A young child was born to a very influential family. At a young age he showed a propensity for archery. He wielded a bow like it was simply an extension of his body. At dinner parties he would be paraded into the spacious front room and he would target balloons set free by the guests. Teachers and coaches became staples of his young life. Christmas and birthdays brought new bows and new arrows to keep up with improving technology and blossoming skills.
The den became the trophy room, first filled with ribbons and later trophies. The balloons at dinner parties became tossed tennis balls and later golf balls that were skewered with precision by titanium tipped laser sharpened arrows. Family vacations were planned around guest appearances at international events demonstrating his mastery of the bow.
Soon there wasn’t a competition he hadn’t mastered. There wasn’t another archer who would volunteer to shoot against him.
His father scoured the world for a worthy opponent. Lucrative endorsement deals demanded exposure. Adoration and recognition required bigger and better victories.
Rumors of a priest in an obscure land who never missed his target began to surface. Speculation and curiosity drove an intensive search. Emissaries were sent, venues scouted and finally he was found. It was agreed that any proceeds would benefit those less fortunate and he acquiesced.
The day was clear with the slightest breeze. There was a slight chill in the air making conditions perfect. A target was placed and line set. The young man with the latest compound bow, laser sight, carbon arrows with titanium tips walked to the line. He lifted a hand to the on looking crowd and paused to have is image recorded by the hordes of photographers at the event. As he turned to the target a hush came over the crowd. He adjusted his sights and drew back the string. The arrow flew straight and true to the target.
Just to the left of dead center it landed with a familiar “whack”. He smiled, it was a beautiful shot. The crowd erupted with a cheer.
The old priest appeared from behind the grand stands. He walked slowly and deliberately towards the line. He looked back at the grandstands with a look of wonder and curiosity. Without much more of an acknowledgement he tested the string on his simple bow. His arrow was a simple stick that had been whittled more or less straight. Likewise the feathers were obviously from an old hen and the point simply made with a pencil sharpener.
When he lifted the bow, the crowd quieted, muffled laughter erupted. He looked to the target and with the ease and grace the arrow flew. The flight swam and floated on the breeze before it too hit the target. Just inside the young man’s mark and closer to the center. Neither arrow had hit dead center, a condition required to win the contest.
A second target was prepared. The old priest asked that it be moved further away and the young man agreed.
Again at the line, the young man looked to the grasses willowing in the breeze and made adjustments. He gazed through the magnified sight and practiced the easy breathing he’d been taught. The draw and release were seamless and the arrow flew straight and fast, but missed the target sliding through the grass just beside.
The priest stood again at the line. He looked toward the target, feeling the breeze blow his wisps of hair from his face. As he raised his bow, his eyes closed. Without a pause or adjustment the arrow flew. Just as before its flight wandered and swam through the air before landing dead center in the target.
The young man was dumbfounded. He looked to the grandstands to see awe and shock in the crowd. He searched the crowd to see his father on the phone, unfazed by his first loss.
“How is this possible” he approached the priest. “How could I miss and you find the target with just a stick?” His eyes fixed on his opponent. Their eyes met.
“What is it that your heart truly desires?” He asked. The young man’s face scrunches up in anger and disbelief.
“What do you mean, my heart’s desire?” incredulous and now shaking.
“The heart always finds its target. The heart never fails.” His eyes unwavering he continues, “I love the arrow, its heart’s desire to be united with the target. My heart, its heart sing together a love song to the target. The heart never misses.”
The young man pauses. A tear wells. He looks to the crowd now in shock and muttering to see a man, a father on the phone. “To be seen and loved.” The words trip from quivering lips.
“You are.” He pauses, “and your heart’s desire has found its mark.”
The den became the trophy room, first filled with ribbons and later trophies. The balloons at dinner parties became tossed tennis balls and later golf balls that were skewered with precision by titanium tipped laser sharpened arrows. Family vacations were planned around guest appearances at international events demonstrating his mastery of the bow.
Soon there wasn’t a competition he hadn’t mastered. There wasn’t another archer who would volunteer to shoot against him.
His father scoured the world for a worthy opponent. Lucrative endorsement deals demanded exposure. Adoration and recognition required bigger and better victories.
Rumors of a priest in an obscure land who never missed his target began to surface. Speculation and curiosity drove an intensive search. Emissaries were sent, venues scouted and finally he was found. It was agreed that any proceeds would benefit those less fortunate and he acquiesced.
The day was clear with the slightest breeze. There was a slight chill in the air making conditions perfect. A target was placed and line set. The young man with the latest compound bow, laser sight, carbon arrows with titanium tips walked to the line. He lifted a hand to the on looking crowd and paused to have is image recorded by the hordes of photographers at the event. As he turned to the target a hush came over the crowd. He adjusted his sights and drew back the string. The arrow flew straight and true to the target.
Just to the left of dead center it landed with a familiar “whack”. He smiled, it was a beautiful shot. The crowd erupted with a cheer.
The old priest appeared from behind the grand stands. He walked slowly and deliberately towards the line. He looked back at the grandstands with a look of wonder and curiosity. Without much more of an acknowledgement he tested the string on his simple bow. His arrow was a simple stick that had been whittled more or less straight. Likewise the feathers were obviously from an old hen and the point simply made with a pencil sharpener.
When he lifted the bow, the crowd quieted, muffled laughter erupted. He looked to the target and with the ease and grace the arrow flew. The flight swam and floated on the breeze before it too hit the target. Just inside the young man’s mark and closer to the center. Neither arrow had hit dead center, a condition required to win the contest.
A second target was prepared. The old priest asked that it be moved further away and the young man agreed.
Again at the line, the young man looked to the grasses willowing in the breeze and made adjustments. He gazed through the magnified sight and practiced the easy breathing he’d been taught. The draw and release were seamless and the arrow flew straight and fast, but missed the target sliding through the grass just beside.
The priest stood again at the line. He looked toward the target, feeling the breeze blow his wisps of hair from his face. As he raised his bow, his eyes closed. Without a pause or adjustment the arrow flew. Just as before its flight wandered and swam through the air before landing dead center in the target.
The young man was dumbfounded. He looked to the grandstands to see awe and shock in the crowd. He searched the crowd to see his father on the phone, unfazed by his first loss.
“How is this possible” he approached the priest. “How could I miss and you find the target with just a stick?” His eyes fixed on his opponent. Their eyes met.
“What is it that your heart truly desires?” He asked. The young man’s face scrunches up in anger and disbelief.
“What do you mean, my heart’s desire?” incredulous and now shaking.
“The heart always finds its target. The heart never fails.” His eyes unwavering he continues, “I love the arrow, its heart’s desire to be united with the target. My heart, its heart sing together a love song to the target. The heart never misses.”
The young man pauses. A tear wells. He looks to the crowd now in shock and muttering to see a man, a father on the phone. “To be seen and loved.” The words trip from quivering lips.
“You are.” He pauses, “and your heart’s desire has found its mark.”
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