#79: That Old Cliff - Lover's Jump (Commitment)

Hey, Don't Think For Even A Minute
You Know The Game And How To Win It,
Just Because You've Always Been "It,"
Or Rewarded For Your Passion.
Pet The Cat, But You Won't Skin It.
Drink The Bottle, But You Can't Spin It.
Sit In The Gutter, Or In The Senate,
You Don't Get Points For Fashion.
There's Circumstance, And You Might Pin It
Down, Or Test Your Blood And Thin It
Out, But Life, And Choices In It
Are Sometimes Karma's Ration!

There were other States that brought us to
the fields of games and goals.
Other States had thrown us out
in front of target holes . . .

but, we stepped from the Car this time
to look beyond our reach,
at new-mown fields, and bales of straw,
with lessons they might teach.

"Geemanee, Christmas, don't tell me,"
I yelled to any ears,
"that we're supposed to walk out there!
Hey, that'll take us years!"

Just then, without much warning,
something kind of plopped . . .
we turned around to see where bows
with arrows had been dropped.

We quickly swirled, and figured that
the gift was our travail.
And sure enough, we saw bull's-eyes
stuck to every bale.

There didn't seem much threat to us.
There wasn't any noise.
We decided that we'd just as well
pretend we're Injun boys.

So, weapons were selected, and
we flipped a coin to start.
I called "heads," and heads it was,
though tails are just as smart.

I reached into the arrow cache,
and lifted up a shaft . . .
and Jo and I looked out upon
the bull's-eyed bales and laughed.

Like dots off in the distance, they
looked many miles away.
"It's a shot, but it's impossible,"
was all that Jo could say.

We barely saw five targets, there,
away off to the West,
and though I shot with pluck and verve,
just close would be my best.

I retrieved another arrow while
Jo-Mima took his aim.
Taking turns, we shot ten times,
once each at each round frame.

I remember Jo was sputtering when
one arrow, he let go:
"I just got the strangest sense . . .
that I might like this bow."

Now, neither one of us has e'er
given the bow its due,
but both of us had felt that we
were shooting straight and true.

So many of the tasks that we
had managed on this trip
were so far down the weird road, that
we just to let her rip!

And, looking back, I wouldn't say
that it was aim we took.
We pointed arrows, and let them fly
each time the bow string shook.

Ten arrows had been shot, and we
took bows in arms to head
into the field to check our aim.
We knew it wasn't dead.

It surprised us even more to find,
as that first target loomed,
that they were separated more
than we could have assumed.

The first one had a tiny phrase
printed mid-bull's-eye.
Too small for us to aim to read,
the words were, "Do Or Die."

And amazingly, Jo-Mima's shot
had stuck there, pretty close,
to the arrow I had shot, per chance,
a bull's-eye, on the nose.

We walked away from that bale then,
toward the next in line,
and didn't stop for sensing of
commitment at that time.

The piece of painted plastic stretched,
and glued to that next bale,
pronounced an embossed slogan, all
across its center wale.

"To One And Only One," it read,
and, yes, our arrows struck
again around the center, though,
again it was pure luck.

As we approached the next straw bale,
much further, though it was,
we saw our arrows occupied
the space the bull's-eye does.

And painted over the circles in
a font, real small, but nice,
we read a simple, single word . . .
that word was, "Sacrifice."

Our marksmanship did shock us, but
far less thoroughly,
than a moment's sense of just how strange
our actions came to be.

Both Jo and I began to hug
the thin curves of our bows.
Both of us caressed the strings,
for reasons no one knows.

All at once, Jo yelped and thrust
his weapon to the ground.
Embarrassed at the scene I'd made,
I stopped and looked around.

We stood alone, upon that field,
midst Cupid's favorite game.
For all our weird sensations, though,
all else remained the same.

I spoke out to the universe,
"So, what's up with this place?
We ain't no archery buffs, although
we're lucky in this case.

And our senses of devotion are
severely compromised.
It's either that, or we're in need
of being analyzed.

I mean, I'll take emotion's call.
I'll play a willing fool.
But I don't like the game that leaves
me falling for a tool."

And then, on cue, and in response
to my resigning plea,
the thunder of the Voice approached
to speak to Jo and me.

"It's hard to give you credit for
getting this one right,
but your shooting and your searching
convinces me you might.

And just as much because this State's
a lesson you can't miss,
I'm more disposed to lend a hand . . .
so give your ear to this!

Commitment, Love and Loyalty . . .
these things, while intertwined,
aren't qualities, nor absolutes,
nor treasures you can find.

These blessed things are, simply put,
targets for man's aim . . .
but neither does that mean that they
are just some sort of game.

Were you to walk on further out
you'd find the arrows teach
that Piety and Faith are, too,
targets you shoot to reach.

It turns out that the irony of
these passions you would court,
is that they come to be and grow
when practiced as a sport.

Training, trying, working, vying . . .
you thus, must set your eye
upon the goal you seek to meet . . .
and want to do or die.

Like winning the ultra-marathon,
or life-long tournament,
you may achieve no more than you
practiced your intent.

Like ripples on the water's face,
it grows in strength and bond,
only once you've tossed a stone
out into that pond . . .

and, yes, they shall return to you,
responding to your will,
but only as the ripples in
the pond grow larger, still . . .

and only change the life that finds
their habit in its soul . . .
and only finds that habit when
they've started as a goal."

The silence grew around us, as
so many times before,
the Voice's echo drifted off,
like fog from off a moor.

"Well, damn," Jo-Mima aired complaint,
"you give me some debate
that Voice's messages don't get
more cryptic with each State.

I mean, it sounded like the answer we
are s'posed to find in here,
is love and loyalty aren't much more
than things we try to steer . . .

like all we do is grab a gun,
or something we can shoot,
and try our best to take good aim,
and hope it isn't moot."

"And that's exactly what it is,"
the Voice's boom returned.
"Stop thinking with your prejudice,
and you might even learn.

You cannot force your feelings to
go off this way or that.
Your heart won't take an oath because
your mind's an autocrat.

'Practice' is the word you seek,
and, yes, the tool you need,
to help you persevere at love's
intention and its deed."

The Voice's roar abruptly stilled.
The Buggy cranked and whirred.
Jo and I got back inside,
as our surroundings blurred.