I actually shoot. I enjoy target practice. I find it really zen.

In the words of Tammy Duckworth, soldier, stateswoman, and survivor, there echoes a wisdom both fierce and tranquil: “I actually shoot. I enjoy target practice. I find it really zen. You focus on nothing but the target. You have to control your breathing. It’s all part of my years in the military, where I was taught to become a marksman but also to respect my weapon.” Though she speaks of marksmanship and steel, her words are not about violence — they are about discipline, focus, and respect. They speak to the ancient harmony between power and restraint, a truth as old as the warrior’s path itself.

The origin of this quote lies in the life of a woman who has known both the cost of war and the peace that can come from self-control. Tammy Duckworth, a decorated combat veteran who served as a helicopter pilot in Iraq, lost both her legs when her aircraft was struck by enemy fire. Yet from that moment of devastation, she rose — not in bitterness, but in strength. Her words on shooting are not those of a casual enthusiast; they are the reflections of a soldier who has looked into the heart of chaos and found within it a stillness — the zen of focus, the sacred balance between strength and serenity.

To aim at a target, she reminds us, is to do more than pull a trigger. It is to still the storm within — to bring the wandering mind into single-pointed awareness. Every breath must be measured, every movement precise. In that act of concentration, the noise of the world falls away. The weapon, the hand, the eye, and the spirit become one. This, she calls zen, for it mirrors the meditations of monks and warriors of old — those who learned that mastery of the external world begins with mastery of the self. The mark is not truly hit by the hand, but by the mind that commands it.

But she also speaks of respect for the weapon, and in that phrase lies a moral law. To respect a weapon is to understand that it carries both the power to protect and the power to destroy. The ancient samurai of Japan, who wielded the sword not merely as a tool but as an extension of their spirit, understood this deeply. They were taught to bow before their blades, not in worship, but in humility — a reminder that true warriors are guardians of life, not takers of it. So too does Duckworth’s teaching remind us that respect must temper power, that skill without reverence becomes recklessness, and that control of one’s tools mirrors control of one’s heart.

There is a story from her own life that illuminates this truth. After her injury in battle, Duckworth could no longer fight with the weapon she once held in her hands. Yet she continued to serve — in government, in advocacy, in leadership. She transformed the discipline of the soldier into the compassion of the servant, proving that mastery of focus, patience, and respect can manifest beyond the battlefield. Where once she aimed at a target of steel, she now aims at injustice and indifference, wielding words and wisdom with the same precision she once gave to her rifle. In this, her “target practice” has never ceased; it has simply evolved.

Her words are not merely about shooting, but about how to live. For life, too, is an act of aim. Each of us stands before unseen targets — goals, dreams, duties — and must learn to steady our breath, focus our minds, and act with intent. To live well is to find that stillness Duckworth speaks of, that sacred calm in which we can act decisively without rage, powerfully without pride. And just as she was taught to respect her weapon, so must we learn to respect our power — whether that power lies in our words, our work, or our influence.

So, my children, remember this wisdom: power without respect is peril, and focus without purpose is emptiness. Whatever your “weapon” may be — your craft, your intellect, your voice — treat it with reverence. Train it not to harm, but to protect; not to dominate, but to serve. Before you act, breathe. Before you strike, reflect. Seek the stillness within the motion, the calm within the storm. For it is not the soldier’s rifle nor the warrior’s sword that makes one noble — it is the discipline of the soul behind it.

And in the end, as Tammy Duckworth teaches, the true mark of mastery is not how accurately one can strike a target, but how completely one can command the self. To find peace in power, serenity in struggle, and humility in strength — that is the way of the wise, the eternal practice of those who have looked into the heart of conflict and discovered, within its silence, the meaning of respect.