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Archery isn’t just a sport or a skill—it’s an invitation to step into a world that challenges and rewards in equal measure. It prompts precision, patience, and self-awareness, and it always gives something more in return. Whether you are drawn w by the allure of a classic recurve bow, a longbow, or perhaps a horsebow, there is something about archery that makes it feel personal. For me, it’s been as much a process of self-discovery as it has of the craft. The bow, the arrow, and the mindset of the archer all play their part in this intricate, almost sacred, balance that is the endless pursuit of an arrow slicing through the air.
When I began shooting a Trad recurve with ILF wooden core limbs, I didn’t much care about limb alignment. It felt like such a small detail. But I soon understood how minor misalignments could carry arrows off course, no matter how carefully I released or aimed. Aligning the limbs wasn’t merely a matter of tuning the hardware — it transformed into this meditative exercise, waiting patiently, taking time to engage with the bow. That’s when I had my first inkling of what archery is: the mechanical, the mental, and the physical combined into something far greater than the sum of its parts.
Nick Anton (now National Head Coach) introduced myself and fellow archer Ned Cronin to the paper tuning. To say the least, this was a humbling experience. It might sound simple to send an arrows through a sheet of paper, but it tells you uncomfortable truths about what you just did. A clean tear indicates alignment; a ragged one reveals imperfections — perhaps in the height of the nocking point, or the spine of the arrow, or even in how you’re gripping the bow. Each tweak is a mini-puzzle, and as you make those adjustments, you begin to learn not so much about tuning your gear, but about tuning yourself into it.
The recent work of Brian Meehan, particularly “The Science of Arrows”, has opened my eyes widely. His understanding of arrows and margin for errors—spine deflection, fletching, and point weight all make a difference—has shifted my way of approaching shooting. As innocuous as a common arrow nock might sound, Meehan asserts it can be the difference between a miserable day in the woods or something to brag about. A poorly fitted nock can result in a “dry-fire,” potentially damaging the bow. Conversely, a well-fitted nock ensures smooth energy transfer, allowing the arrow to fly cleanly. It’s little (often overlooked) details that make archery part science, and part art.
Anto Corcoran’s comments about the “Monkey Mind” versus “Monk Mind” resonated with something I’ve experienced countless times on the shooting line. That loud, fidgety voice in your head—the one that doubts, fills you with anxiety, distracts you—is the Monkey Mind. It is always there, screaming for attention. But the Monk Mind is something we reach for: that calm, focused state when you are living in the moment. Traditional archery, for all its simplicity, requires the Monk Mind. There isn’t space for messy thoughts — just you, the bow, the arrow, and the moment. Corcoran’s philosophy serves as a reminder that mastery isn’t perfection; mastery is being here and trusting the process.
In many respects, archery is meditation. Pulling the bowstring, aiming and releasing—it all comes down to mental clarity. It is no surprise that archers throughout the ages have looked to mental techniques to hone their focus. Eugen Herrigel expressed this beautifully in “Zen in the Art of Archery”. His teachings about releasing ego — about letting the shot happen organically — run deep. “It shoots,” he wrote, noting that the mind should not get in the way. It’s a theory that is reflected in contemporary practices, such as visualization, whereby archers run through in their minds what the perfect shot would be. It’s not merely visualizing the physical movement, but also experiencing the feelings, hearing the sounds, visualizing a specific detail as though it’s already taken place. And when you walk to the line, those mental run-throughs bubble up.
Breathing has become fundamental to my practice. When nerves threaten to seep in, breathing centers me. There’s something almost poetic in how breath defines the timing of the shot. Methods such as diaphragmatic or box breathing — inhale, hold, exhale and pause — help positively regulate stress and level everything out. It’s a practice that feels timeless, and it reminds me of the Zen teaching of “mushin”, or “no mind,” where your actions follow as you don’t overthink. In those moments, the shot is easy because it’s interference-free.
Body and mind are so connected in archery. One sharpens the other. Physical conditioning aids mental clarity, and cognitive training promotes physical precision. Balance and form necessarily come into harmony by the very nature of traditional archery. Each movement — the draw, the aim, the release — needs to be deliberate but instinctual.” Olympic archers level this up and use biofeedback to hone this connection, tracking everything from muscle tension to breathing patterns. For traditionalists, yoga or tai chi also provide similar benefits. They show you how to shift with the intention to draw power from stillness and to inhale with purpose.
Even something as simple as a fletching reveals the art inherent in the craft. Striking the right balance between stabilization and speed is key. Feathers are favored by traditional archers due to their unique flexible light weight. So I’ve messed with different shapes and sizes, learning how the tiniest things can change the flight. Feathers with a banana cut, for example, appear to sail on the wind, providing flight stability that almost seems magical —thanks to centuries of trial and error.
Conversations with fellow archers have deepened my appreciation for the diversity within this community. Tab shooters prioritize consistency and finger protection; stabilizer users value the balance and control these tools offer. Watching a compound archer adjust stabilizers reminded me that the principles of balance and precision apply across all bows. Yet, there is a unique allure in the raw nature of traditional archery. Every detail becomes magnified: the tension of the string, brace height, poundage, the flex of the limbs, the flight of the arrow. Technology doesn’t obscure mistakes—it highlights them, offering lessons in humility and perseverance. This vulnerability is what makes traditional archery so rewarding. Each shot reflects the archer’s connection to their tools and the moment.
Nature has its part to play in this dance. ‘Canada-wilde’ cold snap or a sudden gust of wind necessitates the push for a deeper adaptation; the tiniest detailing is likely to change the dynamics of the shot, requiring an adjustment on both a mental and physical level. Ultimately (as I understand it), it’s about being present, about linking with the surrounding landscape and shifting (changing) is what we do when faced with the challenge of a difficult moment to become part of that realm of mind and body housed within these landscapes. In this way, we find our own rhythm in the hustle and bustle of the nature of the sport.
Archery is an incredibly all-encompassing pursuit; it rings everything around and within, whether you crave precision, personal success, or simply the meditative cadence of drawing and releasing, it encourages exploration and contemplation through a journey that becomes unique to each archer. It may inspire like Brian Meehan’s technical deconstructionism or Anto Corcoran’s meditations on spirituality. In any case ( facing all the wisdom of the world), you mustn’t forget that this journey with bow and arrow in hand belongs only to you. And you are the only one to set directions and goals.
