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The Call

Part I

      I'm a wandering soul. You know, just someone. A plain, ordinary kind of guy who feels driven to move on from time to time to something new -- a home, a city, a job, a set of friends, a way of searching, just whatever. I'm not sure why, but I know I'm not alone.
      There's always been something a bit confusing about my restless nature, the sort of thing that seems to make nosy people wonder what's going on. You know, the ones who have more time to look at what other people are doing than at their own affairs. They always seem to have tons of advice. They seem to know better than I do what's good for me, and spare no pains to let me in on the Big Secret! That's easy to turn off, though, and for years it really hasn't bothered me.
      There's some kind of thing here that ties me up inside. It goes off like a hammer hitting, kind of a flip-flop in the stomach, every time some apparently random event occurs that has -- well, a meaning of some kind. I can't find any rhyme or reason to it; I guess it happens like this to everyone else too. There are just certain things that seem to matter somehow; you just sort of know it inside when you come upon one of them.
      Maybe part of it is idealism. When I was a kid, it was real strong -- I've found out in years since that a lot of people go through a "stage" where they have a lot of it, usually in the teens or somewhere in there, and then for some reason, maybe along in the twenties, they seem to lose it. I guess I did my best to do that too, but somehow I never really did. And all these years it's made me keep searching -- never letting me get really comfortably settled anywhere, always goading me on to seek out something better, something that would let me -- no, let's make it real -- make me grow.
      It may sound as if I'm not happy about my restlessness. Like a lot else about me, though, appearances can be deceiving.
      I'm the type to look at all this stuff that goes on, and ask myself about the whys and wherefores. So by now, I have some idea of just how little time I spend in the "driver's seat" of my own life. I have a dim perception of a grander pattern, a subtle but commanding influence that makes things take a turn this way or that when needed. The upshot is that in my years, which are more than a lot of people think, I've grown and learned much more than I could have if I were calling all the shots myself.
      There seem to be many people who would tell me it's chance or blind luck or maybe "just the way I am." Oh, yeah? Guess what? I don't believe a word of it! Blind as I am, I've found loads of people who are in the same boat -- and admit it, with a generous helping of appreciation thrown in.
      So I was walking along the road one day ...

      Once there was a couple -- a husband and a wife. They were ordinary, plain people moving on from time to time to something new -- well, I guess you know all about it by now, 'cause I just got done telling you. After all, I did say that there were others.
      These people decided, at a certain point in their lives, to let the fiery impulse of their idealism run a little more free than it can for many other people. They had no Great Message to peal out over the countryside like a thousand church bells; they had no Blinding Light to force-feed an unwilling world. No, being plain and ordinary people with a devotion to love and truth in their hearts and a feeling of wanting to get more in tune with themselves and this mysterious urge that seemed to have control of the driver's seat so often and to such good effect, they chose to let the world be, and just polish up their own lives a little. Oh, yes, a few visible changes had to be made -- it's really not possible to live as one in a can of sardines, and expect to get any further than the can itself will. The answer they decided on was to get a farm.
      Being people of no huge means, but having a little salted away, they didn't get a piece of land described in geography books as rich farmland. They got a quite ordinary piece in the hills, having some flat areas, some boulders and some rolling terrain, well off the beaten track. There were stones in places in the sandy soil of the fields, and scrubby weeds grew here and there. The general undesirability of the place brought the price just barely within their reach.
      But to their vision, it was a place of incredible beauty. There were stones in some useful places as well, and they had the luck to have two or three clear and bubbly streams running over the land as well. Best of all, it was theirs -- theirs to grow on, theirs to pursue peace on, theirs to let life happen on. In the few clumps of trees, they saw Nature's gardening. In the hilliness, they saw places to walk alone, privately meditating and finding new vistas to excite their interest at every turn. In the stones, they saw a future home. In the space, they saw room to be, without stepping on anyone's toes.
      So they bought it. There wasn't money enough left, by a long way, to have a house built on the land, so they did a much more sensible thing: they bought a bunch of seeds, a little tractor, a tent and some camping equipment, and the other things they would need to make this land work with them for (at first) sheer survival. They reasoned in a manner that would seem quite strange to many people: "Better for us to get started letting our inner urge have expression," they said to themselves one evening in privacy, "even though it means `roughing it,' than to stay cooped up forever and maybe lose all sense of what is valuable and precious. We can build a house, if necessary with our own hands, in good time."
