Too close to the sun

I still remember my eyes would grow wide each time we read a children’s book about Icarus — and I can vaguely recall the illustrations from close to 40 years ago now. Icarus made magnificent wax wings and, despite Daedalus’ clear instructions, flew closer and closer to the sun until finally plunging to his death.

It’s a haunting ancient tale and I recently thought of it in the context of last week’s Torah portion when Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, offer strange fire and are killed in the wake of their actions. It occurred to me that these cautionary tales have in common a recognition that we humans can fancy ourselves God-like and become too irreverent of our place in the world, too extreme in our technological prowess and in our offerings.

Icarus, Nadav and Avihu, are all vigorous in their holy mission—a universal human quality within the annals of history, and in the unfolding present. The world can be a frightening place, aflame with any number of dangers, or a seductive place, with temptations at every turn. It can be difficult to find a discerning path, one balanced between our faithful calling to pursue truths and draw close to the Divine, with our humble place amidst all creation. Perhaps Icarus, Nadav and Avihu were reacting to those who remained too humble, who were comfortable with a herd mentality, who didn’t venture to challenge and innovate. Indeed, that extreme can cause its own forest fire too.

Amidst all these ancient tales and current day realities where extremes hurt everyone, I find it so grounding to count the Omer, a practice of mindful awareness that begins the second day of Passover and extends to the holiday of Shavuot—fifty days in all. Last week we meditated on the quality of Chesed, compassion, and this week, Gevurah, strength. How do we facilitate and nurture both of these aspects in ourselves and in the world? When we react with either quality in any given time, are we standing present with a balanced truth? This may be one of the most challenging of lessons and it seems more imperative than ever to nurture a curious, balanced awareness within our community and in the greater world of which we are a part. So let us still make wings to fly, but to construct them with an eye to the dance between Chesed and Gevurah, as Elif Shafak writes (in my new favorite book, The Island of Missing Trees):

Because in real life, unlike in history books, stories come to us not in their entirety but in bits and pieces, broken segments and partial echoes, a full sentence here, a fragment there, a clue hidden in between. In life, unlike in books, we have to weave our stories out of threads as fine as the gossamer vines that run through a butterfly’s wings.