Vachon Imagined

When I was stationed in Germany, my Army unit was invited to what the Germans called a Schützenschnur competition.

It’s a marksmanship badge, and if there’s one thing the Army loves almost as much as early morning formations, it’s badges. Just compare an Army uniform to the other branches. At some point you start wondering if we’re decorating soldiers or Christmas trees.

The Germans were curious about our weapons, and we were curious about theirs.

The M-16 was something many of them had never fired before, so they were eager to try it. Likewise, we were excited to shoot their weapons.

What really caught my attention was the pistol.

Not just any pistol.

A German pistol.

I immediately became sophisticated.

The heavens parted.

Angels sang.

I nodded confidently to everyone as I walked toward the range.

“Ah yes,” I thought. “Today I am a highly trained professional.”

Then I arrived at the firing line.

And I was terrible.

Not the kind of terrible where people kindly tell you, “You’ll get better.”

The kind of terrible that somehow manages to get worse with every attempt.

I could not shoot that pistol to save my life.

Everyone kept telling me the same thing:

“Breathe.”

Oddly enough, that’s also excellent advice for raising children.

I resisted.

“No, no, I’ve got this.”

Which is usually the exact moment a person does not, in fact, have this.

Eventually I stopped trying so hard.

I slowed down.

I breathed.

And something changed.

For the first time, I could hear the weapon.

I could feel it.

I could feel the force moving through it. The recoil no longer surprised me. The explosion no longer interrupted me. I could hear the bullet leave the barrel and, moments later, hear it strike the target.

And then I hit it.

Not because I forced it.

Not because I tried harder.

But because I had finally stopped fighting the experience.

For a brief moment, there was no separation between me and the weapon.

There was only attention.

Presence.

Participation.

Life is often like that.

We spend so much energy trying to control it that we fail to hear it.

We force relationships.

We force success.

We force answers.

We force ourselves.

And then we wonder why we keep missing the target.

Yet when we become present enough, something shifts.

The mind quiets.

The struggle softens.

And life begins speaking in a language that effort alone cannot understand.

The target appears.

The timing appears.

The action appears.

Not because we have mastered life, but because we have stopped arguing with it.

Once a person understands this, their words begin to carry a different weight.

Not because they are trying to sound wise, but because what they say emerges from a deeper intelligence.

An intelligence larger than thought.

Larger than identity.

Larger than the small self constantly trying to prove itself.

Their words become action.

Their action becomes reality.

And somehow what needs to arrive arrives at exactly the right time, in exactly the right way.

Not through force.

But through participation.

The same way I finally learned to hit the target.

By first learning how to listen.