the unspooling continues... pt. 8: back from the brink

In the unspooling continues… pt. 7, I relayed the story of my recent bout with Resistance. For nearly a month, all creativity and productivity ground to a halt as I grappled with the monster I had become in the wake of answering “the Call.”

What follows, is the story of my redemption. An accounting of the revelations that encouraged me to return, profoundly changed, to the Path of my destiny.

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i’m just another heart in need of rescue

The first steps of the Hero’s Journey are the most arduous. (Not the most dangerous, necessarily, but certainly the most challenging.)

Simply summoning up the willpower needed to set foot on the Path can be more difficult than facing down the Minotaur. Which is why reluctance is such a common conceit in myths, legends, and stories. Many heroes refuse the initial Call to Adventure—they seek to stay in the Matrix or Hobbiton or any other dusty backwater that seems to offer safety and comfort, amenities one is unlikely to find on the road. Reluctant heroes attempt to thwart the will of the universe, asserting their own course, rather than accepting the Fate that’s been dealt to them.

Invariably, reluctant heroes eventually receive their due comeuppance.

Such was my fate.

For a long time I attempted to “grow up,” to do the things one’s “supposed” to do, acting the part of the simple farmer. I wanted to blend in, sure, but more than anything, I think I coveted the idea of a simpler Path, something... a little less against the grain. Having beaten my sword into a ploughshare, I attempted to retreat into the countryside to live out my life in peace, away from the cares and troubles of the world. But, like Gilgamesh and Rambo before me, my destiny would never prove so simple—or straightforward.

Nevertheless, I resisted. That is, until I ran out of places to hide.

When I dedicated myself to unspooling, it was my way of finally answering the Call.

“Fine! I give up! Have it your way, already! Clearly, the simple farming life ain’t for this cat, anyway—and good riddance!”

So off I went on my little adventure...

Those initial steps along the Path were awfully exciting. I discovered things about myself and the world that blew my mind. When I finally Crossed the Threshold from the ordinary world into the Heroic realm, my life seemed to take on a hitherto unknown significance. Entire dimensions of experience, the kind of stuff the great poets sing about, opened up to me. Like Aladdin, I even managed to win the help of supernatural forces that I could call to my aid (“Source of all Things, Unity from which the Many derive and return, hear my prayer…”).

Life became more vivid, more meaningful, more... well, lively, as a result. In many ways, I was completely reborn, as all heroes must be. But, as all mother’s will surely attest, the birthing process, while beautiful, is also painful a one.

So those first steps… as I alluded—they were deceptively treacherous.

To be born is to be thrust into the most challenging of circumstances: life. Such a daunting opponent can cause even the bravest of heroes to hesitate. The prophet Jonah had pretty good thing going on with YHWH and even still, on the eve of Adventure, ole Jonah tried to sneak off to Tarshish against the big guy’s wishes. Of course, we all know how that went. Destiny cannot and will not be denied.

Jonah and the Whale (1621) by Pieter Lastman

As my own term in the proverbial whale’s belly stretched from days to weeks, I gave in to the pain, misery, and self-loathing. The familiar sting of these old demons felt preferable to the unknown dangers lurking along the Path. The temptation to give up and linger in that black pit was mighty powerful, dear reader. And I might even have done so, too, had my most desperate prayers not been answered.

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waiting on love’s sweet charity

As Julia Cameron says in her magnificent book on creative recovery, The Artist’s Way, “blocked artists are not lazy. They are blocked.”

Which is exactly right—if you know, you know.

And, since I probably can’t put it any better, she also says:

“The blocked artist typically expends a great deal of energy—just not visibly. The blocked artist spends energy on self-hatred, on regret, on grief, and on jealousy. The blocked artist spends energy on self-doubt.”

Annnnnnd that’s a big ole “yup” on that one, too.

That’s exactly what being in the belly of the whale was like—Cameron really does sum it up perfectly.

From the outside, it must have looked like I was barely moving from the couch to the bed each day. It probably seemed like I was doing nothing more than laying around playing video games and watching old kaiju movies—and that was true, I was languishing. But, inside my mind, I was a roiling beehive of activity. None of it good or productive.

I felt as if I had hit rock bottom. (Which felt all the more cold, hard, and unforgiving under my bony ass because I had been arrogant enough to imagine that I was supposed to be slaying beasties, swilling ale, and rescuing the townspeople, instead!)

Have you ever felt certain that you were at your lowest point, dear reader?

Have you ever thought, “Well, at least things can’t possibly get any worse than this…”?

