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On a chilly autumn night, I sit next to my campfire sharpening sticks into arrows. The task seems mindless, but I am most certainly not absent of thought. Shavings fall to the ground after that most satisfying sound of metal shaving wood. With every downward stroke of my knife, another memory of a loosed arrow. The misses, the hits, the critical strikes that decided an outcome- they all flash before me, through the lens of one eye staring down the shaft of this simple, timeless, and trusty tool- the arrow. Some think archery is a natural talent that can't be learned. Maybe they are right. How do you teach someone to predict a step? How could you guide someone to feel the wind? Maybe you can't. I raise the sharpened stick to eye level, admiring my handy work with a grin and a swift blow of air to rid any remaining wood dust. I myself was given pointers. I was shown technique. I watched master marksmen knock arrows in the blink of an eye, then loose a hail of fury from the sky that didn't seem humanly possible. Does any of that matter without a born knack for bowmanship? "Who knows" I say to myself with a shrug before tucking another perfectly crafted arrow into the quiver resting against my knee. | |