The most spiritual thing you can do is to learn to give and receive love, and this has nothing to do with shakuhachi. In this respect, we can say that shakuhachi has nothing to do with spirituality. True spirituality, however, has everything to do with everything. One of my favorite spiritual classics is the account of Brother Lawrence entitled Practicing the Presence of God. He made it his practice to cultivate an awareness of God's presence into everything he did - cutting wood, cooking, welcoming visitors, etc. - and so everything he did became an act of love and worship. In this sense, anything can become a spiritual practice - a place to cultivate your awareness of the eternal in what you are doing presently. In my experience, shakuhachi is quite well-suited for this, and can be uniquely useful in making us more aware of ourselves and the world around us. The following are a few things that I've observed along these lines.
In both Christianity and Buddhism, striving is a major issue. We strive to be good, but our efforts often end in strife. Unless we can rest in faith that things are ok, we never seem to grow. That's why one of Jesus' followers wrote that we must "strive to enter his rest." If you're going to expend effort in something, let it be the sort of effort that is directed towards letting go of your striving effort to change yourself or others. The only thing that will change you is to fearlessly admit your moral failings, and to rest in the fact that you're still loved anyway, just as you are.
Shakuhachi has a way of making us very aware of this process. Your sound is you. It's your breath, which in Hebrew is synonymous with your very life. It's constantly changing, moving in and out, different from moment to moment. Sometimes it's slow and relaxed, other times tense and fast. This comes out in your playing. Do you notice it? "I'm feeling stressed." "I'm happy today." "My breath is kind of short today." "My breath is longer and more relaxed right now." Shakuhachi as a spiritual practice must be a true sound. If you have a sound that you're aiming for, you'll never be satisfied. The goal is to accept your sound right now, as it is. This is why to me, the best teachers don't tell you how you should sound. They have a sound that is their own, and is often excellent, but they don't criticize you for sounding a certain way, because that won't get you anywhere. The only way to make a beautiful sound is to be OK with your sound when it's not beautiful - and even to find beauty in its unbeautifulness. If our child gives us a messy painting and says, "It's you, Daddy!" we will see nothing but beauty there. For me, my sound is an offering of myself to God. I know that God sees my messy offerings the same way I see my daughter's drawings. If we, being fallen and imperfect, can love so deeply, I think the God who made us can, too. If you don't believe in God, you can still imagine that the unchanging, invisible, eternal aspect of the universe is still connected with us, and accepts us in something like love.
Shakuhachi has contributed to my awareness of how much I judge and criticize myself, and how much I strive for perfection. Sometimes, in fact, the best thing to do is to stop playing. I play when I want to, because I enjoy it. There are many things in this life that we have to do - breathe, eat, work - and they are not always pleasant. We don't have to play shakuhachi, though. Let it be enjoyable. Don't pressure yourself into perfection. As I become aware that I'm in a mode of criticizing myself, I can give myself an antidote. One is simply changing what I say to myself. There is a Zen saying that every day is a good day. For a Christian, every day is a day that we can spend in God's presence, whether it brings success or failure, fortune or misfortune. So for us, too, every day is a good day. In the same sense, every sound that shows your heart/mind is a good sound. This sound, this mind is another opportunity for intimacy. Call it a good sound. As we learn to accept our unacceptable parts, we learn to accept those of others as well. In fact, this is another antidote to self-criticism: stop looking at yourself.
When I fist started playing shakuhachi, I almost never made a "good" sound. But as I traveled with my shakuhachi, people would often ask me to play. Instead of feigning humility with an "Oh, no, I'm not so good" (I knew I wasn't a pro, but I just liked shakuhachi so much that I really did want to share it with people) or giving in to what people would think about me, I just played for them. This was a great practice in vulnerability. I found that in most cases, since they had asked me to play, people were willing to accept whatever it was that came out. I did suspect at times that people were "being nice" with their responses, but I learned not to let that bother me, either. All you can give people is yourself. You do have to choose who you want to be vulnerable around, but if you sense that you're welcome, then go ahead and open yourself up to them. When you give your true self, you may give some things that are hard for some people to deal with. This is especially true in very intimate friendships like marriage. You can be sure, though, that whether the other person accepts it or not, these are extraordinarily precious gifts.
