Holding the heart of darkness

I'll never forget the moment in late July that I found out my melanoma was back.  It seems like a lifetime ago, and yet it was only a month and half according to my calendar. On that day, I was on the second annual Father-Son Extravaganza, up in the mountains outside of Leavenworth. On this trip, we do a combination of manly activities (axe-throwing, BB-gun shooting, sling-shots slinging, river rafting, and similar activities) that would interest boys ages 3-11. We camp in a meadow on 50 acres of private property, align our tents in a circle around the fire ring, tell stories, share jokes, and howl at the moon…no really, this year we actually did howl…(you probably had to be there.)

It was here, surrounded by some of the most important men in my life and my two oldest boys that my surgeon delivered the news about the cancer.

Earlier that day I had received a phone message from my surgeon’s nurse saying that he wanted to talk to me…badly…When a surgeon gives out his pager number to a client, it is never a good sign.  A page was sent pronto, but nothing was heard back before a group of us started to float down the river on tubes.  I did my best to enjoy the waters, knowing instinctively that bad news about the growing bump on my neck was pending…and in this the beauty of the river, the heat of the day, and the sheer joy of my sons and nephews reveling in the ice cold water worked wonders on my soul.

When we got back to camp, one of my buddies Scott, who works at UW in the surgery center urged me to page Dr. Byrd again, and this time Dr. Byrd responded quickly.  Sitting around the camp fire, my brother Dewight and I listened on speakerphone as Byrd laid out the news.  I don’t remember much about the conversation, except Dr Byrd saying that his jaw dropped and hit the floor when he saw the report, so unexpected was it to him.  As the sunlight was slowly moving from the harshness of a triple digit afternoon to the comfortable warmth of a gentle evening, I went around to my friends and dropped the news.

On this trip, we take time out each morning and night to tell stories around the fire.  This year is the second year that one of my best friends Paul agreed to be the official storyteller for the event, and in this role he did not disappoint.  Friday night and Saturday morning he wove tales of adventure, courage, perseverance, and becoming a man, inspiring not only our sons, but equally the cigar puffing men who held the sacred space for the young ones.  Saturday afternoon, when the heat of the day prescribed a departure from axes, carving, slingshots, and the like, we all headed for the river.  While the older boys braved the rapids, the younger ones enjoyed slightly calmer waters, trying to catch small fish, digging in the mud, and at one point crossing the river with the help of the dads.

Much of that afternoon I was able to stand alone, out in the middle of the river, still paying attention to my boys near the shore, but at a distance.  A shallow spot offered itself to me, where the water only came up to my thigh and I could hold my ground against the current.  Under a fiery globe that threatened to set my hat on fire, I kept my feet, cooled by the liquid snow, and calmed by ever-moving waters.  I have little remembrance as to what I contemplated or felt that afternoon, but only that the river was up to task of meeting it all and gracefully carrying it downstream.  Later, my brother Dewight would comment on both listening in to the phone call and watching me be surrounded by the river.  I think he would have better words to describe that afternoon…but then, even the best words are impossibly blunt, crude, and inept.

It so happened that the waters were calling Paul away from our camp a bit earlier than normal, as he had to return to Seattle early Sunday morning for his grandson’s baptism.  Knowing this, I had prepared in advance a story to share to close out the trip around the final campfire of Sunday morning. 

No doubt it meant more to me than anyone else, likely a great deal more.  But that mattered little to me, for even as I was sure that the words only washed over the boys, leaving not much more than a subconscious imprint, they seemed then even as they do now, to be words ordained by the Word, and destined for that very moment.  For as the opening lines of the story poured out, I looked around the circle and saw uncles, godfathers, and mentors of my own boys.  A community of men looked back at me; men who I was lucky to consider friends and even luckier to have as elders to my boys.  And I saw my own boys in this story, whose combined personalities mirror much of the young boy’s in the story.

While I believe I’ll beat my cancer now, at that moment I wasn’t so sure, and knowing that there would be good men both present and back in Seattle to help my own boys, meant the world to me …and the images of my own boys, somehow embodying the role of the young Israel...let’s just say that there was plenty of transference and projection going on that morning…and yet… perhaps it was the rhythms of God resonating between a campfire story I had chosen, and the life I was living.

Here is the story, put to paper by Gerald Fierst, and with only a few slight modifications I inserted for my own purposes.  For those who don’t know, the Baal Shem Tov was a historical Jewish mystic (1698- 1760) who is considered to be the founder of Hasidic Judaism.  Where the legends of him end and the actual historical record begins, or where they intermix or separate, is unknown and trying to bifurcate fact from legend is missing the point in my mind.  As far as I’m concerned, the story below is true, regardless of whether it actually happened.  See for yourself:

When Eleazer lay dying, he called his young son Israel to him. "My child, the Evil One surrounds the world with darkness, dark clouds which stop our prayers. He is in our flesh and in our dreams. But so long as you remember the sacred name of God, he cannot inhabit you. You are safe."

