Spiritual Discipline
With an arrow knocked on a taught bowstring,
he stares down the shaft toward his target,
an apple dangling from a distant tree
as a sweet Mediterranean breeze
frolics with green pastures and olive groves.
He slowly exhales, stilling his body,
sensing the rhythm of his heartbeat calm
as muscles remember Father’s guidance:
“Don’t lock your elbow; keep it bent slightly;
hold loosely the grip; let it rest in the hand;
and when you’re ready, let the string slip free
with such a light touch it seems to surprise,”
an inheritance bequeathed over time
shaped by wisdom, commandments, and advice
that he’s put into practice for seasons,
arrow after arrow, shot after shot;
these words transforming from thoughts on the brain
into memories rooted in marrow
that move his flesh, fresh reflexes fostered
as behavior and being become one.
He misses his shot, a cricket’s width wide,
a necessary misstep along the way
as he pursues his purpose on the hunt
for as he draws a new dart from his quiver
and sets it to his string, pulling it to his ear,
his nerves mature with a more subtle sense
as his shoulders flex with a refined strength,
helping him to embody the traditions
he learned in his Macedonian home,
similar doctrines to those of Carthage, Rome,
where different tongues speak of the same art.
He repeats this process with devotion
as the sundial moves through its shadows
for though he will never possess the skill
of Odysseus, that hero from myth
who bent his bright bow, loosed his sharp arrow
through a dozen axe-heads to reveal his true self
before serving justice, his wife’s suitors slaughtered,
this story inspires our archer to try
to emulate what virtues he’s observed,
an ideal icon he aspires to reflect,
and as he takes aim yet another time,
ever more aware of his own limits,
his heart breathlessly mouths a prayer
to Artemis, moon goddess of the hunt,
asking her spirit to show him favor,
to see and understand his humble plot,
she the light in the darkness, the lamp for his feet,
no stag escaping her targeted will
while her athletic shape, elegant, beautiful,
chaste, remains unpenetrated by human quills,
she unconquerable, free, the queen of the chase.
Such images fly through my consciousness
when I consider the Greek term for sin,
ἁμαρτία : “to miss the mark, to stray
from pathways that course through our vicious wood;”
how from the day I was born I would fall,
make mistakes, stumble in my attempts to do good;
how my inexperienced soul needed
my mother’s caresses at the cradle,
my father’s book-kept stories at bedtime,
and the listening ear of my pastor
along with her homilies, nurturing, healing,
to illuminate what road I should take
as I sought to hold to a righteous life
like the lives of the saints, holy heroes
who, for all the bizarre parts of their myths,
dragon-slaying, bird-speaking, martyrdom,
taught and encouraged the care of others:
all these voices helping me to follow Christ
whose sandals navigated Palestinian dust
as this god-man dwelt amongst his people,
caring for the poor, upsetting empire,
to be the perfect human, so they say,
never once stepping away from his course
as the aim of his life always found its target.
And if this is true, the impossible
become reality, not a sole wrong transgressed,
this renders my missteps into failures,
damnable, I unable to attain such a standard,
unless my god views me not with judgement
but love, accepting all my feeble endeavors
at goodness, even though they fall far short,
for they reflect an honest intent, a passion
for the same cares that motivate his heart;
he a father who takes delight in his toddler
playing at his feet with toys on the floor
by stacking block upon block upon block
in imitation of the grown-up world:
acts endearingly naive yet affectionately full
that are received by the divine with a warm smile –
he celebrating the attempts and successes
as his child continues to grow in his image.
ἁμαρτία = harmatia
Nathaniel A. Schmidt is an ordained minister in the Reformed Church in America and serves as a hospice chaplain. He holds degrees from Calvin Theological Seminary, Calvin University, and the University of Illinois Springfield. His newest collection of poems, Transfiguring, is available from Wipf & Stock, as is his first collection, An Evensong. He lives with his librarian wife, Lydia, and their daughter in southwest Michigan, meaning life is a perpetual story time.
Amethyst Review 