Thursday, August 14, 2014

Point and shoot...

Purchasing my bow.
At age 63 I bought a bow and a quiver full of arrows. Why? I’m not sure I can answer that. Maybe it’s something in the grief process that causes one to go temporarily insane.  Or, it’s me trying to connect with my inner-Robin Hood. I don’t know. Do I hunt? No. Never have. Never will. It’s just that all of a sudden I felt this urge to point and shoot. I can almost hear Gary laughing. And, I can’t wait for my grandchildren to see MeMe strap on her arm-guard and quiver. Call me Grandma Katniss.
Actually, I’ve named my bright red bow, Katniss, after the main character in the book/movie, The Hunger Games. I have this silly obsession of naming objects of affection. Hence, LuLu, my pink bike.
Grief and mourning are twins of sorts. They may look and feel alike at times, but they have different personalities. Grief was born first, with Mourning following shortly after. Both are intense and relentless. Grief comes sudden and is akin to a lightening strike. Its nickname is Lament. Mourning is a hatchet to the heart that slowly pries it open a little more each day. Both can sometimes make you do weird things... like set up a big yellow target in your backyard, count off the paces and turn and shoot.
I love the sound of the arrow penetrating the target. It’s swift and almost smacks in a whisper. I love the pull of the string and that quiet moment right before I let go. I take a deep breath; draw the bow, focus, and release.
It’s almost like a prayer.
Does that sound silly? If it does, well, humor me. I’m in mourning. With each release I can feel myself relax a bit more. For that brief nano-second as I’m peering down the shaft of the arrow a calm comes over me. I am totally alone, nothing else matters. My task is simple. Point and shoot.
Simple is my quest these days. After three years of doctors and hospitals and losing, fretting, and being scared, one bow, a few arrows and a target is heavenly. Simple, to the point and no one dies.
As it turns out, I’m not half bad. No wild arrows have punctured Atticus’ rump... yet. I haven’t broken any windows or lost any arrows. My neighbors don’t seem afraid of me... yet.
Grief and Mourning take you down many paths and left turns. And, sometimes they can even show a little compassion and lead you to a small oasis of respite. God knows. He gives. His timing. His way. For me, it is a bow and arrow.

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