The Master said,
“A true teacher is one who,
keeping the past alive,
is also able to understand the present.”
—Analects of Confucius - Book 2, Chapter 11
When I first learned to shoot archery, I signed up for group lessons. Our instructor was a jolly, round fellow who couldn’t have been nicer. Though not athletic in appearance, he exuded the air of a master archer in character. For example, he wore league shirts and spoke the language of archery with fluency.
There was, however, a mixed bag of talent among the students. The best part was that we’d shoot at foam blocks encased in wood, so when someone missed terribly, there’d be a loud bang! as their arrow smashed into it. When missed just right, the arrow would bounce off the wood and come skittering back toward the shooter, which was awesome to see.
After we all got the hang of shooting at twenty yards, our instructor challenged us to step back to thirty. I was up first with my compound bow and honed in through the peep sight, zipping my shot straight into the bullseye. It felt great to do so in front of the teacher I so admired.
“You know,” he said, borrowing a recurve bow from another student’s hands, “I was never much for using sights when it came to hunting. I was always more of an instinctual shooter.” This meant he would hunt the old-fashioned way, like a tribesman who relied on this ancient skill for survival.
As he stepped up to the line, tension filled the air, as there was a collective realization that we’d never actually seen the master in action, until now. He drew in a deep breath, raised the bow, drew it back, and held it steady. Time slowed as we observed an artist at work, his laser focus impressing us all.
Finally, he released it.
Bang! The arrow came skittering back to the line, the only sound in an otherwise silent room.
There was a long pause where we all stared at the result.
“Well,” he finally broke the silence, handing the bow back to the girl he had borrowed it from, “I haven’t gone hunting in quite some time.”