice is this, the way the space of formal practice, under the rule of silence, gradually opens onto social space -- to informal encounters and exchange.
Looked at another way, contemplation in kyudo is subtly permeated by social interaction, from the interventions of instructors, and the sense of being on display, to tuning into the group mind in synchronized shooting, to the "off-platform" sorting out of equipment and shooting order, to setting up and breaking down the practice field each day. The more flexible the rule of silence, the easier it is to slip and wander, and the harder it becomes to maintain composure and a contemplative frame of mind.
I figured I'd hit a rough patch at some point in the program. Struggling with the form, my discursive mind would billow up, and thrash and crash around me, echoing back at me -- happens every time! Still, I was unprepared for it when it came. One afternoon at the practice targets, Don adjusted my grip, the way that I was holding the bow during the draw. This is the most difficult part of the form. You've taken aim at the target and, drawing the bow open, you're summoning the force, mental and physical force, to release the arrow. At the same time, you're opening and exposing your heart. Well, the correction to my left hand rippled outward, and suddenly the position of my right hand needed tweaking, too. Weeks later, I'm still working to accomplish this tiny refinement of the form.
That afternoon at the long-distance platform, I was rattled, trying to re-find my balance in the form. Meanwhile, around me, respect for the protocols just then was rather lax. Exasperated, I was about to storm off, give up, but instead turned, took a breath, and blew up, delivering a stern little lecture that surprised even me. In my frustration and estrangement, the informality was like a bow that was too strong for me and, pulling it, my composure snapped, collapsed.
But that was just the start. Something else came up that evening: repercussions of my outburst complicating larger program protocols. _Ach!_ I didn't know how to proceed. This time, though, I had the rule of silence to steady myself against. A comment of Kwong Roshi's came back to me. "Let the silence work for you," he'd urged us at the start of work practice earlier that day. I took it to mean, literally, "Let silence itself *do* the work for you." So, instead of strategizing, or pushing through to a resolution, I tried to let the silence act. Overnight, through four rounds zazen, and a few brief chance encounters, I sat back, listening, watching. I worked gingerly with what was coming up. Following the model of kyudo practice, I made small adjustments, then watched for the effects.
In remarks at the start of the program, Don read two quotes from Shunryu Suzuki Roshi's _not always so_. One was on how silence strengthens intuition; the other on how the constraint of form fosters fullness of expression.* Kyudo has a way of dredging up unpleasant stuff -- repressed and poisonous emotions, harmful habits of mind. They can be glimpsed, like weeds, or Wiley E. Coyote, as they're cut loose at the moment of release. Shooting kyudo, over and over -- drawing the bow, releasing the arrow, emptying yourself into the form -- can loosen the hold they have on you, weaken them at the root, allowing deeper and wider qualities of character to shine through.
It happens in small ways in the space of a single shot. Under pressure from the protracted practice context, kyudo programs, too, seem to follow a similar narrative arc. Eventually, at Genjo-Ji, drawing on silence, the situation clarified itself. In the closing ceremonies, the order of forms was gorgeously restored.
- "Open Your Intuition" and "Express Yourself Fully," in Shunryu Suzuki, edited by Edward Espe Brown, _Not always so: practicing the true spirit of Zen_ (New York: HarperCollins, 2002): pp. 69-71; 8-11.
