My neighbor Annie came to me one day and asked if I would teach her how to shoot a bow. I’ve been an archer for many years and, at 18, she had taken an interest in my daily regimen of stringing my bow, stretching, and shooting arrow after arrow into the target I had set up against the back wall of my garage. Today she would learn something about discipline and self-control by merely noting the seemingly haphazard flight of an arrow…something called “the archer’s paradox.”
“Hi,” she said, as she approached me while I was stretching my arms and back, getting limbered up to begin shooting. “Ed, you know, I’ve been watching you do this for years, and I never thought much about what you do until now. Can I watch awhile?”
“Sure, hon, you can watch.” I replied, noticing her eyes were a little red and puffy. I guess she’d been crying. “Would you like to talk for awhile, first?”
She hesitated, looked down at the ground and toyed with a small stone with the toe of her sandal. “No…I think I’d like to learn.” She fiddled her hands nervously. She had something to say.
“Annie…what’s the matter? You look a little on edge.”
“It’s my Mom. She wants me to go to college.” She looked back up at me, tears beginning to well up in her eyes again. “I don’t want to go, Ed. I just want to . . . you know . . . I just want . . . .”
Annie’s mom had just finalized her divorce with the girl’s father. They had been a close family until the day Frank came home and announced he was leaving. No warning, no hints…he was just leaving. Wife, his only kid, everything and everybody. He’d sometimes come over and have a beer with me as I sat on my front porch relaxing after a day of writing. He never said anything, even to me, that suggested he might be on the move. Guys usually know this stuff, they’ll share something with a buddy, especially over a beer. It’s a “guy thing,” I guess. Heck, I don’t know. And I don’t know what was up with him. But, one day in June, he just made his announcement, packed his car and left. Really weird. Poor kid. Her dad’s there one day, and gone the next.
“So, what’s wrong with college? You’ll learn a lot of new stuff, meet new kids, and do a lot of new things.” I said to her, trying not to sound like I was on her mom’s side, just giving her something to think about.
“No. I don’t want to…look…are you going to teach me to shoot or not?” Her long auburn hair fell across her face. Small strands stuck to her cheek where her tears were now drying. “Well? Or do I have to put up with your bull, too?”
I could see she was reaching out and the last thing she needed was me trying to do anything even close to suggesting college would be good for her. I put my hands up in front up me, feigning fear. “Okay…okay…I’ll chill…geez. Lemme go inside and get a better bow for you, okay?”
I handed my bow to her while I went in to get the light target bow I use for teaching beginners. When I came back out with the bow, a handful of practice arrows and a leather arm guard and shooting glove, I noticed she was trying to draw my target bow. “You’ll never get anywhere like that. It’s too much bow for you.”
“What the heck is this?” she asked. “I can’t hardly bend it.” The six-foot long bow almost dwarfed her five-foot-four frame.“
It’s a copy of an Indian long bow. It’s six-feet long, made of solid ash and takes 70 pounds to draw. Right now, that’s you trying to pull a car with two fingers.”
“Daaang,” she said, handing me the bow. “How do you do it? I see you pull it like a hundred times every day.”
I handed the lighter bow to her. “Here, get the feel for this. Just pull the string a little bit to feel the flex.” As I spoke, she pulled the bowstring and seemed pleased it was easier to pull than mine. “Annie, I draw this bow every day, you’re right, about a hundred times. It’s something I work at and work at until I feel good about my progress.”
“But, why so much?” she asked. “Aren’t you as good as you’re going to get? Why so many arrows? What a pain in the butt.”
“Well, look at it this way. If I can do this every day, and do it well over and over again, I know that it’s the one thing I’ll do that day that lets me see immediate results. So, for each arrow I shoot, I get immediate feedback.”
She nodded slightly in acknowledgment, though I’m not sure she appreciated the value of my regimen. I showed her how to wear the arm guard that would protect her left arm from the bowstring. She put on the shooting glove on her right hand. “You’ll hold the bow in your left hand and draw the string with your right. Without the arm guard and glove, shooting the bow can be a really bad trip.”
I walked her within 20 feet of the target. “Now, watch me, and listen as I go through the process.”
“Don’t you just pull the string back and let it go?” She asked.
“No, this is a process, just like anything else, it takes work and dedication, but it’s worth the effort. Just watch now, okay?” I nocked an arrow onto my bowstring and pulled the string and arrow until my right thumb was touching the corner of my mouth. The finely shaped ash bow bent a gentle curve that belied the extreme energy stored within its straining wood fibers. “Now, when I release the string, the arrow will fly and hit the target. Watch.” I let loose the arrow and it struck the target dead center, tore completely through the bale of hay it was mounted to, and buried itself in the wooden garage wall with a crack that sounded like a firecracker.
“Wow…, that’s something.” she said, her mouth agape. “Can I do that?
“Well, not with that bow, but one day we’ll get you a bow that can do that, if you want.” I noticed her eyes went from swollen and red to alert and eager. “Okay, now it’s your turn.”
