It’s the noon train out of Concord. Stepping into the car, I settle into my bedbug-ridden urine stained seat. The car, typically empty at this end of the line, does not begin to fill up until Lafayette and Orinda.
I open my backpack trying to decide which book is up for rotation. It had been a week or so since I spent some time trying to unravel the monomyth as drawn out by Joseph Campbell’s, “The Hero With A Thousand Faces.” So, I open up where I left off.
Thus, this day’s journey begins.
But, the bearing of this book in today’s adventure needs some explanation.
~
In Campbell’s book, the journey of the hero is symbolic of the journey of every human being, great or ordinary. The great ones become the stuff of legend, while the ordinary become the stuff of folklore.
The common fabric of the journey is the individual dream, which is the personalized myth.
The dream is elemental in revealing our shared existence…that of the myth, which are our depersonalized dreams, the lived expression of those dreams.
It is shared by all humanity; hence, the term monomyth.
In the hero’s journey, according to Campbell, he or she must endure trials and contests at great cost once the decision is made to embark on the journey. Along the way the hero, if pure of heart and intention, encounters many beings ranging in appearance from terrifyingly dangerous to innocuous. Their appearance, however, says nothing of their intention or nature.
Their role is that of the antagonist in some instances. In others, their role is muse-like.
These encounters are meant to not only strengthen the hero but to provide supernatural help on her journey. That is, if she is open to them.
By intention, the hero sallies forth to bring something back to her people, who exist in the material realm; her journey is to and from, the greater, truer realm beyond.
Thus, it is done for love. If she is open, if she is willing to see her own destruction and rebirth, she will rise and return victoriously with her prize. But, the prize is nothing material. No, it’s something much more valuable.
It is a glimpse of herself in the true light, and of the universe in its true light.
It is a kind of wisdom begot by the hero and bestowed on him all at the same time. This is key; no dualism here.
The hero can’t rend it for himself; nor can it be simply given to him. For there is no suffering under duality in the true light.
Not all journeys are epic adventures. Some are trivial, even banal.
Yet, each belongs to its individual and holds no less importance for their soul. Sadly, some choose not to take their adventure, however great or prosaic it may seem to the hero. Others resist the call at first, only to realize their call later.
Campbell asserts this common cross-cultural phenomenon and goes no further.
He is correct in many ways; I think. Unfortunately, he makes no statement or even allusion as to the source of the hero's power….or ultimate purpose as to why he is to bring back this wisdom.
~
At the Lafayette station a woman sits down next to me. Spectacled, and in her early 60’s, she looks like a stereotypical cookie baking grandma.
Hold on, I think to myself. I have no grandchildren and except for wearing contact lenses, I look pretty grandpa myself.
Ok, maybe she’s more like a big sister; I chuckle to myself.
As we roll along, she shuffles through her bag searching for…something. But as I read, I sense she is looking at me, or at least trying to get my attention. In some inexplicable way she is very distracting.
Concentration on my read begins to fade. Finally, she pulls paper and pen from her bag. She begins to write furiously.
Then, quite abruptly, she stops writing. Turning to me unabashedly, she asks, “What are you reading?”
Sensing something, I place my bookmark and close the cover. I proclaim the title as I hold up the book.
She asks what it’s about and I offer a brief explanation. Curious, I ask what she is writing.
She writes Harry Potter fan fiction. Then she adds, unemotionally,
“But, I never finish any of them.”
“Really, I write a little myself,” I blurt out, my ever deepening curiosity aroused.
Oddly, she pays no attention to my comment and begins to tell me of her autistic daughter. She and her husband just lost their home in the recent financial crisis. Now, she must work as a waitress in the city to help make ends meet. He works security for a museum in the city.
Fascinated with the common elements between us, I begin to tell her about my son who is autistic too.
But, she pays little attention to that. She changes direction and goes on to tell me about her recent Harry Potter story.
I listen intently as she explains, in some detail, of a chance meeting between Harry and Malfoy, a classic clash between good and evil, between antagonist and hero I think to myself.
