Dark Night of the Soul Part 2

My mentor, Father Breton, says it’s up to me to cure my writing block—by that he means it’s time to get real and stop running from my problems.

But the one person I’m running away from is Ann, and I just can’t picture myself being honest with her about my feelings.

I don’t think I’m going to solve this impasse any time soon.

I drop by my parent’s house on the way back to my apartment. My mother’s aware that I’ve been struggling to write for the past two months.

“Sit down, Black, and have some tea. I’ve made apple pie—your favorite.”

Before I can reply she disappears through the swinging kitchen door and I’m left in the dining room with bitter geraniums, staring morosely out at snowy streets.

Suddenly she’s back with her small prayer book and I stifle a groan. She means well.

“I had Father McCabe say a prayer for you—and he gave me something that will surely help.”

She rifles through the pages of the small missal in search of some kind of prayer card, and then finds it and hands it to me with a triumphant smile. “Here you go—a relic of Saint Anthony.”

I take the small folded card with the picture of Saint Anthony on the front holding the Baby Jesus. I open it up. There’s a small circle of linen pasted inside with a text that reads:

The small piece of linen, here attached, has been reverently brought in contact with the blessed tongue of Saint Anthony, our great worker of miracles. We offer it to all who have devotion to the great saint.

“What do you want me to do with this, Ma?”

“There’s a prayer inside, Black. I want you to invoke the help of Saint Anthony—he’s the patron saint of our parish and your school when you were growing up. He helps people find what’s lost.”

“So, you figure he’ll help me find my tongue, Ma?”

She brightens. “Exactly!”

She’s out through the swinging door again while I’m left contemplating the horror of an 800 year-old tongue and the questionable theology that preserves it—but who I am I to debate matters too great for me?

Besides, I muse, there’s the miraculous power of the bones of Elisha in 2 Kings who raised the dead. Maybe God is saying it’s time I stood up. My head is whirling.

I stay a half hour and then wend my way home intent on getting a good night’s sleep.

All the way home all I can picture is Ann in the arms of Paul Green, standing at the altar where I should be.

That night I have a strange dream. I’m with Ann and we’re at the top of a high building, and of all things, we’re strapped into parachutes.

I look down from the dizzying height seeing the jumbled mosaic of lights from nearby buildings sparling in icy darkness.

“You go first, Black and I’ll follow you.” She flashes me an encouraging grin.

I want to please her—I really do, but I’m terrified of heights and she knows it.

I flash back to the summer before when she made me ride the elevator to the top of the CN Tower and stare out over the nighttime city, glittering like scattered embers.

I was afraid then, and I’m afraid now.

I hear her voice whispering in my ear and her hand rubbing my back consoling me. “Go on and jump. Don’t be afraid. For once in your life, Black, take the plunge.”

Suddenly, I’m jumping out into space as the wind takes me out into the jumbled maze of window squares.

It occurs to me, I have no idea how to steer the chute or work the lines. I’m borne high above the canyon of lights, drifting helplessly as an ember on the wind.

I’m free-floating and descending perilously through narrow canyons and concrete ledges—down into a river of lights below.

Miraculously, I sweep past buildings and emerge high above the Toronto Portlands.

I swoop and glide at tree height over some railway tracks and touch down in the soft grassy section of a field.

I look up to see her colored parachute billowing over me and then she’s lying beside me, laughing and hugging me.

I wake up, and surprisingly, am not afraid—just puzzled at dreaming of something quite impossible for me.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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