The sound of the birds
Interrupting my focus
And my sanity
“Dad, stop holding my arms!” Ten year old me screamed at my dad, holding on to the grip of the bow for dear life.
I remember thinking of the birds. Oh how I wished I could just shoot the birds! But I was nowhere near that skill level yet. All the chirping, the slap of their wings against the air, them soaring so high above me, while I was stuck here. Stuck on the ground. Birds have always been a fear of mine; Ever since the little monsters housed themselves in mailboxes and dive bombed you as you walked by. Seeing them just fifty feet away from me was not helping my focus, especially since they could fly as fast as my arrow piercing the target.
“I won’t let go, not until I trust you won’t hit the pool.” He responded with such ease, while I was shaking because I didn’t want to hurt him.
Ten-year-old me shooting arrows with a thirty pound bow was probably not the best scenario, but I was determined to learn. Ever since my grandpa showed me the stacks of bows and arrows he had, it was all I wanted to do. As a child, I have always dreamed of being able to have those silent moments with my grandfather where we would just shoot and enjoy the day, little did I know, that would never happen.
“I won’t dad. I promise. Now let go.” I remember being so confident that I could do it. I could not say the same for my dad though.
Something I can never forget about that moment is the smile on my dad’s face when I told him I wanted to learn. Archery was something he enjoyed as a kid, and now he was passing it on to me. I just wish these stupid birds would be quiet, unless they want me to shoot the pool.
“Fine. Don’t cry when you don’t hit the bullseye.” I remember being so angry, yet motivated by that comment.
Honestly, I think dad knew that it would motivate me. Whenever someone tells me I can’t or won’t do something, it just makes me want to do it more. Pulling back the string of the bow, I honed my focus onto that circle right in the middle of the target. The bullseye. The only spot I wanted that arrow to go. Not on the outside of the target. Not lining the center. I wanted it in the dead center.
I shifted the arrow to ensure that it would end up there. Then, I let go. I let go of the arrow. I let go of my focus. I let go of the sound of those stupid birds. The look of utter shock on my dad’s face when the arrow hit the bullseye was something out of a horror movie. See, I would describe ten year old me as a complete mess. Clumsy, loud, messy, and anything under the sun. So the fact that I hit the bullseye first try was something Oscar worthy.
With the newfound confidence of that one arrow, I proceeded to shoot five more rounds, getting better and faster with each arrow. Shooting those same arrows now, almost six years later, I can feel my grandpa smiling down on me, telling my dad that his daughter is someone to be proud of.