The Archer and the Mirror

There once was a traveler who wandered far in search of peace. He carried a quiver of arrows. not of wood or stone, but of thoughts sharp with judgment. Each time he met another on the road, he loosed an arrow:

“She speaks with poison.” Twang. “He lies with his smile.” Twang. “They are dangerous.” Twang.

But one day, he came upon a still lake. The water was so clear, it reflected every feature of his face, every crease of his brow, every scar he had long forgotten.

He stared into it and, startled, loosed an arrow. The arrow struck his own reflection.

He fired again. Again, it struck himself.

Finally, weary, he dropped his bow and sat beside the water. And in the silence, a voice. not from without, but within. spoke:

“These arrows were never meant for others. They were forged in fear, drawn from your own wounds. Lay them down. Come sit. Watch instead.”

So the traveler watched. He saw his mind like a river. His judgments, like leaves floating by. And those he once feared? They were travelers, too. some lost, some wounded, all doing what they could.

From that day forward, he carried no arrows. Only questions, asked gently. And a mirror, kept close.

Judgement

When the mind grows quiet and the world fades into softness, we begin to see, judgment is a double-edged lantern. It lights the path when we need to rest, eat, or pause. Yet it can also turn sharply, casting shadows upon others, whispering assumptions as if they were truth.

Too often we judge without knowing we do. We speak silently through the filters of our inner wounds, projecting ghosts onto others who may bear no resemblance to our past. A simple word, a sideways glance, and the mind rushes in to name, label, protect.

But what if we paused instead? What if we asked, gently, “Is this mine?”

To perceive an attack when none was made, may mean a wound inside is aching to be seen. To think another sows poison may reveal a mistrust rooted in our own doubt of humanity’s discernment. To believe someone deceives might echo our own long-forgotten dance with deception.

If we soften into self-knowing, the arrows they launch, real or imagined, cannot strike. They dissolve mid-air, no longer finding a mark. We begin to see not just actions, but the aching hum of another soul trying to be whole.

In that space, judgment dies. In its place, understanding blossoms, not through effort, but through clarity. There is no right, no wrong, just the infinite hues of humanity, doing its best within the bounds of a finite mind.

To live now, truly now, is to witness with wonder. And in that witnessing, even the flawed become luminous.