Achilles and the acorn

It's starting to feel a bit awkward having this blog ostensibly devoted to the creation of a novel, with precious little movement happening toward completion of same. This morning was another "into the wall" experience when I finally sat down here to get going. It was as though something in me knew I couldn't face it.

Yes, I did my morning notes, Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian and Alexander the Great. I had opportunity: no other pressing engagements or commitments today. No excuses. Just me--and it. I made myself open the Notes file for chapter 17, and scrolled to the bottom of it, but barely looked at its content; I couldn't bear it.

Am I in crisis?

Last night my sister Mara came over with her daughter Chella. Mara was curious to hear more about James Hillman and his "acorn" theory (presented in his book The Soul's Code). I told what I could, that the acorn is our inborn nature or mission in life, which will out regardless of our intentions. It's not particularly something we have to find; it finds us. On this view, we don't necessarily have to search high and low for our life purpose; our acorn will grow into an oak without any special pushing or pulling--if it's alive, it will get there.

But the existence of the acorn doesn't necessarily mean smooth sailing, or that our decisions will be easy.

When I wrote 2 days ago about being at Nitartha Institute as a monk from Gampo Abbey, I got to thinking about my vocation and the sense of fate in injuring myself there (exactly 3 years ago today), an event which unexpectedly precipitated my return home--which I accepted enthusiastically, largely because of my excitement over this project, The Age of Pisces.

What the heck, I'll provide that entry from the sketchbook too:

SUN. 21 JUL 2002 8:55 p.m. MONCTON HOSPITAL

I lie in the emergency ward. Playing tennis behind Carriage House with Scott Wellenbach, Kim Colwell, and lamas Tenpa and Sherab, I lurched forward on my left foot and felt a snapping of my ankle-tendon: a failure. It was not painful: a mechanical failure, a feeling as of falling back off a curb. A crunch. Kim rushed away and brought Karl. He gently felt my naked ankle (Scott and Sherab-la had all but carried me to the side-bench), comparing it with my right ankle.

"Yeah, it's torn. Not all the way through, but, you know, halfway, maybe two-thirds."

So Karl supported my left side, and Sherab-la my right, as I hopped up the hill to Scott's car. Kim very sweetly brought me my fleece and Roman Lives, along with 2 copies of The New Yorker. Scott drove me and Karl to the Sackville Memorial Hospital.

After a wait I was wheeled to emergency, where Karl and I talked. (He's a Sun in Pisces, Moon in Capricorn, Taurus Ascendant.) Seen by young Dr. Adrian Kelly, very handsome and pleasant: his first (partially) torn Achilles tendon. He made a call to Moncton and said that there was an orthopedic surgeon who can take me tonight, Will Alanach.

So Scott dropped off Karl and drove me to Moncton--here, to the hospital, wheeling me in solicitously, talking with me, keeping me company. The processing was quick: Anglo-French ambience of Moncton; this is the anglo hospital.

Will Alanach: young, dark-haired, compact, casual, easygoing. Offered options of surgical/nonsurgical interventions: nonsurgical have 15% relapse rate; surgical 1%. Probably would use general anaesthetic. 30-45-minute procedure, could happen right after a compound fracture case, maybe 10:30 (an hour from now) or 11:00. Could be awake again by midnight.

I chose surgical: let the young doctor exercise his skill on me.

Touch: clean fabric against my naked skin; only a faint, unsteady throb in my left ankle--rear; pressure of naked behind pressing into the laundered sheet; cold feet, with cool air drifting up under the sheet, corner of the sketchbook pressed into my belly.

Taste: a stale metallic flavor, not quite enough water since playing tennis in the hot sun, teeth rough-feeling.

Smell: neutrality, maybe a faint coldness of oxygen in the ER air; the body smell of my sun-toasted chest mingled with clean cotton.

Sound: nurse-talk beyond the curtain enclosure; "What strength--do you know? What color is the pill?" Thrum of HVAC; the low beep of a piece of equipment, maybe every 10 seconds; clacking of plastic containers, pill-bottles or boxes; hollow scrape of wooden chair-legs on linoleum; nurses in quiet continuous consultation.

Sight: rose-pink curtains wrapped around 2 sides of my ER territory; white mesh along their upper quarter; the hump of my knees covered by clean sheet weith pink bands running along it; Wedgwood-blue fabric of my gown falling off my shoulders; white paper bracelet with bright-yellow stripes; my own arms, looking brownish and hairy, a plastic ampoule-needle parked in the vein of my left arm; blue urinal-jug perched on my rolling bedside table; square stainless sink in the corner; squat plastic pump-jug half-filled with pink soap; yellow plastic box of sharps mounted on the green-cream wall to the right; clear plastic bag with the clothes bundled in it that I was wearing at the time of the injury and the time of admission: burgundy sweatpants, yellow sleeveless shirt, grayed-green fleece; the speckled white of the linoleum.

Haven't contacted Kimmie, of course. After surgery, tomorrow morning. If it should happen I don't make it through surgery: I love her ever so much, and treasure the time we have spent together. My wish is that she lets Tim go through all my writings of every kind first; it's for him to decide what should happen with what, and what to show to whom. But most of all: I love my Kimmie.

The excitement I felt about coming home to write seems to have boiled away. Now I am burdened under worries about the eccentricity of my project and its uncommercial size. Acorns don't care about external validation. But people sometimes do.

The ankle was Achilles' only vulnerable point; it was where his mother gripped him as a baby while dipping him in the water of immortality.