Theseus Descending

My dear readers:
            There must be 101 ways to hurt. All of them are rotten. Some of them change us.
            Even tiny things can pack a wallop. Consider these five: a hornet sting on the hand; a scratch across the eye; a kidney stone on its journey; a gout flare in the toe; and a burned finger on a child.
            When a hornet punctures my skin with its stinger, I holler at it: “Is that all you got?” Then I chop the hornet up with pruning shears, and I feel better. I’m obviously tougher than a hornet. I laugh at pain!
            Last summer I scratched my cornea. I missed three days of work, unable to see or think. I hurt for six weeks, for I had nearly punctured the globe of my eye. This is how it happened. Before mowing the lawn I asked myself directly: Shall I wear eye protection today, or just hearing protection? How about hearing protection only? My, what a beautiful sunny day! Then I walked face-first into a pine tree. Never again will I mow without eye protection. I learned something that day: I’m still tougher than a hornet, but maybe not tougher than a pine tree.
            Kidney stones and gout flares I’m saving for a rainy day. Everyone needs something to look forward to. I’ve seen college football players rolling on the floor in agony from their stones. Some women say passing their kidney stones was worse than childbirth. Most of my patients who have ever had a kidney stone drink more water afterward. They change their drinking ways.
            Alcoholics are prone to gout, but they don’t always change their habits. For them, the cure for their pain and the cause of it are poured from the same bottle. But who doesn’t behave like that sometimes? How many of us perpetuate our problems with ill-advised cures?
            What’s left? Burns on the hands of a child. Was there ever a more effective elementary school teacher than a red-glowing stove or a smoking drill bit? Pain changes us.

*          *          *

            There are 101 ways to suffer. Many of them are chronic and severe, far worse than those mentioned above. The worst leave wounds so deep that they warp our bodies and our minds until we barely recognize ourselves; we can scarcely endure another day. The years of our lives run through the hourglass, piling up in mounds below, burying all the chances we might have had to do something beautiful. To make a difference.
            We try almost every cure available to us, everything we can imagine, wise or foolish, using our impaired judgment as our guide. Sometimes, like alcoholics, we seek out pleasure to drown the pain, even when we know our actions are harmful in the long run. But we don’t care! We just want to feel better for a single moment. There is no Future, only Now. The simple absence of pain would be enough, we say. But it’s never enough. And the more we harm ourselves, the more our desperation increases. Our sleep vanishes. Like vapors in the wind we blow away, one piece at a time. We lose our minds, our bodies, our jobs, our families, and our lives.

*          *          *

            It’s not enough for me to suffer and to find just one more survival trick to help me stagger to the finish line of life. I need a greater purpose through my suffering.
            So I accept this proposition: I was born to suffer. For this purpose I was born: to experience suffering myself, to study it in depth, and to report back to others who may walk the same road one day. This purpose helps me to endure. Sometimes I can overlook my own difficulties by focusing on others. What a powerful, healing balm, this distraction! But I do not always succeed.
            Since the first October snowfall of 2023, my strength has vanished. The sickness that descended upon me overwhelmed my preparation. For 35 years I’ve had fibromyalgia, a disease of muscle pain, stabbing headaches, heavy fatigue, terrible sleep, and brain fog. It is far worse in winter when the cold locks my muscles into spasms. When I hurt badly, during the winter pain, I sometimes become afraid to even fall asleep, because upon awakening the pain is even more severe—a never-ending nightmare. It feels as though I could not hurt physically any worse if someone were to cut off my legs with a handsaw. Crucifixion doesn’t sound like it would make me feel any worse than I already do in my worst moments.
            The brain warp is profound. I can’t handle sound, or light, or humanity. So I hide away from human life, feeling guilty that I can’t act like a real person, a real husband, a real father. Real people make plans to do things. They serve others; they think about others; they appreciate beauty; they see design in the world, and they wonder about the designer. Healthy people have bowels that work predictably, painlessly, and they also have a reliable bladder. They can keep their balance on two feet, without the room spinning. Their skin doesn’t hurt to the lightest touch of a finger. They don’t panic with the summer solstice out of fear that the days are shortening, and the cold weather is marching inexorably their way.
            I don’t want to be a complainer or to dwell upon what miseries are mine, for that approach seems to make almost all forms of suffering worse. Smiling is far preferred to frowning. But I cannot escape this fact: for the next six months, I will have limited strength—not enough energy to post something decent on a weekly basis and yet pursue my greater purpose: completing my epic fantasy trilogy addressing pain in a redemptive way. So now, dear reader, I am about to disappear into my fantasy land, where only those who suffer the most save the day. I hope you will be patient with me: I’m trying to wrestle some good out of this difficulty using imagination. Like Theseus descending into the labyrinth to face the Minotaur, I now plunge, heart and soul, into the deep—for a Purpose. Goodbye.

