"OKII WA - Great Peace
Whether you have great peace or small peace,
they are the same.
For example, America is big.
Japan and Vietnam are small.
But peace is peace, regardless of size.
Within one's own heart,
between a husband and wife,
throughout a country,
or the whole world,
it's all the same peace."
--- from Sei Ran - Sky Storm, calligraphies and teachings by Kanjuro Shibata XX, Sensei
May every one of us bring this, in big and small ways, wherever we go, whatever we do. Wishing you all a healthy, prosperous, and happy New Year.
February 7, 2008 Sensei was invited to Shambhala Mountain Center to help celebrate Shambhala Day or Losar, the lunar New Year.
In his brief talk before the ceremony, Sensei explains that it’s a little odd to call this the New Year, because everyone is aware that the year’s calendar actually changes on January first. Traditionally, he says, it’s true that in Asia, including in Japan, they follow the lunar cycle. If you ask the old people in Japan, they will agree that this is the real New Year. But the younger generation all accept January first as the turning of the year. That’s the way it is now. To solve this seeming contradiction, Sensei suggests we call the lunar New Year the “New Spring”, a way to welcome the new Spring flowers and a fresh feeling in our lives. We can relate to January first as the time to set our schedules for the year, to organize ourselves for the next calendar year to come. But this New Spring is the time that we actually set our deeper aspiration for the coming year.
To help with this, he offers a Nosha, a form of ceremonial shooting to clear out all the obstacles, the old ghosts, debris, bad feeling leftover from the previous year. He makes the point that every year brings us lots of obstacles and difficulties and it is good to clear this out to make room for a fresh beginning. Following the Nosha, at Sensei's request, Vajra Rich offers a Reisha to invite blessings and an excellent aspiration for the New Year.
For the sake toast at the end, Sensei made quite a point that everyone should not gulp their sake and not be particularly greedy or indulgent. It is an offering to the Kami. So one takes three sips, offering each time, with a good, clear heart.
May this Nosha offering circulate the airwaves to help clear old obstacles and make room for a fresh beginning as we enter this New Spring in 2017.
photo above by Anthony Rich, taken on Sensei's birthday (December 29th).
Thought you all might appreciate reading Sensei's New Year's Day address given at Ryuko Kyudojo in Boulder in 2007--as pertinent as ever!
HATSUYUME - The Dream of the New Year
At this time, of course, everyone hopes that the year ahead will be better than the last
year. But, this year, my hope is that we progress naturally. Power, strong power, comes from the
plan we make for the New Year. This year we can elevate our aspiration one step from the
previous year. We can have a high quality dream, not just for ourselves as individuals, but for
We have many dreams at the New Year. You will have many, many good dreams, I hope.
But the starting point for realizing our dreams is the cleaning of your inside ki. This is where the
New Year begins. Everyone understands having aspiration on the morning of New Year’s Day,
hatsuyume, the first dream of the New Year, and trying to pull a good dream. Many, many good
dreams arise, but these dreams are also too good! Too much hope, in this way, is not helpful. My
wish is that you will realize your dream in a more natural way and not just try to pull a dream
based on hope for yourself.
Everyone’s various desires for the year: to make good friends, to have a beautiful house,
a good car, money—many, many hope, hope, hope. Too much hope! This is all a rental from
Shakyamuni. Now, everything you have, your money, your car, your house, your friends, you
seem to have a lot, but the truth is, it’s zero. You have nothing. It’s all just help from
Kyudo is not a sport. It is Zen style meditation, standing meditation. Dojo, dojo, kyudojo.
What is that? The kyudojo is a Buddhist meditation hall. Kyudo is standing meditation.
Meditation, everyone understands, sitting, zazen, is first. Second, is standing meditation.
Standing meditation is kyudo. When you see kyudo, you look at the target and think, “shooting,
shooting”. But shooting the target is not the essential purpose of kyudo.
Today, outside, is an exceptionally blue sky. May everyone have blue sky on the inside,
as well, during this year 2007. From this new feeling we take one step, this year walking. Many
good wishes for the New Year to you all. Thank you very much. Please keep your bodies strong
and healthy, so that from the good help you are given, you are able to offer back!
