Carlos and His Kyudo: Carlos Waits His Turn

The puddle beside the dojo path was not large enough for a duck, a boat, or even Carlos’s left shoe but he stepped carefully anyway. But it was large enough for three sparrows to take very seriously. They swooped in after Carlos had given then enough room to be brave.

One sparrow hopped to the edge and dipped its beak. The second waited on a stone. The third waited on the fence rail, fluffing itself as if patience gave it a chill. When the first sparrow hopped back, the second came forward. When the second finished, the third dropped down with a quick flutter and drank from the same small reflection of sky.

Carlos crouched beside the path, watching them a short distance away. “You have an order to things,” he whispered.

The sparrows did not answer, which Carlos decided was polite since they hadn’t been formerly introduced. They were probably saving their voices for important sparrow announcements.

Inside the dojo, the line of students looked much longer than the line to partake of the puddle. Carlos bowed at the entrance, remembered in his body even though he had only recently learned to have noticed, and stepped into the practice space with careful feet.

As usual, everyone would practice in order. The older students stood near the front to serve as examples. Newer students waited behind them to be served by the senpai. Carlos found his place in the line and tried to stand like someone who was excellent at waiting. If only being an expert in waiting didn’t take so long.

At first, waiting felt easy. Carlos watched Aiko-senpai step forward to take her turn. Her feet found the floor without. Her bow rose quietly. Her breath seemed to make more room than her whole body.

Then another student practiced. Then another. Then another after that. Carlos’s toes began counting. His fingers began checking the strap of his glove. His eyes kept visiting the front of the line, where the place that would someday be his turn remained shyly far away.

He leaned to the left to see around Kenji-senpai. Then he leaned to the right to not see past Kenji-senpai. Then he stood on the smallest possible part of his feet, which made him taller but not wiser.

Carlos could feel impatience moving around inside him like a small animal looking for a way out. It climbed into his heels, tapped at his fingers, and peeked through his eyes toward the front of the line. He had thought waiting meant keeping his body still, but now he discovered that his body had many opinions about stillness.

Kenji-senpai glanced back. “Carlos,” he said softly, “are you waiting, or are you battling impatience?”

Carlos lowered his heels. His toes were relieved. “I’m waiting,” he said. Then, after a moment, “Mostly on the outside.”

Kenji-senpai smiled a little. Then all at once Carlos had found his turn in the lesson by bumping into it.

Kenji-senpai’s words stayed with Carlos because they did not sound like a rule. They sounded like an invitation to learn, and invitations were harder to argue with. If the dojo had given the moment to someone else before him, then Carlos’ job was not to wait for the moment to end. His job was to help it be whole while it belonged to that person.

“When another person practices,” Kenji-senpai said, “the dojo has given them the moment. Can you help hold that moment for them?”

Carlos looked at the student preparing to shoot. Until then, he had been waiting for the moment after that student finished. Now he watched the current student herself. Her shoulders were trying too hard. Her hands were careful. Her breath paused, then began again.

He noticed that watching someone else carefully made his own wanting quieter. Not gone—his turn still mattered to him—but quieter, like a drum moved farther down the street. The student at the line was no longer an obstacle between Carlos and practice. She was practice.

Carlos knew that kind of peace. He had carried it in his own hands many times now.

He stopped counting turns and started noticing practice. One student remembered his feet after shifting them twice. Another student lowered the bow and began again without making a face. Aiko-senpai sneakily ushered a butterfly from the floor before stepping away. The line was not a delay. It was a window into a living stream of personalities, lives, moments.

That surprised him. He had been standing in the same place, but the line had changed shape in his mind. Before, it had been a hallway leading to Carlos. Now it was a circle of effort, each person stepping forward for a little while and then returning so someone else could enter.

Outside, through the open doorway, the sparrows returned to the puddle. One hopped forward. One waited. One watched as a lookout from the fence rail. No sparrow tried to drink through another sparrow.

Carlos breathed in. He breathed out. He let the person in front of him have the whole room.

Waiting this way took more strength than fidgeting. Fidgeting was easy because it gave impatience a job. Stillness asked impatience to sit beside him without driving. Carlos breathed again and imagined making room inside himself the same way the sparrows made room at the puddle.

When his turn finally came, it did not rush toward him like a prize. It arrived quietly, the way a place opens when the line is ready.

Carlos stepped forward. Ashibumi placed his feet. Dozukuri built his body. Yugamae prepared his hands and eyes. He could feel the waiting still with him, not pushing from behind, not pulling from ahead, but standing quietly beside him. Clearing a crowded mind as if he were a celebrity arriving to do what they were meant to do.

He lifted the bow. He opened the draw. He did not think, “Finally.” He thought, “Now.”

That word felt different from finally. ‘Finally’ belonged to wanting. ‘Now’ belonged to readiness. ‘Finally’ pulled his shoulders forward. ‘Now’ let his feet settle into the floor.

After his arrow left, Carlos stepped back from the line. Another student moved forward. For one quick breath, Carlos wanted to turn around and tell Kenji-senpai exactly how well he had waited. But the next student was already beginning, and the dojo had given that student the moment.

So Carlos kept his news quiet and helped hold the room.

It was hard, for one bright second, not to share his lesson learned immediately. Carlos wanted someone to see that he had understood. Then he remembered that understanding did not always need to be announced to become real. Understanding is just understood.

Kenji-senpai nodded once, which was somehow more satisfying than a parade.

At the end of practice, Carlos bowed with the group. The line dissolved into people putting away equipment, wiping the floor, tying bags, and speaking in soft voices. Waiting had not made Carlos smaller. It had helped him notice how many people practice could hold.

He thought about how many turns had helped his own turn arrive: Aiko-senpai’s calm example, Marcus’ careful correction, Kenji-senpai’s question, even the students who had taken longer than Carlos wanted them to. His arrow had not begun when he stepped forward. It had begun while he was learning to make room.

On the walk home, the puddle beside the path held a small piece of evening sky with an occasional moon sliver. The sparrows had left tiny marks in the mud around their puddle, each set of feet crossing and pausing and moving on while totally still.

He knelt near the water without touching it. The tiny footprints crossed and overlapped, but none stayed forever because Carlos could see them move on. Each sparrow had come, received what it needed, and left the puddle open for the next small thirst. Carlos wondered if people could leave moments open that way too.

At home that evening, he waited while his mother finished speaking before he told her about the sparrows. This was difficult because he had already arranged the story in his head and it was ready to leap. But when he waited, he heard the end of her sentence, and his own story found a better place to begin.