Then, she stops her story abruptly, staring ahead.
Just then, we enter the Transbay tube.
With the passing of that threshold, the sunlight is snuffed out and the nearly unbearable shrill of high-velocity steel wheels grinding on tracks consumes all… even nearly all thought.
Sometimes, I consider a decent into hell might just as well sound like this crossing.
As we scream through the tunnel deep beneath the cold dark waters of the bay, I ask her,
“Why don’t you ever finish any of your stories?” She slowly shakes her head in a weird kind of silence that somehow pierces the shrill of the Transbay conduit.
Then she says, “I don’t”
We sit for a minute or so in silence. Then, in empathy, I say, “Just finish one,” which she seems to ignore.
“No really, just finish one of them. Just finish one and don’t worry about how perfect it is,” I add.
Seeming to think about it for a moment, she nods her head and stares ahead in what looks like despair.
We arrive at Embarcadero station, my stop. As we part, we exchange pleasantries.
I step off the train not even knowing her name.
Walking alone through crowds of the station, I begin to think. Who the hell am I giving her such glib advice?
“Just finish one!” Who am I kidding?!
Me, Mr. Wrecking Yard of half-finished ideas, of stymied short stories, of that book I can’t seem to get started. All of them full of typos…and typos yet to be made.
Fragments of thoughts and whims litter my mind…and my hard drive. They are the fleeting phantasms that flash at inopportune times between my intellect and imagination, then, later jotted down in the hope that their meaning won’t be lost; or, that their meaning will be discovered, at some later place in time.
How have I earned the right to offer that kind of advice? I certainly haven’t earned it from experience.
Yet, I had done it. It just popped out, a colorful gum ball from a gum ball machine set in motion thoughtlessly by a child with a fist full of coins.
As I climb from the depths of the station and into the light of the city, a thought rises to the surface of my consciousness. From somewhere in the caverns of my muddled memory, its origin long forgotten, comes a tiny little piece of philosophy that holds within it a shimmer of truth. It whispers to me…
The mind earns by doing; the heart earns by trying.
Yes, but that’s not from Campbell. Although, I am assured somehow that the ordinary hero in all of us would not disagree.
It contains some truth but it’s still dualistic. Something else is needed to make it whole.
But then, more questions come. There are always more questions you see.
It’s all about the questions…and the questing.
Who plays the hero and who plays the antagonist in the encounters of our life’s journey to our ultimate destination? Do we write our own stories or are they being written for us? Or, is there a collaboration of sorts being penned? If it’s a collaboration, who writes in the imperfection, the pain, the loss, the horror? Who writes in the glory, truth, beauty, love, and all goods?
We heroes…lost yet found at the same time through our commission as God’s children, like the hero in Campbell’s book who begets wisdom and has it bestowed on him all at the same time. It can’t be taken by the hero nor can it be simply given to him.
Who or what are we earning for? Maybe earning the right is not the right question; it’s not the right frame of reference.
Maybe, just maybe, it has more to do with commission, and the yearning that stems from it. For without this spiritual warrant, the line between the child-like and the childish is even harder to distinguish, making us stingy with our pocket change at the wrong times and wasteful at others.
Commissioning makes our soul yearn, not earn, for its rightful place in truth; that is, in the loving grace of God. Through it, through this yearning, we have the potential to earn our hero status through right deeds. And what of right deeds? The mind earns by doing; the heart earns by trying. Yes. Habit. Forging that habit is nothing more than being what we are by design, a true human being.
And, what an artful creation that is; the human being, a real story with limitless endings ranging from horror to greatness were we write in our part…hopefully as heroes. That is, if we are careful with ourselves and dare take the journey.
This yearning is the source, it’s the power both begotten and bestowed upon us. Begotten in that we cannot live it without our willingness. Bestowed in that it is a gift, a marvelous collaboration.
With this gift, there exists a potency of wholeness within our un-whole self, a potency of holiness in an unholy world.
Yes, I think to myself. As I ruck my way up the street and on to work, that will do for today anyway
That’s as good a way to “finish one” as any other.
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