Dark Night of the Soul

“You’re bitter, Black—you had every chance to let Ann know your feelings, and you said nothing.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Father.”

Breton stares out his window at the March tundra—a lunar landscape more desolate than the Gobi Desert—more desolate than my soul.

It’s hard for him being a mentor, especially to someone as hardheaded, black-hearted, and impoverished as me.

“You’re not a victim, Black.”

My chin juts out defiantly. “No, then what am I?”

The old priest lowers his voice to a whisper. “Just a fool… a stubborn fool.”

His words sink in. He’s found the crack—the fault line of my defense. He’s behind the Maginot line of my façade where there’s no protection from friendly fire.

“You’re right,” I croak, “I am a fool.”

His lips part into that toothy grin I’ve seen so often. He’s sat through many a confession unfazed by the foibles of the human condition.

“It’s not too late, you know—admitting is half the battle.”

“I know.”

At this point I’m so miserable I’m willing to concede anything—do any penance to make the pain go away.

He turns compassionate. I hate it when he’s kind—when anyone’s kind. It makes me want to cry.

“How has this situation with Ann been affecting your life—for instance, how’s the writing going?”

Again, his uncanny ability to place a finger exactly where I’m sore.

“It’s not going, Father—I can’t write. I’m blocked.”

“So nothing on the new novel? You need at least five chapters to get an advance from your publisher, don’t you?”

I grimace. “I bitterly embrace my poverty and craft”

He ignores my cynicism and his face brightens with joy.

“Where does it come from–this life force–these ideas that appear like genius where there was nothing before?”

“I wish I knew,” I say glumly.

Undeterred by my moroseness, he cheerily soldiers on.

“Yes, yes…life is hard and what do you have to show for it? As the poet says, you write on spendthrift pages for lovers and are none yourself.”

Okay, that does it. His well-placed arrows find more cracks in my armor.

“Look Father, besides making allusions to Dylan Thomas to parody me, what are you saying?”

He turns blunt. “I’m saying, Black, life demands something of you, whether you can do it or not.”

The room goes silent as it always does when truth is spoken. I may be the writer, but he is the prophet. I can’t dispute his wisdom. I hang my head.

When I look up I see him, leaning back in his chair flashing that toothy grin and I know the session is over and as usual, he wins. Where that leaves me I have no idea. One thing I do know from past experience, his seeds are planted and in time will grow.

I was willing to listen—it’s up to me now.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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