That’s where I was, during my recent bout with Resistance—that was, until the Source got fed up with my bitching and said, “okay, enough of this nonsense—hold my beer.”

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and i’m gonna hold on

Another thing Julie Cameron is big on is synchronicity—what psychologist Carl Jung referred to as “meaningful coincidences.” She instructs followers of the Way to be on the lookout for such occurrences. Paying careful attention to the way the universe unfolds around you can yield powerful insights and clarifying lessons, so the theory goes.

It was while I was languishing at my lowest point that synchronicity powerfully entered my life, eventually leading me back to the Path I am fortunate enough to be walking once again.

Like I said, it began with a prayer to the Source, a plea for confirmation and guidance; for the ability to make peace with my destiny; for the wisdom to turn good ideas into good practice.

I desperately needed such tools. Their absence was destroying my resolve, and an artist, like Frodo and Sam at the foot of Mount Doom, cannot afford to falter with every other step, the terrain is too treacherous for that shit.

And then I started seeing hawks everywhere I went—and I mean everywhere. I couldn’t seem leave the house for even a few minutes without seeing the shadow of a bird-of-prey circling overhead.

Oftentimes, I didn’t even have to leave the house—I could just look out my window.

Granted, raptors aren’t exactly rare in my neck of the woods—but I had never noticed them before, either, and certainly not in such abundance.

Why then, was I suddenly seeing them every single day? I asked myself.

The more birds I spotted, the more I took my noticing as a sign from the Source; a synchronicity. I mined it for meaning and came up with pure gold.

As I wrote in the piece linked above,

“… from a hawk’s perspective, everything is as it should be. The world is exactly right, exactly as it is. Concepts like “right” and “wrong” simply do not apply, in a hawk’s world.

For the hawk doesn’t need to think about its work each day. Nor does it worry about how it will appear or be perceived. Instead, it accomplishes everything that it needs to accomplish simply because it understands on an instinctual level everything that needs to be done. And it does those things, without reluctance or hesitation; hunting, mating, seeing off rivals.

It searches, yes, but it isn’t attempting to find anything… because it is secure in the knowledge that it will know what it is looking for whenever it sees it.

No wasted effort, no useless movements or agitation. No fussing or worrying.”

My noticing got the wheels turning and for the first time in weeks, and I found myself going through the preparatory mental work I do before touching pen to paper. I wasn’t ready to write just yet, but an idea was taking shape, coalescing around a scattered mess of notes that began piling up on my desk

One night, I sat down with that mess of notes and attempted to sort out what I was trying to write about but those damn notes reflected my scattered, pained state of mind. So I came up bupkis.

Frustrated, I slunk back to the living room with my tail tucked between my legs. I assumed my usual spot on the couch and k and I put on an old favourite: South Park. A little pick me up for when you’re feeling down.

And there we sat, watching an animated comedy featuring four foul-mouthed fourth graders when, suddenly, one of the character’s held up The Temptation of St. Anthony, a famous engraving by the German artist Martin Schongauer.

I’m not certain if we even finished the rest of the episode, to be honest—because as soon as I saw The Temptation, I knew what my budding story was about; it was the story of my finally stepping onto the Path for good, a heroic tale about determination and perseverance, come what may.

It wasn’t a story about abandoning the Path, after all, but rather a story about staying on the Path despite feeling like I absolutely could not, under any circumstances, take another step. It was a story about not letting your worst impulses defeat you.

The necessary breakthrough had come.

So, naturally, I consulted my copy of The Hero with a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell.

And wouldn’t you know it—I had even left a bookmark in the tome from a previous consultation. Out of curiosity, I opened to the marked page… and my jaw just about hit the floor:

Yup—I was as surprised as anybody… I mean, you really can’t make this stuff up.

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for the rest of my days

According to the account of his life passed down to us by St. Athanasius of Alexandria, St. Anthony was one of the sagest, most pious men of his day. Lay people and monks alike came to him for guidance; healing; teaching. He was a wonder and a miracle worker. And, like all good heroes, he was accosted by a grim and determined enemy.

As the story goes, Anthony was living in the desert, isolated in a mountain, his days spent in prayer, when, one night, he was accosted by a gang of demons.

… they heard tumults, many voices, and, as it were, the clash of arms. At night they saw the mountain become full of wild beasts, and him also fighting as though against visible beings and praying against them. And those who came to him he encouraged, while kneeling he contended and prayed to the Lord. Surely it was a marvellous thing that a man, alone in such a desert, feared neither the demons who rose up against him, nor the fierceness of the four-footed beasts and creeping things, for all they were so many.