Just back from a very full and rich trip to New York City and each step of the way I was reminded of being there with Sensei in the fall of 2006.
He enjoyed the city overall, said it gave him energy to be there, but he also noted that the people were “heavy” in some way. Wherever we went, doormen, taxi drivers, waiters and shopkeepers had strong reactions to him, either darting away or (more often) remarking that he was “different, special”, lingering to be near him and sometimes straight out asking his advice for their lives. It was interesting to note because none of them knew anything of Sensei’s background or status. Without even language in common, they were reacting purely from his presence.
At the end of our time in New York, Sensei insisted on going to Ground Zero. Back then, it was still a big hole in the ground, with rubble all around and the beginnings of new construction. We managed to walk from the wind-whipped corner where the taxi left us, up the sidewalk, and into the temporary memorial hall lined with photos and stories from the events of September 11, 2001.
“Very heavy feeling,” Sensei said, upon entering the hall. It affected him deeply; it seemed he could hardly bear to be there. A female security guard spotted us among the crowd and asked if we’d like some help. As so many people had on this trip, she was taken with Sensei and followed us around, offering help whenever she could.
When we came to the end of the exhibit, Sensei filled out a card to leave in the visitor comment book, writing the following in Japanese with my translation beneath:
“Please always remember the blue sky deep within your hearts and keep that feeling with you wherever you go, whoever you meet. That is very important…………………(he entered a carefully penned, long ellipses)………………..because words cannot express……………..
Kanjuro Shibata, Zen archery master of Trungpa Rinpoche’s kyudo group”
The morning after this visit, the day of our flight home, Sensei awoke with an alarming red rash all along the right side of his body and in considerable pain. I wasn’t certain if we should fly home, but also felt he needed to be home and he concurred. It turned out to be shingles. We treated it quickly and he managed to overcome it in a few weeks with no relapses, but I always felt haunted that he had contracted it from the depths of whatever he encountered that day at Ground Zero.
The events this week are reverberating far and wide. Waking up Wednesday morning from a wave of anxiety dreams, my immediate and very unoriginal thought was, "Time to renew that Canadian passport!" And then, I remembered this:
One Thursday evening practice, in the summertime, we sat with the large kyudojo door open to the outside, flanked by two young women who had happened to drop by to watch. I don't remember how they heard about Sensei or kyudo or why they felt compelled to come, but they gravitated towards him fearlessly.
At one point, one of the young women looked at him and asked, "Do you like living in America? Do you ever want to go back to Japan?"
Sensei replied succinctly, "I don't make decisions based on 'like' and 'not like'."
Big pause. No one said a word.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
The second memory to emerge was from September 11, 2013, the day of the massive Boulder flood. It kind of crept up on us. The rain had poured all night and by late morning it was clear we were in a crisis of some kind, but not yet clear what we could or should do about it. Answering a loud knock at the door, I faced an emergency responder.
"We understand you have an elderly person in the house. Is that true?"
"Yes," I replied.
"You should evacuate immediately. The house next door has flooded and several houses along that street are full of water." He pointed to the neighboring street to the north. "If one of the houses blows, you won't have time to get out of here." I thanked him profusely and dashed back to the kitchen to tell Sensei we needed to pack up immediately.
He sat very still, looked up at me from where he sat drinking his tea at the table and said, "Okay. But we should move slowly, slowly, no big hurry."
I understood right then that he wasn't referring to timing so much as state of mind, a directive not to get caught in the crisis mentality, but to move steadily, gently, deliberately. In all the years we were together, through various crises of health, environment, politics, kyudo student dramas, I never once saw him panic. So, we did move slowly, but economically, too.
We were out within an hour or so, with the dog, bird, wheelchair, oxygen machine, rice cooker and as much Japanese food as I could imagine being able to prepare in a hotel room. By the time we left the driveway, the streets were closing all around us. We had managed to reserve the last available room at a hotel in Broomfield. Crisscrossing our way, we approached a major intersection just as two road workers were putting a barrier in place to stop the traffic. It was the only road left to get us out of town.
"Please, we have to get through. I have an elderly man in the car and I need to get him to a hotel." I made our case to the workers as quickly and emphatically as I could.
They took a look at Sensei in the passenger seat and waved us through, saying, "That's it. You're the last one," and closed the road.
