It was one of those low energy days and I debated whether to practice. It felt like it was going to be a perfunctory practice to stay in archery shape. You know, a joyless experience just because I should.

I got to my buddy’s house, where I have a 50m target set up in his backyard. I set up my equipment, just as I have done too many times to count. Then it happened.

I shot my first arrow and it was effortless. The arrow flew down range and hit the target butt, which had no target on it, only a well worn middle which indicates where the arrow should go more or less. I shot another arrow and another and another. I was lost in my shooting and having a great time.

I paused and noted the still, late summer evening, with a slightly sticky feel and puffy clouds floating in the air. I was smitten with archery, just like when I was a kid shooting my fiberglass bow and wooden arrows at a pumpkin.

I went down range to get my arrows noting the slightly crunchy grass and late summer clover. The weeds were high and there was pollen sticking on my legs. Back to the shooting line I went, or more accurately, a rutted bare area where I usually stand to shoot. The arrows continued to fly down range with little effort. It was fun. It was liberating.

I shot again and again, not counting the arrows, or ends. Dusk was approaching and I lingered over the experience. I packed my equipment and remembered why I shoot in the first place. It isn’t the trophies, the scores, the competition. I put the equipment in the car with a tinge of regret. I sure hope that little boy with a fiberglass bow comes out to play again.