*          *          *

The King’s Summons

            Three of the King’s horsemen arrived with the snowfall, two battle-hardened men and the Princess, known as Archer, daughter of the King himself. I had expected the arrival of the men; the Princess was a surprise. Fortunately, I had prepared enough shelter and provender for three horses.
            My guests brushed their mounts, rubbed them with hay, then joined me by the hearth for food and drink. I gave them the best I had. What other choice was there? The news was coming anyway.
            The three riders seemed satisfied with the meal I had prepared; they took off their outer cloaks. Immediately after eating, the Princess stood and delivered to me a small yellow scroll. It was my next assignment, sealed with the King’s own ring. I broke the seal and stretched out the scroll. The Princess let me digest the news in silence. I read it twice. Three times, even. My course had been selected for me: the Path of Death and Darkness.
            The Princess had such a kind and knowing face. I recall nothing about her hair. But her cheeks were as alluring as the lilies of the field. They were bronzed and weathered—just like the men’s—but with far more understanding.
            “You wonder why I have come in person?” she said.
            “Yes, I wonder, for I have always been a loyal servant. I am overwhelmed that He sent you in person. I’m surprised you have come since the King already knows that I will go where I am sent.”
            “Yes, the King knows you will go wherever you are sent. But He wanted me to emphasize to you the importance of your next assignment. This mission will take you six months—the same as last time—but it will seem much longer because it will be harder, the hardest thing you’ve ever done. No one has ever been sent down the Path of Death and Darkness by the route you have been assigned. There is a hidden entrance, not far from here, only recently exposed. We will escort you there tomorrow before dawn. I’m sorry, TAT, but you will not see the light of day again for many months. By the end of your journey, you may hardly remember the healing light at all.”
            “I understand. Will you be descending with me, into this impenetrable Darkness, or must I go alone?”
            The Princess shook her head. “It’s a one-person job, TAT. You know that, and you know you were born for this. You must descend alone.”
            “What about the Cord?” I blurted out my question like a child. It seemed like I had swallowed a stone, and I had to get it out.
            “The same as always,” said the Princess, but this time your Cord will be even thinner than before, so light you cannot detect it. A “Thin Cord” will be bound around your waist. On the Day of Retrieval, you will be retrieved. The Cord will thicken on that Day, and stiffen, so that you can sense it at last. Then you will be brought back into the light to share what you have found. With help, you will recover. The King is expecting a report, 300 pages of precise description, the best you can produce. This will be just your first volume of many, but it must become the groundwork for a comprehensive rescue.”
            “I understand,” I said. “I am the King’s servant.” The reply passed through my lips as if spoken by another. I hardly knew what I was saying.
            The Princess seemed satisfied with my answer. “Sleep now,” she said, “while I keep watch.” The two great horsemen fell almost instantly into a deep slumber, but I could find no rest.
            The Princess tiptoed about us in silence, armed with her bow, peering through the windows. All night the flickering fire glinted off her arrows. And I was alone with my thoughts.

*          *          *

            The Path of Death and Darkness. That’s what was written on the scroll. It was a labyrinth of the Enemy’s making, completely underground, a river of blackest oil, with currents and tides beyond the strength of mortal flesh. No one had ever mapped the tunnels where I was heading, though the King had traveled through them once before and come out the other side. He knew where he was sending me.
            It grieves me when I think I may have no way to communicate with my friends above until the blessed Day of my Retrieval. But I will try to send up a few messages, if given the chance. The Songs of Sorrow will be guiding me through the Depths, where there is no sight. That Music must be shared and studied.
            What a strange and terrible place, the Underground. Prisoners everywhere, shrunken by the Darkness to the size of newborn babies, or even smaller. The tiniest of these sufferers will have forgotten who they are; some will have lost their abilities to speak and to think.
            There is always hope. Escape for some will be provided by mechanisms unknown. It can’t be through Cord retrieval. Perhaps it will be through the paradox that all Music has talons and wings, even the Music of the Enemy. Some prisoners may get snagged accidentally upon the Enemy’s Music and ride it unaware all the way to the sunlight above.
            Other servants of the King will gather those few who escape from the Depths and restore them to health. Once I return, I must speak with every former prisoner and learn from them. Any tidbit they remember from the Deep could matter; a single fragment of information might mean the difference between life and death.
            The King has said there will be a rescue one day. I should never despair. Every tunnel will be explored; every cavern opened; and every prisoner set free.
            For six months, I will endure fibro-phase: my outward motion will be halved, but my inward change will be doubled. It may seem to me as if I’m already dead, or I ought to be. I may crave death and even pursue it. I might even send messages to the surface in my distress, begging my friends to cut the Cord. But the King’s servants will never do that. They will remember that the King’s purposes are higher than mine.
            On the day I emerge, I hope to have completed my first book, a volume of 300 pages, a meticulous, metaphorical document of what I’ve discovered through Darkness. I will remain above ground for a time, gather my strength once more, and share my findings. Then the King will send me down again. The King has revealed to me that I was born for this, and for this purpose I was born.
            Wait for me, dear reader, even if you hear no word for many months. But always keep on listening for the Music of the Deep and searching for wounded prisoners set free.
            I enter the Pit. The Songs of Pain rise to meet me. It is the Music of the Deep.

*          *          *

From whence the locust army that has blotted out the sky?
In Darkness I descend now and I can’t remember why.
The grinding of the locust jaws, the whirring of the wings—
I trade the roar of war above for other war-ped things.

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