The ICF offered a rare chance: I could register all my coaching hours from the past decade for my coaching certification. That would immediately land me the pcc-level.

Only the amassing of the hundreds of hours…
It loomed like the most tedious task ever.
Wrong.

I typed and sent tens of e-mails indeed.
No copy/paste, no mailing programme. All personally written and sent.

But the effort was well rewarded: everyone gave their permission to register their sessions. Sometimes recounting a beautiful personal story about how things had developed after the coaching.

Then the following mail dropped into my mailbox:

‘Let me write a text for you to hammer some sense into those administration addicts.
Why certify everything? It kills the magic!’

This was the heartfelt complaint of a writer with a congenital allergy for petty rules and regulations. For him, coaching with archery had been magic come to life.

I recognized his sincere tone, and realized he would only be too happy to throw in his verbal virtuosity to demolish the concept of certification for once and for all.

But that was not going to help me to secure my certification. And I really wanted it. For big clients like Philips had already made clear it would become a requirement.

So I gave him a ring, and told him I was convinced of his capacities to whip up an entertaining and brilliant piece of writing. And that he would do me an even bigger favour with a simple confirmation of his hours.
He assented. With this beautiful oneliner as a bonus:

‘Magic shall not be caught in procedures. But hey, certification can’t prevent miracles.’

Let me know when you write a new blog.
naar Nederlands

Look fast enough, and you see how someone reveals himself clearly by shooting a single arrow.

That’s why the Japanese say: an arrow, a life.

It works well as an aphorism, which is why it often whizzes past on the internet.

Just like ‘Live as if today is your last day.’

But what if you have already lived your last day last week, or last month?
Because that is what learned helplessness feels like.

Learned helplessness: you think you can influence your situation. But every time you act, you get slapped down.
If that happens often enough, you learn that nothing you do matters.
That it is better to stew in your misery.

This piece of academic knowledge stuck with me during my study Mass Psychology. But now that I shoot with refugees in a refugee shelter, I have some moving images to go with it.

Each week I see a bit of the shine disappear from some eyes.
Each week the movement changes. Slower. More cautious.

Rather smart, if you’re not sure where the next surprise in your life is coming from. If you seem to have lost all control.

I now understand why archery is so popular in the shelter. It brings something new that people do have control over.
If only a bow and arrow.

A single arrow.

Let me know when you write a new blog.
naar Nederlands