Sensei wasn't always slow. He could be aggravatingly quick in the face of any kind of laziness, scattered overwhelm or "space out" from anyone in the environment and was almost always first to leave the house when we were going somewhere. Most of the time, I had to work to keep up with him. (Albeit, as the one handling a lot of earthly details, like packing and phone calls, there were reasons it took me longer.) Nonetheless, he imparted much in his demeanor, unswayed by the push-pull of ordinary anxieties or the compulsion for self-preservation.
At this moment, the recollection of his "slowly, slowly" has restrained me from bolting for the border or quickly making plans of any kind. If and when plans do emerge, may they arise from a place untainted by "like" or "not like," the small-minded impulse towards self-preservation. And together, neither paralyzed by overwhelm nor driven by the force of panic or predjudice, may we gently carve a path through the storm.
Below is an excerpt from my journal entry dated December 11, 2004. We had been living together for about six weeks.
Over breakfast, Sensei placed his two hands together to describe how virtually all rooftops, the world over, come to a peak. This point is the Kami connection. If the balance of communication in the household, between the husband and wife, is good, this works. The Kami connection remains, the house stays, and they have long life and good health together. If they do not have good communication, if one or the other pushes too hard, the roof collapses. He said he felt that, at times, he pushed his first wife too hard. Then, she would push back hard, coming back on top, and finally, she "went up and out fast."
Sensei’s first wife, Kiyoko, passed soon after they had come to Colorado from Japan. During the time she was in the West, she graciously taught the students of Trungpa Rinpoche the way of tea (chanoyu) and flowers (ikebana) and greatly enriched the culture of the Shambhala community.
Sensei loved describing one of his earliest encounters with the Vidyadhara Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche. As is the case with memory, I have no idea how much of the literal detail here is true, but I expect it is mostly so. For sure, the heart-truth came through unchanged whenever he recounted this.
Excited to be hosting Shibata Sensei in Boulder, Colorado, Trungpa Rinpoche invited Sensei as a guest of honor to the opening night of The Mikado--yup, the Gilbert & Sullivan comic opera, satirizing the failings of the British government disguised in a quasi-Japanese setting. The play was fully produced, directed, and performed by the Vidyadhara’s students.
Showtime was set for 7:30pm. The audience assembled, along with Shibata Sensei, awaiting the Vidyadhara’s arrival. Time passed. 8:30. 9:30. 10:30. Another hour. Two. Another one. No one complained. No one left. They simply sat. Then, just as the first ray of sun began to peek over the horizon, the Vidyadhara arrived and took his seat next to Sensei. A student filled his sake glass, accidentally spilling some on Sensei’s kimono. The Vidyadhara took a sip and the play began.
“In Japan, no one would have waited more than a half hour.” Sensei was utterly struck by the patience of the students and the feeling of no complaint whatsoever—a sign of the Vidyadhara’s authentic power. Within this atmosphere of genuine trust and devotion between teacher and students, Sensei gained confidence that he could transmit the heart of kyudo practice in the West.
Today marks the third year since Sensei’s passing. Arriving at Shambhala Mountain Center this past weekend to make offerings at his site, I remembered this:
Near the end of a kyudo program at SMC, we all gathered around a campfire, one of Sensei’s favorite pastimes. In the midst of some lively conversation, a student looked at Sensei and asked, “Sensei, what is the meaning of life?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he answered. “Ai.” Love.
(photo courtesy of Ian Sheppard)
During the ten years at his side as wife and translator, the teachings from Shibata Sensei sprung forth, many and varied. But if one teaching could be said to run through them all, it is this: Gambatte. Persevere. Don't give up.
His own life exemplified this quality—perseverance through the harsh, old-school discipline of his childhood training from his grandfather, through war, national defeat, the infant death of his only son, the erosion of kyudo practice in his homeland and the transition to a new country at the age of sixty, surrounded by students of another master who didn’t speak his language. An undying loyalty formed between these two masters, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche and Shibata Sensei. And so, Sensei persevered, half-forgotten in his “junk house” in Boulder, Colorado, through the sadness and chaos that ensued from Trungpa Rinpoche’s passing, through divorce, esophageal cancer, dissension that fractured his kyudo group, and a series of pneumonias that finally spirited him away.
