Rain Poured.

Rain.

Not a gentle rain. Not a soft rain. Not a rain to merely cut the dust.

No. A rain that comes down in sheets. Falling heavily. Coming down so hard that it stings the bare skin. Soaks to the bone in minutes. This is the rain I have for weeks prayed would come.

And this evening it came. In all its fierce, harsh, torrential power it came down from the leaden skies.

I watched from a window in awe. It's been so long since we've had a true rain like this. I didn't last long at the window though; some feral part inside me wanted - or perhaps needed - to be a part of this and celebrate its arrival. I have waited for this day and could now wait no more. Staying inside left me pacing like a caged wild cat; the pent up energy was enough to rival that of an OCD Border Collie.

The urge was too strong to control. I ran and pulled out the long bow. Strung it with an ease that only comes with much practice. Reaching back into the closet, I slid a handful of arrows out of the quiver; for some reason I had no patience to use that little bag that clips neatly onto my jeans and holds the arrows for me. Nope, didn't want it today. I gathered my simple, silent tools; one bow that stands almost as tall as me, and four slender arrows. Harbingers of death. And with that, I dog trotted outside, beyond the confining walls that create a house. I could not withstand this cage right now... I needed a wild, fierce freedom.

The sudden hit of rain was almost a shock. Cold, wet, harsh; the rain's fury was untamed and unparalleled. I could only grin in anticipation at the thought of being a part of this wildness. It satisfied something deep within me to be able to not only withstand the elements, but fight back in my own small way.

Time was fleeting, and I was eager to set my arrows flying. Gates take too long to deal with, so I instead jumped over the fence in one swift move. I landed on the other side, and in the pasture; my playing field for the evening. Setting an arrow on the bowstring never fails to send a small thrill through me... It is calming, focusing, quieting, empowering, and wildly exciting all at the same time.

Rain poured. I loosed my first shot, not aiming at a target but merely wanting length of flight. To loosen up, get a feel for how to shoot through such driving rain. I set the second shaft and took in my surroundings. Inhaled smoothly as I drew my string back. Three fingers on the right hand create a claw, holding your your arrow, holding your string. Draw back to your cheek, your ear. Draw and hold. Elbow level, neither pointing up or down. Draw and hold. Sight your target. Release. The arrow flies off the string with such power that a ribbon of rain water follows behind it like a streamer. Rain water bounces off the bow string, ricocheting into a display similar to a firework.

Rain poured. Stung my exposed skin. My bare arms, bare head, bare feet. I wanted to be in the rain; I had no hat, no coat, no shoes. I did not want them. Wanted to feel the driving rain which has for so long been only a prayer.

More arrows were shot; all equal in length, steadiness, and target impact. I was blissfully happy to be out in this powerful torrent, doing one of my favorite things. Feel the bow string slam against your left wrist, left hand. See the welt and bruise forming. Feel the aching pain in your fingers from drawing the string over and over again. Feel the pain and own it. It means you're alive; alive enough to be standing outside in a storm that not even the hardy sheep want to brave.

Rain poured. I cannot physically become more wet than I am... Feel the rain run down my face, get in my eyes, drip off my chin. My shirt clings to my spine, my hair clings to my neck. Jumping in the creek that borders our property could not make me wetter than this. Puddles have formed in this short amount of time; I run to retrieve my arrows; run through puddles through sodden grass that squelches and yields to pressure with each step of my small bare feet. Dry dirt turns to mud and I do not avoid it. I love mud just like I love the rain. As long as I run and shoot arrows, I am warm. Warm and do not care that I am as wet and ugly as a drowned rat right in this moment. The huntress in me will not be satisfied until I can prove to the storm that I can stand up to it and hold my own. 

I shoot my arrows for an hour. Sixty minutes in the pouring rain. I am so in love with this moment, yet also wish there was someone next to me shooting their arrows too. The only thing better than shooting in the rain and mud is having company to laugh and yell with you through the whole thing. But for today, I do this alone. A solitary, lonely creature out in weather that no one else wants to endure. 

My fingers come close to beginning to bleed. My shots are beginning to become unsteady; I accidentally shoot an arrow that weaves itself through four holes in the livestock fencing. How I did that I will never know... My time is up; the storm has held out longer than me. I pick up my arrows for the last time down in the low part of the pasture. It's hard to look down to see them because then the rain water runs in my eyes. I retrieve all four of them; knowing full well that if I lose one then I have to replace it with two new ones. Such was the deal I made with my younger sister who owns these particular arrows. I do not run back up to the house, but walk slowly. Through the rain, I meander; thinking how I would like to buy hot pink camouflage arrows. Not because I like that color, but because it would make spotting them in the grass so much easier.

I climb back over the fence; careful not to hit the bow on the old, creaky wood that threatens to crack while my muddy, wet feet are still on it. Walk up to the house and realize a sense of satisfaction. Contentment. Quietness. I needed that hour with my arrows... Needed it more than I thought. I turned to go inside and then heard a noise that normally sends a chill of dread through me: Thunder. I looked at the angry sky that was still releasing rain with immense force. Listened to the rumble of thunder die away into ethereal nothingness. And for the first time in my life, I felt no fear. No dread. No anxiety at the thought of more thunder and lightning. All I felt was a contented tiredness after an hour of physical activity; let the storm come, I've already been out in it for sixty minutes.

And with that, I walked inside. Soaked to the bone, dripping wet, mud on my arrows... And I was happy. 