Playing for others, or with others, helps us to take attention off of ourselves. This includes not just people, but nature as well, and even God. Just be aware of the other. If you are playing for people, pick just one person who you can tell is welcoming you, and play to their heart. If you can't find a person like that, let yourself be part of the environment. Listen to the sounds around you, feel the space, smell the scents, and let your sound grow out of them. No need to rush it. If you're outside, watch the leaves swaying in the wind or the water flowing by, and let your sound join them as you listen. This can be a very pleasurable way to play, and can help you release feelings in your playing that you hadn't been aware of before.
This is one way to pray using the shakuhachi. For me, shakuhachi expresses much of what is in the psalms, the prayer-song book of the Bible. The center of it all is "I see that what You really want is truth in the innermost being." and "Pour out your heart at all times." Whether the playing is frustrating and full of our busy / critical mind, or whether it's a pleasurable song played by a river, it is a true expression of ourselves at that moment. It's the most rewarding, of course, when emotions flow freely - sadness, joy, and everything in between - but the dry times when nothing seems to be happening are just as important, and still count as prayer in my book.
Improvising is sometimes the best way to do this, and shakuhachi, with its five holes, is very forgiving in this area. As long as you can make a sound, just throw together a combination of those five basic notes, and it will sound good. Honkyoku (I much prefer the simple, primative myoan scores here to the more detailed, modern honkyoku, but so long as you can memorize it and allow yourself room for expression, it's fine. Katsuya Yokoyama's honkyoku are to me much more detailed and modernized, but even he played them slightly differently each time. Let it be your music. That's what honkyoku means - hon-nin no (that person's) kyoku (music)) can be very good too. These ancient pieces are all expressions of deep human experience that we all share, and as such can be used as a meditation or directed to God as a prayer. Taki-ochi, which pictures a waterfall, is great for expressing longing and sorrow. I relate it to Psalm 42, which says "The deep (in me) calls to the deep (in You) at the sound of your waterfalls." San-ya, or "Three Valleys," is about knowing God's presence in the midst of difficulty, loss, and depression. "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil - because you are with me." God is with me when I sense his presence, and he's with me when I don't. When I lost my baby son to a miscarriage, and had no idea what to think, this was and is my comfort. God doesn't care about answering our questions as much as he cares about being present to us through everything. He suffers with us, and that turns our suffering into something else. It's only truly suffering when we think that we're disconnected and alone. That's never true. You're not alone.
I love shakuhachi at its roots for being something that embraces solitude. I'm someone who needs a lot of time to myself, and I love being alone, so improvised prayer and personalized honkyoku are where I feel most at home. Still, our lives are meant to be connected and shared. Being alone connects me with God and with myself, and this allows me to be more deeply and intimately connected with others. Playing for other people can be a wonderful gift when it is welcome. Playing together with others is even better. Playing honkyoku and improvising with others is probably my favorite. Playing modern music can be fun as well, though - I especially like gagaku (imperial court music) with its slow, majestic harmonies, arranged for several shakuhachi. I suppose this isn't quite "modern," though!
Whenever we have an opportunity to get together and share shakuhachi (and hopefully much more than that), it's a blessing. In the world of shakuhachi, it seems to be especially easy to fall into the trap of judgment - "my way / school / etc. is better than yours." This comes from a genuine feeling that our way is special, and it is. The best way to express this, I've found, is just to be aware that my way is what I like. That's all. Maybe at the end of the day certain aspects of certain styles are actually better in certain ways. From a musician's standpoint, the more modern honkyoku pieces may be "better" than the primitive myoan pieces that I like. From a monk's perspective, though, the primitive pieces may be "better." Or maybe not. It depends on what you're doing with it, and what you like, and what you're used to. The simple fact of being more familiar with a certain style can make it more well-suitied for you for the purspose of music or meditation. The great privilige we have when getting together is that we get to share these things. Sometimes people in the abstract might look to our selfish selves as "competition" and objects of criticism, but when we actually meet them, we usually find them to be just as complex and interesting as ourselves, with something to offer us and something to learn from us as well, no matter our differences in skills or experience.