an opening

For the first time in weeks, it felt like an opening. Fresh sky, cleansed from last night’s rain, birdsong. Do you want me to set up a target, he asked, and I thought, yes, that’s exactly what I want: my feet in the moss, the bow in my hands, string pulled to my cheek, the arrows alive in the air. I shot four arrows at a time and only one tumbled to the ground, the others reaching the box with the target taped to it, a few them finding the inner rings of the target itself. It felt like an opening, like I was opening a little from the days of despair, the sleepless nights, the difficult thinking. I don’t know if there will ever be a time like last summer, 4 children wanting their grandfather to teach them archery, and the bows strung, the arrows waiting in the holder held upright by stones. I don’t know. But there was an opening and I let myself through.

The bow (βιός) is called life (βίος) but its work is death. Bows were once strung with gut or sinew or rawhide. In their strings, an ancient music, a difficult tension, the bow itself turned back, a turning harmony as we hold it up, our hands finding the right position for the arrow, grip on the riser, our eye on the target, tension in our left hand, strength in our shoulder as we pull back. We hope for our arrow to sail true. Watching, we rub our arms, feel the ligaments pull, as we pulled back, took the tension into our shoulders, our bodies adjusting to the requirements of the weapon. It will take awhile.

After the grandchildren return to their homes, I keep a leather glove by the door so that I can quickly go out when I have some time, its close fit and surface serving the function as a shooting glove. I thought I would order string for the oldest bow, the one that was my husband’s as a young teenaged boy, but the more time I spend with the smallest bow, I realize I’ve found the one that feels the most comfortable. I can string it easily, remembering Odysseus:

like a musician, like a harper, when
with quiet hand upon his instrument
he draws between his thumb and forefinger
a sweet new string upon a peg: so effortlessly
Odysseus in one motion strung the bow.
Then slid his right hand down the cord and plucked it,
so the taut gut vibrating hummed and sang
a swallow’s note. (21: 375-382, Fitzgerald trans.)

Our target is in the shadow of the swallow’s house and listen, listen, even in quiet winter you can hear the hum and thok of the bow (there are gods here, too), its string alert, its lively arrows, and although everything is put away, the young buck steps up the green path tentatively, alert to the old music.

Note: the passage is from an essay, “On Swimming and the Origins of String”. (The essay moves from left and right justification on the page to echo the movement of swimming and archery and this particular passage is right-justified.)