Building a Bow: The Weight of Making Something Meant to Kill

I recently took a class at Maine Primitive learning to make a bow. Not the kind you tie in a ribbon. The kind that sends an arrow. I came with a question I’ve been sitting with for a while: can killing be an act of love?

Let me be clear. This is about food. About sustenance. About the most fundamental relationship humans have with the natural world. “For you to live, every day something has to die.” Michael Douglas, the founder of Maine Primitive, says this frequently. And it’s true whether we think about it or not.

Most of us are so far removed from that reality. There are so many layers between us and our food. Systems of disconnection. I think that disconnection is rooted in fear. Fear of death. Fear of my own participation in the cycle of life and death.

The process of making a bow requires presence and patience. Two things I view as critical components of coming from a place of love. Two things I definitely struggle with. I started with a quarter log of ash, about six feet six inches long. Over four days, I methodically removed wood with a hatchet and draw knife. Removing too much can ruin the bow. One growth ring can mean the difference between a working bow and a broken one.

I found myself in a state of pure presence. Not building for today. Not rushing to finish. Not comparing or competing. It felt grounding. Peaceful. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

And at the same time, there was weight to what I was making. Something designed to take the life of another being. I’m still sitting with the tension between the beauty of the craft and the gravity of its purpose.

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Learn more about the adventure at www.heart-strong.org