The bird that has been wounded by an arrow may fall at the mere sound of a bowstring—not because the archer is skilled, but because fear still lingers in its heart.
Once, Geng Ying stood with the King of Wei on a high terrace. Seeing a lone wild goose flying slowly, he drew his bow without an arrow and plucked the string. The goose fell instantly. The king marveled at his archery, but Geng Ying replied, “It was not my skill. This goose was old and wounded. Hearing the string, it flapped in terror, and the strain reopened its hidden injury.”
So it is with us. Those who have been hurt often tremble at the faintest echo of past pain. A word, a sound, a memory—and they fall apart. But strength is not found in avoiding the noise of life. It is found in healing the wounds within.
Let us tend to our hidden scars, so that we may hear the bowstring—and still fly.