      There were a few trees in several places on the land, and they pitched the tent just under one of these clumps. It wasn't enough for complete shade. The tent soon stopped looking new, fading over a period of time in the rather abundant sunlight; but in it they lived all the same. In this way, they spent quite some time.
      They worked diligently. Oh, there was a lot to do: one of the fields had to have rocks removed from enough of its area to allow them to put in a big enough garden to feed themselves. They realized from the first that this would not be a prohibitively huge area. In a few days they were able to produce a couple of acres of clear soil, and after a day's rest, the garden was started. From time to time, their inner impulses gave them a feeling of how to proceed with their crops.
      Soon they had a large garden which, in view of the sandiness and rockiness of the soil, was incredibly colorful and full. A little water from one of the streams trickled through. Each day, they made a point of removing the rocks from a bit more of the field, and the usable part continued to grow. All the rocks were neatly piled off in one corner, and soon looked like a small hill themselves. Just as the money nearly ran out for buying food at the store, the first of the home-grown food was ready, and in an increasing stream they had more than they could eat. They had had the foresight to lay in a stock of jars and lids for canning the crops, and for a time they were quite busy at this, using a big pot on their camp stove. And still the food supply far outstripped their ability to use it all!
      One day, a third person showed up. He was a kid -- a mere boy in his teens, unkempt and dirty, who stopped in. The couple quickly learned that he had no home, and was too disgusted with what I have called "the sardine can" to get involved in living in the usual way. He was in some pretty strong emotional pain over his idealism. In the preliminary conversations, the boy found them accepting and not judging, so he rapidly opened up to them. Gently the couple listened to his torrential outpouring of feelings, and did not show the immediate rejection and disgust which the young man had been accustomed to receiving for his expressions.
      Gently the man suggested to the boy that cleanliness and care for himself still counted, and were perhaps the place to start if he truly wanted to get anywhere in any program of responding to his own inner urges. Gently the woman told him that, if he had enough concern for himself to follow this suggestion, he might abide with them a while, getting his own tent for this purpose. In any case, he was welcome to dine with them and spend this night before moving on.
      In obvious pain the lad heard their ideas, but said nothing, sitting for some time in the corner of the tent. The man and wife looked at each other knowingly and in love, and silently went outside to prepare the dinner. The lad, still markedly unhappy, ate with them in silence, receiving each of the numerous portions on his plate with a look of gratitude. He curled up later that evening in one corner of the tent. Next morning, he disappeared into the inner areas of the farm. In the late afternoon, he came back, no longer smelling, and with his ragged clothes still damp from obviously having been washed in a stream. He looked at the man anxiously as the latter worked still in the garden. The man said, "I see," and went on working. The youth picked up a hoe and started working on the weeds in the next row. The man looked briefly, smiled, and went on working.
      Presently they both returned for dinner. Emerging from the faded tent at the same time, the wife looked twice and noted the earth attached to the boy's trousers, noted the lack of odor, and said, "I'm glad you've decided to love yourself." The kid broke down and cried, and the man hugged him briefly.
      He's still with them.
      He's not alone. From time to time, as if by magic, others came along -- none with much money, but all with something to contribute and who were willing to pitch in and help build a new community based on idealism and love. All realized they were imperfect. No one judged anyone else, and each let every other live in peace with full acceptance. An individual here, a family there: it soon became a very tranquil little community with a lot of good feeling.
      Before the second winter, there was a quite comfortable, though plain and simple, stone house big enough for everyone and with room to spare. Surplus crops were traded for other necessities, and soon there was a larger stove, tools, materials, furniture, and so on. The large pile of rocks was no longer to be seen.
      One of the people there was a musician. This musician played drums or guitar or piano under a canvas pavilion for most of each day, and the music gave a remarkable atmosphere to the whole area where people were working. He played types of music which depended on what people were doing. He used types appropriate for working, for relaxing, for whatever -- he loved his work, and the music dripped with inspiration, rhythm, and harmony. Sometimes he looked tired and haggard, but always his efforts were infused with love, and on he played.
      The others in the farm loved it. Their output doubled after the man's arrival, and he was not scorned because he wasn't out there in the garden. The occasional time he was sick for a day, everyone mourned his absence. Never overwhelming, always uplifting, his music was a centerpiece of the life of the village.
