The Art of AimingAs human beings, our minds seem innately wired to seek some sort of goal. “Aim high!” we are told by our parents, our teachers, our colleagues. Whether the child playing marbles with friends, the young student taking a mathematics exam, or the professional driving to work, we all strive for such excellence, each in our own way.
Of course, seeking these goals can be magnificent. We need to develop our skills and be successful. However, if we pursue our goals in an ill-considered manner, is there not sometimes a hidden cost? What if after working long and hard to achieve success, I nevertheless wind up feeling discontented or disoriented, as if I somehow missed the mark?
What, really, was I aiming for in the first place?
Recently, I’ve taken up photography as a pastime, and once again, I find myself striving, this time to take the perfect photograph (or two, or three, or many hundreds). I want the photo’s composition to be beautifully balanced, the colors vibrant, the subject precisely focused. Here again, the pursuit of excellence seems to fuel the drive, but I’m not sure my framing it in exactly this way is ideal. Agreed, excellence matters, but is it not important to ask: What is its measure?
The Japanese have a form of archery called kyudo. While accurately hitting the target is regarded as important, other equally important factors come into play. Walking slowly and carefully up to one’s station; placing the feet and aligning one’s posture correctly; readying and raising the bow; fully drawing it; spontaneously releasing the arrow; and most important of all, sustaining a calm, equanimous state of mind before and after the arrow’s release, regardless of the outcome. In fact, the intent of the art is cultivating a beautifully balanced, disciplined, non-attached mind, rather than one that habitually grasps after tangible results.
Perhaps, like the kyudo practitioner, I could now try to take the next photo more quietly, with my mind more settled, my senses open and aware. And then release the shot.
