A Very Narrow Bridge

The world is a very narrow bridge; the important thing is not to be afraid. ~Nachman of Breslov

Category: Listening

November 25, 2013

Our Guy in the Field

Hey. I’m back.

If you missed me, I’m sorry. Actually, if you missed me I’m pretty happy about it.

It’s nice to be missed. Sometimes.

Sometimes it’s nice to miss. Sometimes it’s a waste of time.

So, you know, if I miss you it’s either nice or it’s a waste of my time. But, even if it is a waste of time, thanks for everything you taught me. And that fantastic experience we shared. And the book you gave me. And that amazing conversation we had until the next morning. Seriously, you added something to my life. I mean it.

Anyway, that’s not what I’m going to talk about. I’m going to talk about last week’s parsha: Vayeshev (Bereshit [Genesis] 37:1 – 40:23)

I know. It was last week. Sometimes we need to miss things though. I miss last week’s parsha. I mean I’m not clinging to it, but it’s nice to think about. Even this week. Probably next week too. It’s just a nice thing to bring along.

Because of the guy in the field.

In last week’s parsha, we met Yoseph: He received his special tunic (Rashi says it was made from nice wool, not many-colored), he dreams dreams, and his brothers hate him. Then, despite the fact that they hate him, Yaakov sends him off to see how these hateful brothers are doing with pasturing the family’s flock. So Yoseph heads out to find them, but something happens along the way:

 .וַיִּמְצָאֵהוּ אִישׁ, וְהִנֵּה תֹעֶה בַּשָּׂדֶה; וַיִּשְׁאָלֵהוּ הָאִישׁ לֵאמֹר, מַה-תְּבַקֵּשׁ
A man found him; there he was, wandering in the field. And the man asked him “What are you looking for?” 

It’s just this guy. In the field.

What’s he even doing in the field? Is he looking for Yoseph? Does he even know what he’s doing there? Did he wake up that morning and think: “I should really head out to the field”? We don’t know his name or his job.

We don’t know anything about him except that he’s this guy in the field. And Yoseph tells him that he’s looking for his brothers, who are supposed to be there with the flock. And he tells Yoseph that he heard his brothers say that they were going to Dotan.

So Yoseph heads to Dotan where he finds his brothers and they throw him into a  pit and then sell him into slavery. He’s taken to Egypt and then there’s Potiphar and his wife; and the prison; and the baker and the butler and their dreams.

And all this moving towards really big things happening for Yoseph. For everyone.

All because of that guy. In the field. Who pointed Yoseph exactly where he needed to go. And we don’t even know his name.

The other day when I was waiting for the train, I was wearing my Twins hat and this guy asked if I’m from Minnesota. I am. Turns out he is too.

So we talked about all sorts of things. Driving on frozen lakes. Northern Lights Records Seeing bands at the Uptown Bar. The CC Club in general. The bad kids from the rich school district. Getting in to fights. Our kids. How our kids might not get to do the things we did because they aren’t growing up in Minnesota and also because the world is just different.

I know. I’m old, I guess.

Then, pretty much out of nowhere, this guy says this:

“You know when I think about it, as glad as I am that my kids won’t do the things I did, I’m happy I did them. Aren’t you? I mean, didn’t doing those things…even getting the shit kicked out of you…didn’t they make you less afraid? Isn’t being afraid the worst thing in the world?”

 I needed to hear that.

I needed to hear that because I miss you.

Really, I do. I miss you a lot and it’s not always nice. And that’s because I’m afraid.

I’m afraid I will never meet anyone else like you. Even though I have met someone since you. And since her. And since her. And even since her. And I’ll meet someone again. And I’m afraid when I do it will go all wrong. That I’ll screw it up with my fear. That I’ll get myself in a pit.

I’m afraid of a phantom. It’s just me deciding to be afraid of those things.

Because, having had the shit kicked out of me before, I know what it’s like and that I don’t really need to hold onto that fear. I can even turn missing you into something nice again.

And I know this because of the guy in the train station. Or the field. Or wherever.

Because he pointed me in the right direction. And I know this because Yoseph got out of the pit.

Eventually.

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June 23, 2013

All the Stories

It’s raining this morning so we are sprawled on the couch watching a movie.

The villan has just tricked the hero into turning over his magic staff, the source of all his power, which the villan promptly breaks and then throws, along with our hero, into a deep pit.

“What will happen now?” Elly asks, matter-of-factly—we’ve done this before.

“I dunno, Habibi,” I reply. “Is it about the staff, or is it about him?”

Sure enough the hero, with the help of a friend, is able to access within himself what it takes to repair his staff and escape the pit.

He asks me if I’ve seen this movie before.

“Nah…I just know a lot about stories.” I say.

Because of you. I don’t add.

But as I watch him watching the rest of the movie, or watch him listen as I read to him, or even watch him when it clears up and we are playing catch, I realize that it’s true. It’s possible to know all the stories. Every single one that’s ever been told, or ever will be told, and it’s all because of my son. Or at least because I love him so much and because he’s been using that love to crack me open, to stop me dead in my tracks, for as long as he’s been around.

Because I’m not talking about having an extensive book collection, I’m not talking about Joseph Campbell, and I’m not talking about structuralism. I’m talking about something else altogether. Something simple but not at all easy.

I’m talking about the stories that we keep within us. In our meridians, in our nadis, in the Sephirot. I mean the Stories. The stories that connect us. That allow us to go beyond ourselves. The stories that, if we only stop for a moment and listen to them, allow us to become bigger than ourselves.

Those stories. 

Those stories are hard to access. They are harder to hear. And they are hardest to remember. Being human is hard. We want to believe so much about ourselves. So much about what’s important to us is, well, important to us, and we’re not ever going to completely get over that in this lifetime.

But. If.

But if we sense them, even for a second or a breath or part of a breath, they can help. For that second, that inhale or exhale or that blink of an eye, we can know the stories.

All the stories.

If we know all the stories, for that briefest moment we can recognize something in ourselves. We can recognize everyone else in ourselves. If I know all the stories—the same stories that you know, the same stories that include you, how can I resent you? How can I hate you for your resentment of what’s important to me?

I can’t.

I can’t because I know the stories and knowing the stories means I can see and understand your resentment. It’s the same as my resentment. Your hatred and fear are the same as the hatred and fear I’ve experienced. My anger is the same as the anger you’ve felt. We’ve heard this one before and we can see that it’s not about the staff we might carry, it’s about what’s within us.

All of us.

And it’s hard because we like our staff. We believe we need the staff of what’s important to us, the staff of our hurt and our anger, even the staff of our happiness and our accomplishments. We like those things. I downright love those things enough to horde them.

But if we know the stories we must also know how they end. And they end the same for all of us. And they end too soon for us not to at least try to listen.

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