A farmer once planted two apple seeds on the side of a wind-blown hill. The first seed was from a nearby orchard that had stood for many years and the seeds from its trees were usually planted only on his farm. The second seed was from an orchard far away. Seeds from this orchard were planted in many parts of the land.  

As the seeds began to grow they sent up shoots that sought out the sun and the moon.  The first grew tall and slender. She would labor hard to grow straight and resilient, bending with the wind. 

The second seed, because he was from trees that had seen the country, grew strong and stout. He would resist the wind and stand strong against all weather. 

As these two seeds grew into trees they found themselves growing closer and closer together. The second grew quickly and spread his limbs above the ground casting shadows where birds would rest from the sun. The first grew in the light the second would not block. She continued to grow straight and slender. With time her limbs intertwined with the branches of the second. They grew so close, one could hardly tell them apart. 

As the two trees grew side-by-side, they produced apples that were said to be the finest in all the land. They were large and sweet and had the reddest skin of apples anywhere. People came from far and wide to see the apples and remarked how good and special they were. 

One day a storm rose in the west. Winds whipped the trees and rain fell and hail pelted them without mercy. The trees stood strong because they had grown together. She bent with the torrent as it lashed the two. He stood strong and let her bend against him as he protected her from the hail and terrible wind. Storm after storm rolled through the farm and beat their way up the hillside where the two trees grew. They stood strong against the tempests and lost not a single apple. 

Then one day a storm came that brought not only wind and rain and hail, but lightning. Fierce bolts struck the earth and caused fires that raged along the countryside. But the trees stood together, hoping the lightning would keep away and move on. But alas, it would not. A huge bolt struck down at the trees, and they were split apart.

The first tree bent away from the second as the howling winds bowed her trunk so it would not touch the second’s. Smoke rolled around her trunk and small flames singed her bark. 

The second tree stood firm, but his bark had been burned and torn by the thunderbolt. Smoke rolled from his torn skin and flames crackled up his trunk and licked at his leaves.  

After awhile the rain quenched the flames, but the trees stood separated.

As they grew they tried to come closer again but the wind that howled up the hillside would not let them touch.  

He spread his limbs far trying to reach her, but he could not bridge the gulf that stood between them. His wounds were deep and after a time his bark grew to cover them, but he would never be strong enough to grow limbs on her side of his trunk. 

She, too, tried, but the storm had made her too flexible. Without being close to him her limbs were too supple to reach very far. The wind bent them so they would only caress his, but never actually touch. 

Each time they tried, the wind would come upon them and separate their branches by the smallest of spaces, but it was enough to keep them apart. 

One day the farmer saw that the trees were not coming together. He decided to move the second tree to another orchard where it might grow strong again. He dug the second tree out of its place along side the first and filled the hole in with soil taken from the orchard. The hole sunk just a little and left a mark where the second tree had stood. 

The farmer moved the tree to a place in another orchard where others of his kind grew. Here the tree might thrive among his own. 

After awhile both trees healed from their wounds. Their bark covered the burns the lightning had made, but the wood beneath would forever carry the mark of the storm.

The trees began to grow apples once again.  

But people said the apples were never as sweet, and as good, and as red, as when the two trees grew together…as one. 

We are held by a chain of our own making.

Like that chain, my love for you is inviolate.

 You are my anchor.  

You hold me in place; with you I have stability.

You keep me from drifting into dangerous waters.

I feel safe when chained to you.

I know you are there and I am sustained.

 You are my anchor.  

But, when chained to you, I cannot move when I must.

When the tide comes in I must be allowed to float with it,

to rise up and meet my potential.

This, I cannot do.

 You are my anchor.  

You hold me in place and don’t allow me to drift.

To stay with you, I would be stable,

never allowed to go where the tide may carry me.

 You are my anchor.  

When the water deepens around me

I must be allowed to float upon it.

If the chain that secures me to you never breaks,

my bow will be dragged beneath the waves.

I will sink to the bottom.

 You are my anchor.  

Yet my love for you is inviolate.

You are my anchor.

If I thought we would last forever,

I would gladly sink, just to be near you.

To lie beside you in the depths

and rest near you for all eternity.

 You are my anchor.  

But you are iron and I am wood.

Though we may be together my hull would rot

and my timbers would weaken.

And, in time,

I would be destroyed and would cease to exist.

Yet my love for you is inviolate.
You are my anchor.

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?”