Two and a half years ago, at the age of 7 1/2, my son read the Ranger's Apprentice series by John Flanagan. They made him want to be an archer. He was passionate about archery, consumed. He wrote stories with archers as the heroes, and made bows and arrows out of bamboo and string. He drew his characters carrying intricate bows, with their arrows tucked by their sides. He asked, Please, please, can I take archery lessons?
Of course! we said, At least, we think so! We looked into it. We found the local archery club—nestled in the rainforest, at the base of a mountain— and asked, Please, could our son take archery lessons here?
No, was the reply. Not until he is 10 years old.
My son said, But why?
We asked, But why?
And they spoke of safety and physical ability and maturity and so on. The policy was thought-out and fair; you couldn't argue it.
My son was speechless. Two and a half years he would have to wait. That must have seemed like a dozen lifetimes to a seven year old boy.
So he waited.
And time passed.
Suddenly, he was almost ten. We hadn't mentioned archery much over the past two years, and my son had moved on to other passions. But when the birthday wish list was handed over, there it was at the top:
Nothing was forgotten. The dream still there.
My son turned 10. Finally! He got a piece of paper that said something along the lines of, "Yes, you get your archery lessons!" and then we said, But you have to wait a month and a half. The Beginning Archery course ran once a month, and he had missed the one for June.
So again, he waited.
Until today, when he got his wish.
And it was a good, good day.
joy looks like this
a very good place to start
(or…'old targets put out to pasture')
Keeper of Dreams