Anthony was assaulted by diabolical forces many times, and on each instance, the great sage rebuffed them. The demons tried to tempt Anthony from his Path, they tried to get him to abandon his mountain, his prayers, his God, and they pulled out all the stops—and still they failed to reduce Anthony.

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The next morning, I woke up to a couple of missed calls from my dad. I wasn’t sure what was the matter but I feared the worst: midnight chats aren’t usually on the menu.

My gut was right.

My grandmother—Nan—had suffered a major stroke and had been hospitalized.

We went up to see her that morning and while she couldn’t open her eyes, she could still talk to us and respond. She was in pretty good spirits but I knew that even the best case “recovery” scenario wouldn’t leave her very happy. She had always been a tremendously active and strong woman, very independent, and the stroke marked the definitive end of all that.

I still wonder if she knew and made a conscious decision, but, regardless, from the second day on, her strength failed and she became palliative. She didn’t speak or open her eyes again for the remaining six days of her life.

She died on Master’s Sunday, an appropriate departure time for such a fanatically and talented golfer.

While she was still able to talk on that first day in the hospital, she encouraged me to continue unspooling. Her support never wavered, despite the ridiculous, impossible circumstances.

To lose the source of that support is more painful than I can describe with mere words, despite their magic.

It is the first loss I’ve suffered that has changed me. I’m not certain that the wound will ever fully heal but I’ve made my peace with that. For the pain is at least roughly commensurate to how tremendous a person she was and how lucky I was to have her and be so loved and cherished.

So, really, despite the maelstrom of pain and confusion, how could I ever think of giving up on this crazy dream?

I mean, if she could still somehow summon up the strength to support me even when she could barely lift her own eyelashes—no… there would be no abandoning the Path for me.

It was time to take that old ploughshare back to the blacksmith. One can’t walk the Path without protection, you see.

I had passed through The Temptation of c.d. mudge and had emerged scathed but intact. (Thank the Source, my Muse, and all the Fates…)

All of a sudden, it didn’t matter so much that I was mired in the worst creative slump of my life. It didn’t matter that I was dead broke. It didn’t matter that I still didn’t have a hundred subscribers on Substack. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have the words “New York Times Best-Selling Author” tagged on my byline. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been able to write anything worth a squirt of piss for several weeks.

I had been loved, powerfully—and no one could ever take that away from me. There was significant power in recognizing such a truth, and a lode of humility and gratefulness that attended it.

For they strove in all manner of ways to lead Anthony from the desert and were not able.

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Alas, the demons assail even now—perhaps I have asked too much of you, dear reader, with such an intensely personal tale—but I grip my sword and bite my lip and carry on.

What else could I do?

I am a writer and my words are an offering, such as they are.

Forgive me, if my pain has made them as weighty as I fear, but there is catharsis in letting your heart bleed on the page. And right now, it’s healing that I need more than anything else.

So let the ink spill; let the blank page be blotted.

Come hell or high water, what else could I be but me?

So I’ll write—and keeping writing. I don’t know what else to do.

A simple farming was never going to work out anyway, y’know? I’ve never been one to stand on convention.

So here’s to successfully shuffling a few steps further along the Path, steps I didn’t believe I’d be able to take.

And here’s to Nan, for a lifetime’s worth of warm, loving memories.

Here’s to the candy parties (yes, they were real, and, yes, they were amazing.); to the hour-long sing-alongs in the backseat of an aging Oldsmobile that smelled like stale perfume; to lounging by the pool for hours on end on creaky old chairs that left impressions in your skin; to late-night games of Rummoli that Dad begrudgingly agreed to play because he always got his ass kicked; to riding our bikes around town and eating ice cream by the “Russian/Rushin’” River; and to the million and one other happy memories that I will cherish for the rest of my days.

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Thank you, Nan, for loving me, even when I couldn’t find even an ounce of affection for myself.

Thank you for being you, one of the best human beings I’ve ever had the privilege of encountering.

Thank you for nurturing me and feeding me and always, always, encouraging me, no matter what. You were a jewel more precious and rare than any diamond.

I know I made you proud—but I hope to make you prouder still. So please keep an eye on me, as I walk the Path… you’ve helped me grow strong, it’s true, but even heroes need a hand from time to time. Next time I slip—and there will be a next time—I know you’ll be there to help me find my footing. And for that, and everything else, I thank you.