And after the father died, all the men gathered around the boy: uncles and friends, teachers and elders.  The community of men took the young Israel, and they cared for him, and after a time of mourning they sent him to off school. But the boy could not stay with his head bowed down, sitting and reading. Instead, his eyes would lift up out of the window and over the fields to the line of trees where the forest began. The wind would sing to him - and when the teacher's back was turned, he would run..., run..., run..., out, out, out, into the open air, flying on the breeze, out into the trees, until the teacher would chase him, catch him, and bring him back to his desk.

One day, Israel heard the call of earth and sky and ran away, but now the teacher said, "Let him go."

And so it was that the boy lived by himself in the wild places, sleeping in mossy hollows, eating berries. He learned the language of the beasts and birds and became the friend of all living things. Sometimes he would stand in silence and listen to the stillness and then he could hear the earth singing a sweet song praising God who made us all.

Now the time came when Israel returned to the world of humankind. He was ten years old. He took the job of collecting the children on their way to school, knocking on their doors and bidding them come.

Then he would lead them through the grass, picking the flowers for garlands that they would weave into their hair. Singing and dancing, they would march through the forest, taking pine boughs as banners which they waved above their heads; until they came to an open meadow where they would stand quietly in a circle. There, in the silence, they could hear the singing of the earth praising God who did make all. And their hearts gave forth prayers which shot like arrows to the heavenly throne.

Hearing these beautiful chords, the Messiah rose up on one elbow and wondered, "Is it time then? Is it time to return to the world?"

And Satan, the Evil One, saw about to happen that which was not yet supposed to be. Then he went before God and said, "Let me strive against these children who would stop my evil designs." And God said, "Strive."

So Satan went down to the surface of the world. He tried to enlist the insects, beasts, and birds in his terrible design, but none of them would turn against the boy Israel who loved and was loved so well.

It happened, near the village where the children lived, that there was a woodsman who had been cursed with a terrible curse. This creature had been born without a soul. At night, when the moon shone bright, the woodsman would fall upon his hands and knees. Hair would grow all over him. His nose and teeth would grow long and his ears would come to a point. He would run on all fours and howl like a wolf. At dawn, the creature would fall under a bush, exhausted, and return to the shape of a man.

Here, Satan found him asleep. The Evil One reached into the poor woodsman's chest and plucked out his heart. Then, Satan took his own heart of evil and placed it in the body of the woodsman.

When Israel led the children into the fields, as they came to the line of trees, the monster appeared. the heart of evil had made him grow to a terrible size. All the children fainted or ran.

When their parents heard what had happened, they refused to let the children go again with the boy Israel. But Israel said to them, "It was only a wolf who ran from the trees. The creature is gone. Trust me." And he spoke with such purity that on the next day the parents again gave him their children.

In the morning, Israel collected the children and led them into the fields. "Do not fear," he said to them. "Whatever happens, remember the name of God and stand fast."

And so it was, as they reached the edge of the forest, that the monster appeared. Immense, shoulders stretching from horizon to horizon, smoke and fire coming from its mouth and nose, creating dark clouds which blotted out the sun. The children shook with fright, but they did not run.

And Israel marched forth toward the beast, not stopping until he had entered into the very being of the monster, until he reached the heart of evil. Then Israel reached forth and took that black heart, filled with all the envy and cruelty of the world, and placed it in his hand.

When it lay in the boy's palm, the heart quivered like a bird with a broken wing. Poor wounded beast that it was, Israel felt its pain and understood that all the darkness of that heart came from fear and self-loathing.

Israel pitied that heart and took it and laid it upon the earth which opened wide. And the heart fell deep, deep into the forgiving world. Then Israel led the children to school.

The fate of the boy Israel was to go out into the world where he became a great teacher called the Baal Shem Tov. The children, without him, stopped going into the forest. They became again like their parents, serious with eyes turned down into their work.

Ah, but we have heard the story and know the mystery that waits for all to see when our eyes rise up to field and tree and sky. Let us go then, let us go to where the flowers blow in the wind that rushes past the trees. Let us stand in the midst of the forest where the earth heals all pain. Let our hearts sing songs of joy, and let us stand silently while the world in sweetness praises God who made us all.

In the wake of this story I could write ten thousand words…but it is far better to simply be silent.