Spontaneous Me

It's on days like today that I get a lot of stuff done. Blue sky as far as the eye could see, a balmy 55 degree day, and I was high on caffeine. Oooh yes... It was one of those days. :)

I got my Saturday chores done in record time and by 11am I was working on the day's mad idea. I was making soap. Normally I hate making soap; it's tedious, my stick blender messes up, I have to wash a bunch of dishes afterwards, I'm always out of wax paper right when I need it... So the sudden urge to make soap took me by surprise. But I went with it, and pulled out 10 lbs. of lard, 3 lbs. of frozen goat milk, and almost 2 lbs. of lye. I had just read about a different technique on bringing my soap to trace and I wanted to see if it was true. I had always been told that you had to stiiiiiiiiiiir that soap until it thickens, and whatever you do -- don't stop!! Thus my lack of enthusiasm when it came to soap making. After the second hour of stirring a bowlful of fat and lye, I really start to think that I would rather buy my own soap. But then I read a new way: Stir for 15 minutes. Then wait 15 minutes. After that, stir for 5 minutes, at 15 minute intervals. I tried it today, on the biggest batch of soap I've ever done, and my total stirring time came out to 25 minutes. MUCH better!!! I think I could totally come to love making soap if this technique continues to work. I scented the soap with a fragrance called "oatmeal, milk, and honey" (which ,despite the name, smells nothing like those three things), and for kicks, I threw in a handful of ground, rolled oats. Sometimes it's just fun to be spontaneous. The soap is sitting quietly now. Tomorrow or Monday I will unmold it and cut it up. This was a new recipe, and a new method of making it, so I have my fingers crossed that it will turn out nice.

I was on a roll after that batch and *almost* made another one, but this time with olive oil, palm oil, shea butter, and more goat milk. In the end I decided to wait. No need to experience burn out on the first day, right? So that batch will be either tomorrow or Monday. I don't know what fragrance I'll use for this "fun batch" yet; some readers over on Facebook have been giving me suggestions, and I'm hearing a lot of votes for vanilla, lavender, or ginger. Now that I think about it, it might be fun to throw some cocoa powder in the batch and scent it lightly with vanilla. Hmmm. I think I might be on to something here. ;) No! -- must -- wait -- until -- tomorrow -- to -- make -- more -- soap. *valiantly holds self back from starting another batch of soap at 5pm*

The afternoon fled from me with the speed of goats who hear the grain bucket, and at 4pm I noticed the setting sun giving its grand finale as it began dipping behind the mountains which I have come to love so much. I wanted to be out in it as it bid adieu. So I grabbed the long bow, put four arrows into the quiver that I had clipped to my jeans, and strode outside once I had also accumulated my carhartt coat and some leather gloves. I didn't feel like shooting at a target today... Something fierce and wild inside me just wanted to let loose and see my shafts fly. Even soapmakers have a wild side. With this feeling swirling around me like a playful breeze, I decided to simply practice my long range shooting. I want to go bow hunting this fall. I want to see about bringing down a stag, even if it is a young one. So long range practice is every bit as necessary as close range target practice. I must admit I love the impulsiveness that comes along with long range shooting. It's like the difference between writing in cursive, and writing slap dash. One is refined, methodical, and lovely to look at. The other is crazy, impetuous, and perfectly lovable in its own awkward, quirky way. I didn't want cursive today. I wanted Belligrent Madness. I had no target in mind as I stood at the northern edge of the pasture. I simply drew the bow string, inhaling deeply, and let my arrow fly to the southern end; my mind willing it to go farther, farther, farther. It is so fun, you just can't know.

Today's best shot hit 185 feet. The farthest I've shot yet. I dog-trotted up to the arrow and to my delight I found the shaft half buried into the earth. You see, my arrows are not supposed to go into the ground, and it's very rare when they go more than 2 or 3 inches. I have a special tip that I put on them called a "zwickey scorpio" (if that isn't fun to say, then I don't know what is!) which works like a grappling hook and keeps you from losing your arrows to the ground. Before I had scorpios, I was terrible at permanently losing arrows, since the bow's force would shove them beneath a layer of earth with no trace of it's whereabouts. Since getting them, I haven't lost a single one. The prongs on the scorpio don't allow an arrow to embed itself deeply into anything.

So to find one of my arrows 185 feet away and slammed halfway into the ground... Well, it just about made me giddy. A shot like that just might could bring down a young stag. Just maybe? I'm not after any huge prize in my hunting dreams. Just some venison for the freezer. If a big one came along, great; hopefully my bow and arrows will be able to take it down. But just a young buck would please me... 

I shot more arrows; all of them coming close to my record shot, but none surpassing it. I shot fast, I shot furious. I was in my element. One of these days I'm going to have to splurge and buy ma'self a utility kilt. I think that would be awesome. Eventually the sun dipped lower and I knew I needed to stop, or else I would start having trouble finding my arrows in the falling dusk. My left hand is slowly becoming calloused and used to the driving pain that my bow string inflicts. Someday I will get a better bow that won't hurt so much, but until then I bear the bruises and swelling with a smile. After today's practice, my hand hurt with a dull throb, but that was all. Last time I practiced, I came away with a bloody hand, despite the leather glove. I'm getting there. I'm getting better. I have until Autumn to perfect this craft. I know all the deer trails and nesting sights on my neighbor's property. Come autumn, I want to stalk these spots, but with a bow in my hand this time. I look forward to it with more excitement than an average person could understand. 

Looks can be deceiving. Your normal looking soapmaker just might turn out to be an archer who wants a kilt. You never can tell with some people... 

Spontaneity. I love it. We'll make soap in the morning, and shoot arrows like a Scottish lass/lad in the evening. Care to join me?