Our Shire New Year ignited with a late afternoon sundog and a contorting rainbow which resolved into an convergence of opposing arcs. Simmering in a stew of pinks eluding definitive names, the sun became lost in a skyfield of purest, colorless light––like a radiance “behind the sun.” Disarmed before the visionary scene, we reclined in …
December twilight, and a waxing moon looks over my shoulder bored with another obligatory ode. But tonight I’ve got a date with Orion; its a long drive, but he’s got a cool dog and a fine bow––he lost that silly club years ago. …
The Line-of-the-mark establishes an archer’s orientation on the range, the intelligible path his arrows fly at release. Easily overlooked in practice, the simple act of taking a stand is fundamental. Only then can the range be defined––brought into view. If the range is hosted the archer listens for permission coming in the declarative, “All-clear!” Over …
Cycles, like the rise and fall of ocean tides, come and go. Obvious as this is, we’re prone to resent the fact, in favorable circumstances, to the point of illusion. Things and situations that reach to us through intention and struggle often become “objects” of devotion; we give them the possessive pronoun, while in moments …
Rain can spoil an archer’s day, while conspiring with a writer’s muse. Such was tournament day. Decisions taken, plans made, grounds prepared, practice and practice on the Archer’s Green, as our intentions, like raised flags, came into sharp relief. But rhythms more comprehensive than these prevail––sometimes dramatically––and so the geometry of one possibility, with all …
Our vigil nearly done; the fire embers drowning in ash. We watched the full moon go new, then suddenly wax again––a month coiled into 5 hours. We fed our fire on pine knots and burned our way through the dragon, arriving safely on another shore––the moon shared a few secrets along the way. I was …
December in Montana gave me a chance to renew a brotherhood and walk some remarkable country. The snowfall was significant and taught me new ways of walking. Returning to Georgia in January, the rivers run high and the land saturated from frequent rains; its a different sort of cold here. Water, encountered in so many …
Wild Persimmons bring our solar year to a sweet conclusion. A young fruitful tree on the point of a small island at Hunnicutt Lake, drew me to paddle over. Under a grey December sky and before a crowd of slumbering trees, the fruit was glowing like amber-lit ornaments. Under the spell of a sentiment, I declared it …
In a manner of speaking, and from a certain angle, body leads in archery. Discipline of form carries the student through the usual awkwardness to a wonderful sense of rhythm and ease. The archer’s body gradually awakens, pivots from reaction to response––wasting tensions dissolve into the joy of holding a purposeful draw. Engaged with its …