I showed her how to nock the arrow onto the string and balance the bow between the thumb and index finger of her left hand. “Don’t grasp the bow, cradle it. It’s the tool that will make your arrow fly…think of it as your tool of destiny…cradle it, don’t strangle it.”
She nodded and let the bow lay loosely in her hand. With my instruction, she slowly pulled the string and its arrow back until her thumb was resting at the corner of her mouth. “Now, let the string pull away from your fingers,” I said as her bow began to quiver. The arrow quickly flew from the bow and buried itself in the wall, completely missing the target.
“What happened?” she asked, not believing she could miss the target from mere feet.
“I bet you took your eyes off the target, huh. You were looking beyond the target, expecting the arrow to go through it like mine and that’s what you hit. But you didn’t hit your target, huh.”
With that admonishment in mind she began hitting the target. Not in the center, but getting closer and closer with each shot. After a dozen shots or so she was beginning to tire. “Okay, let’s take a break, okay?” I said, seeing an opportunity to “not” talk about school.As we sat on the porch she talked about her mom and dad and how she couldn’t understand how he could just leave like that. My own dad had walked out on our family, too, and even though I didn’t want it to, his leaving still had an effect on me after more than 30 years. Annie just needed someone to make her feel wanted. Not a replacement dad, or a boyfriend, just a friend to let her know she’d be okay.
“Ready to shoot some more?” I asked.“Yeah…that was cool…can we try it from farther out?”
“Sure, let’s try from about 20 yards instead of 20 feet.” I figured the worst she could do was just put more holes in my garage wall. What the heck.
Her first shot found its way into the wall after skipping off the garage floor. “That was weird, Ed…did you see that?”
“What, you killed the floor?”
“No, the arrow wobbled all over the place…I could see it. No wonder I hit the floor.”
“No, what you just experienced is called the archer’s paradox. You hit the floor because that’s what you were aiming at. Keep your eye on the target and shoot for the top of the bulls eye, allow for the arrow to drop a little bit as it slows down.”
“Okay…aim a little higher….the archer’s what?” She asked with a quizzical look on her face.
“The archer’s paradox. Here, watch mine, I’ll shoot a slow arrow so you can see it.” I loosed an arrow that wobbled as it went down-range. Its head went from right to left in a slight arc of flight, looking every bit like a drunk walking down the street after a night of partying. “See how it bends? The arrowhead moves right and left and seems to straighten out just before hitting the target. The archer’s paradox, pretty cool, huh.”
“It…uh…it just goes all over, but you still hit that target. Why?”
“Well,” I said as I nocked another arrow onto the string. “When the string pushes the arrow, it bends just a little. Then as the arrow flies past the grip of the bow, it’s rubbing against it and bends some more.” I made a snaking motion with my right hand, mimicking the arrow’s flight. “So, the arrow is flexing right and left trying to straighten out in time before it gets to the target. That’s the paradox, a wobbly, bendy stick can find the target.” I loosed the second arrow at the same speed and it struck the arrow I had just shot, shattering it into splinters. “See?” I nocked and shot a third and it barely missed the two already in the target. “People are like that a lot of times, too.” I said, seeing a chance to slip in some adult wisdom without my student realizing it.
Caught off guard, Annie took the bait. “People? What do you mean, people?”
“Well, if you look at some people, take me for example,” I said as I nocked yet another arrow, letting the bow rest in my hand. “I’ve done a lot of things in my life. I’ve pumped gas, been in the military, traveled, sailed,…all sorts of things, and now I write, and all the while trying to finish college.”
She stood her ground, trapped by the quizzical flight of the arrow and my explanation.
“I’m way older than you, and still don’t have a degree. But I’m still going.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, now completely involved in what I was saying.
“Okay, look at it this way…I’m like that arrow…I start down-range, flying as fast as I can…but in the mean time, my head goes one way, then the other and then back again. It’s like I don’t know where I’m going. I scare the dickens out of my family, and even myself at times. However, I figure as long as I keep going down range, I’ll be okay. As long as I eventually hit my target…and not the wall.”
“So, you’re saying it’s okay to be wobbly,” the mental picture she got made her snicker. “Just as long as you keep heading down range and not give up?”
“Well, yeah,” I said, hoping I was getting my point across. “The problem comes in if a strong wind, or even a light one, blows you off course. Then like it or not, you might still hit the wall before you ever reach the target.”
She looked down at the ground mulling over my words.
“Annie, its okay to wobble a little, just like that arrow. But, the longer you wobble, the more chances you have at missing the target. Don’t you think it’s better to like, shoot as straight as you can, hit your target, and let the wind take care of itself?”
“Yeah, maybe it is.” She looked up at me again and squinted her eyes. “I thought I said I didn’t want to talk about college?”
“Who said anything about college? Not me…I’m just talking about arrows.” I said, feigning innocence this time, instead of fear.
“You think I should go to college, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said, raising my bow for another shot. “I think you should…you can wobble anytime.” I let the arrow fly on its own wobbly course…this time, (I swear I didn’t plan it.) it bounced off the garage floor and hit Annie’s first, misguided arrow, dead-center. Coolly, I turned back to her as she was stifling a laugh. “Well? Ya gonna shoot, or what?”
