Of Mortal Gods

There is joy in a well-thrown football, in the lovely lethal hiss of air around the composite leather, in velocity born in the balls of one's feet, and in the violent and terrible force transferred smoothly from hips to throwing shoulder. It's the same joy, love, to be honest, that occurs in the humbling attack of a summit by bicycle, in the grim and glorious struggle against oxygen debt, and, in truth, in the absolute desperate necessity of a well-turned phrase or verse hunted and found in in the despairing wilderness past midnight: the surrender of one's body and intellect to service of the cause at hand. I have no illusions about my own talents, physical, intellectual or otherwise; I am die-hard mediocre, at best. I am privy (in a small mean way), however, to the paradoxical juxtaposition of self-surrender and utter self-possession that I believe is the hallmark of all great creations, be they those of Whitman or McGrath, or those of Ali or Montana. There's a rising up and a thinning of the skin, a fragility and a belligerence, a passion and dispassion, between the points of which the constant artist must steer. In those moments, when the artist permits himself to be as weak and as strong as necessary, he imposes his will upon his environment, and in turn cedes internal territory that is neither returned nor forgotten.



Max and Will (my three-year-old sons) have begun to be fast. They used to run and I could catch up to them in a couple of long strides. Not so much anymore. Now they run, and I have to turn on the wheels a bit. They also are evolving from little stick figures into sinewy, athletic little boys. They have developed little lat spreads, and miniature muscles play around their shoulders and arms. As I begin my slow (very, very slow) decline into physical irrelevance, I am comforted to see my boys begin to recognize the strength and speed written into their DNA, and in the obvious and unconscious satisfaction they take in the purposeful use of their bodies and minds. We threw the football around in their yard today, and I recognized the fey light that shone in the blue-grey eyes they inherited from me, and their revelations of speed and feats of strength. Don't misunderstand, the same joy is apparent in their steady mastery of language, space and math (and just as encouraged) but nowhere are the little wild things as purely abandoned to happiness as in running, jumping, throwing and wrestling. It's a bit sorrowful to know that when they achieve mastery of their bodies and their sweet, elastic minds, I will be inexorably declining. I am a god to them now: large strong and knowledgeable beyond reckoning. Little do they know the want and worry I feel for them, or how much their god's happiness is bound to theirs. Perhaps all gods feel this way; beside themselves with love and care for their creations. I feel curious panic in my gut when I think of the inevitable time when their god becomes mortal to them, when they recognize me as just as mean and insignificant as the world for which I am trying to equip them. They will ultimately outgrow their need of me, but I shall never fall out of love with their sharp eyes and their red-blond curls, or with their belly laughs and singing.

I have proclaimed my aversion to any and all religion, but today I sympathize with the gods of Abraham and Muhammad, with Osiris and Isis and Zeus and Apollo, and Wodin and Loki and even evil old Cronos. I sympathize with all bereft deities who demand temples and alters, tithes and worship, and even sacrifice and blood from their creations. I understand the terrible love and the beautiful, inevitable despair; but it's our blood, our lives that must be freely sacrificed. Jesus came closest, perhaps, but even he got it wrong. I can't say "take my body so that you may be free, but you have to do as I say and build the right temples and say the right words to receive it." I must instead say, "Here is my sacrifice. Do with it what you will. The gift is yours because I love you, and nothing you say or do can negate it." The burden of faith is therefore mine, as it should be for all gods. So should Max and Will read any of my hopeless ramblings someday, long after they have recognized their flawed humbug of a father, I want them to know that this intention and service, at least is pure; and that I love them as dearly as any mortal god can love his children.

much peace,
tjb