learning

I picked up the long, light wooden bow and went outside with my brothers to try shooting with it. It was a windy day and our first time to use the bow: we all felt clumsy. The arrows didn't go very far. None of mine hit the target. As I passed the bow to one of my brothers he turned and accidentally poked me in the stomach with an arrow. Concernedly, he asked if I was alright. I assured him that I was. It had only made a small red mark. We shot for a little while before again drawing indoors.
Later that afternoon my brother-in-law took the bow and tried his hand at it. When I went outside to watch he showed me that I had been holding it wrong. I had been pulling back on the arrow when I should have notched it and pulled back simply on the string. I had only ever shot with bows and arrows I made myself as a child from pliable juniper branches, peeled smooth, and the perfectly straight stalks of yucca plants. I had only ever shot as best I could from those, and as a child it was enough.
Now I took the bow in my hands and held it the correct way. I stood straight, focused on the target, and pulled the string back as far and tight as I could. When I let it go, the arrow went singing through the air and sank into the target. A satisfying feeling.


As a girl, my siblings and I all played characters from Robin Hood. We would have our own Sherwood Forest. We'd make pointed hats, and of course bows and arrows. We had grand adventures. These days my adventures are more real and less pretend, often less exciting but sometimes more so. I'm not pretending to be Maid Marion anymore, but I still see clearly that there's something strong, a little romantic in it's old-fashionedness, and fearlessly beautiful about picking up a bow an arrow, pulling it taut, and letting it whistle purposefully through the air. Something I won't ever grow away from.