Much can be said about this quality and what he meant by the words: “Gambatte, never give up!” There was a tendency among all of us to think that he meant some kind of hardening of the heart, a tightening of resolve. In some sense, yes. He used the analogy, at times, of the jaw gripping tight, not letting go, gritting your back teeth and going forward. But fundamentally, his perseverance always emanated from a soft heart, and in this seeming contradiction, so much was transmitted. Perseverance meant loyalty. You don’t give up on your teacher, the path your teacher has shown you and, in his case, your connection with your students. You don’t give up on the vision. You don’t give up on each other. And with this perseverance, perhaps, in ten years of meditation practice, you might take one step.
Wandering through a dusty thrift shop in Boulder with her sister, a kyudo student recently spotted this calligraphy, enveloped in saran wrap, on a shelf stacked with dishes. She sighted it across the store, instantly certain it was Shibata Sensei’s. Turning it over, “Kami = God” appeared on a piece of paper affixed to the backside. Her sister’s insistence doused a flicker of hesitation about whether or not she could make room for it and the calligraphy is now framed in her home.
She called me shortly afterwards to relate the story and double check the calligraphy’s meaning. The sadness of Sensei’s passing was still alive in her voice, along with amazement at her great fortune with this find. Hearing the story, I felt instantly heartened.
Her call came as I’d been ruminating over how to bring Sensei’s teachings into the light from the archive material he left in my care (videos, photos, letters) and from the everyday notes kept in journals through the decade spent by his side as his wife and translator. Many people have asked when I was going to make these archives available and what my plans are. It has haunted me during this time of transition since his passing. How would he want me to do this?
His style does not lend itself to systematization. There are a few teachings here and there with categories and such, but for the most part he did not teach through book learning or studied logic and generally did not indulge attempts by students to apply that kind of thinking to kyudo practice. He taught by example in everything he did, through subtle communication, through his refined attunement to each moment and his fearless, natural presence within it. For this reason, it has not made much sense to me to create an “archive” in the traditional style of a library where people can search keywords and look up talks by date and such. In doing so, I fear the true richness and poignancy of his teachings would be lost and I don’t think he would have had much interest in such a project. (For an example of his view of what an archive should be, stay tuned for a future post: Shibata Sensei visits the archives of Trungpa Rinpoche in Halifax.)
Finding Sensei’s Kami in a thrift shop struck me as an apt omen, in keeping with his style. He had a bearing of impeccable elegance, but spent so much of his life in rugged circumstances. He often received compliments on this old tweed sports coat that somehow remained crisp and fresh as he sported it for some twenty years. In response, he’d proudly declare how he’d found it a “long time before, for five dollars in the second shop!”
In this era of “things” (mono no jidai, as he called it), fueled by the hunger for material wealth and newness, he had a gift for drawing the richness out of whatever he touched: a yumi, a cup of tea, a dead mouse, the heart of a restaurant waiter, the movement of stars in the night sky. Thus, to the earthly life around him, no matter how dim, dusty, scattered or confused, he brought a refined presence, a gentle, fearless radiance. Like a Kami in an old thrift shop.
It would be foolish to imagine that the repository of Sensei’s teachings could be held by a single person. These are gems scattered all about, placed in the hearts of his students, new and old, in twenty-year-olds who vividly remember their only meeting with him when they took first shot at the age of eight, in the many people he encountered. My hope is that this blog will become a place where these gems can surface, coming into the light for others to see.
The aesthetic choice of sharing in blog format is to give the necessary space for contemplation and absorption of singular teaching moments, calligraphies, quotes, a few minutes of video extracted from a talk—again, more in keeping with his style than providing a deluge of information. If, in the end, a repository is created that demands more organization or a broader format, we’ll keep that possibility open. Until then, I hope you can simply take a moment here and there to enjoy these gems from the Kyudo Master as they naturally surface.
(Kami photos courtesy of Lauren Sanford)
This blog is dedicated to the rare and great meditation masters helping sentient beings to find their way.
May everyone benefit.
The material on this website is copyrighted. All rights reserved.
Unless otherwise noted, ©2016 Carolyn Kanjuro.
Banner photo, Sensei in full draw ©Marvin Ross.