Greek to Me – October 2007 Nothing Matters, Everything Counts ©2007 by Michael Raysses

Greek to Me – October 2007

Nothing Matters, Everything Counts
©2007 by Michael Raysses

Growing up, things that came in groups of three always appealed to me. When playing baseball, “three strikes you’re out” seemed fair enough. If you couldn’t hit the ball after three shots, you deserved a little quiet time to ponder your inabilities. The genie that came out of Aladdin’s lamp granted three wishes, a scenario I addressed by making sure that if I had been in Aladdin’s shoes, my third wish would have been for three more. And to anyone who questioned why the Three Stooges weren’t a quartet, I had but one word: Shemp.

Having been raised in a household that was steeped in all things Greek, I was keenly aware of the triumvirate of body, mind, and soul. That awareness evolved into a deeper curiosity of the three—what would be my relationship with them? How would I balance them? What was the impact of one on the others?

For me, my body was the first element that came into play. This was true to an alarming extent. I remember staring at my fingers for disproportionate lengths of time, marveling at their dexterity, giddy that they were mine and that they were there to do my bidding. I was so in and of my body that for much of my childhood, it was my mind and soul. All that changed in the summer of my twelfth year.

I had a friend named Randy who was avidly outdoorsy. He and his fourteen-year-old brother Robby were going on an unchaperoned two-day camping trip, and they invited me along. Despite being afraid of the woods, I said I would go. I thought there was no way my mom would allow it. When she inexplicably consented, I was stuck—I had to go. When we got to our campsite, I felt like I had landed on the moon.

My lunar stay became immediately more pleasurable: we set up our tents, built a campfire, and proceeded to tell ghost stories that made sleeping seem brave. For the next thirty-six hours, we fished, ate cold Kentucky Fried Chicken, and drank as much pop as we could hold. At night, our lamps gave off a warm glow that banished the shadows cast by my fear.

Everything went perfectly until the late afternoon of the second day. We had grown bored of playing with our homemade bows and arrows and someone suggested we needed something more exciting. So we wrapped the tips of our arrows in dead leaves, dipped them in lighter fluid, lit them, and let fly. (FYI—when you’re a twelve year-old boy, this is the stuff of genius.)

While the others shot arrows that streaked the air around them, I wandered over to the empty fried chicken bucket that we had filled with lighter fluid. Somehow the top of it had caught fire. Seeing that, I went to put it out before it became a problem. In what has to be the most mindless thing I have ever done in my life, I grabbed a hatchet and swung it as I stood directly over the flaming bucket. The hatchet ripped the bucket, igniting the lighter fluid below. Instantly, the flames sprang up, engulfing my arm. Panicked, I raised my arm, setting my hair ablaze as well.

Luckily, Robby saw the whole thing and grabbed a sleeping bag. He threw it over me and rolled me on the ground, extinguishing the fire. I immediately leapt to my feet and that stated we were not going to tell my mother what had happened.

Then I saw my arm. Or what should have been my arm. And I went into shock.

The drive from our campsite to pick up my father en route to the hospital was a torrent of blurred sound and motion. As I sat in the car waiting for him, I hoped that I wouldn’t get punished too severely for my misdeed. It was only when he leaned into the car and said “How ya doin’, Champ?” that I realized how badly I was hurt.

Later that night, after I returned from the hospital, my mom tucked me into bed. I still couldn’t believe what had happened. But when I felt the burn that smoldered from my fingertips to my shoulder, there was no doubt. As the weight of that realization settled, I asked her if I could have died that night. I must have been expecting her to say no because when she said yes, I was engulfed in yet another conflagration—one of my own tears.

As much as that event held center stage for me well into young adulthood, it barely feels like an asterisk in my life today. When I think about how it relates to the trilogy of body, mind, and soul, though, I am forced to reconsider. Up to the moment when I caught fire, I had lived entirely in my body to the exclusion of all else. A single moment of mindlessness taught me the price of such ignorance. More importantly, it catapulted me into a state of being that left me with a desire to explore an unknown part of myself. This was an aspect I was introduced to when my mom told me I could have died—my soul. None of it matters today. Yet it has all counted for so much—which is Greek to me.