      At certain times in the day, by unspoken agreement, he stopped playing for a while, and everyone stopped work. Many meditated, most rested, and no one tried to get anything done. Soon people were radiantly healthy, radiantly happy, and there was a complete lack of discord, although imperfections did crop up from time to time, which were dealt with by a combination of loving discussion and simple adjustment.

      As I was saying when I changed the subject, I was walking along the road one day. As I came over a barren hill in the road some distance away, I faintly heard the distant beating of drums in rhythmic cadence. As I heard it, my feet seemed to get a will of their own -- the timing was perfect for marching right along the road. But my heart was captured. As I drew near to the driveway, my feet turned in toward the farm of their own accord.
      As I walked in, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of mystery and romance. The compelling music filling this outdoor environment where I would least expect to hear it, the rocky drive winding in through several low hillocks adorned only with grass and small bushes and rocks and boulders, the unknown lying beyond ... Nothing in the world prepared me for the idyllic beauty of the sight awaiting me as I rounded the last hillock and, with surprising suddenness, saw the massive gray stone house and a corner of greenery beyond. Even this soon, under a cloudless blue sky and mellow light of late afternoon, I felt an awe and a peace unlike any other in my experience.
      On the other side of the enormous farmhouse, in full view of dozens of people working in the garden with rhythm and swing, I found him, sitting under his tattered canvas roof, obviously tired, face drawn and a little too pale, but with the unmistakable imprint of peace and love. He looked at me briefly, not missing a beat, and then back at his drums. Somehow I knew he wanted me to sit. As he played on, the sense of romance somehow deepened as I surveyed long rows of green things spaciously laid out in a wide flat field cozily nestled between low hills laid out on all sides. The late afternoon sun poured golden radiance on the whole scene over the chink between the hills at the far left corner.
      The southwest hillside bespoke many hours of contented playing by small children, with holes scooped out here and there, a few toys scattered on it, and three or four forts implanted at strategic locations. The same hillside also revealed the leisure activities of adults, showing a large and elaborate garden running up the hillside to a railed enclosure at the top. There were a lot of flowers and greenery all through the garden and especially beside the stone wall, sitting atop the hill like a colorful crown. Somehow the garden managed to reinforce the impression of unpretentiousness and simplicity. On a couple of the other hills at various distances up from the bottom, three or four smaller stone houses indicated the preference of a few of the people for a greater degree of privacy in their quarters. By this time, the pile of stones had been amply replenished; and its ongoing usefulness became obvious as I discovered that further construction was in progress at a far corner of the main building. The barrenness of the original land was still very obvious, but the settlement itself gave it an air of intense aliveness.
      A while later, with a flourish, he ceased his playing. Looking at me briefly in the cool shade of the pavilion, he quietly and simply said, "Hello." He put down his drumsticks, closed his eyes, and tiredly settled into a more relaxed position.
      There was a silence. "Hi," I said softly at length. There was a quiet peace suddenly about the place, a perhaps sacred something that made me less than eager to leap into frenzied conversation. Perhaps it was the sudden air of relaxation of all the workers in the field, the inactivity as the music stopped. Perhaps it was the house -- maybe "lodge" or "castle" would be a better name for it -- the impressive dimensions, the lack of sophistication about its details and workmanship, but without any idea that it was less than solid, less than carefully made: perhaps something about all this had a message for something deep down inside me that needed to know that something, somewhere, was right.
      Nothing further was said for some time. Eventually I myself continued in a subdued voice. "Your music -- there's something about it --"
      Some time later, he opened his eyes and looked at me intensely for a moment, then answered quietly. "Yes. That is our heartbeat."
      For the few words, I somehow had received his message completely -- and it opened whole new worlds of understanding to my surprised mind. I found myself feeling I could open myself to this man with neither reserve nor embarrassment. Now the words flowed.
      "I've always been a funny duck," I began. "So many people seem to have trouble working without some kind of music, but for me it's always been a distraction. I can't turn the radio on and work. Yet somehow I feel differently about your drumming. Everywhere else I ask people to turn off the noise, and get looked at strangely. But here, I -- well, it's almost like the Pied Piper. I just sort of got drawn in here when I heard you play.
      "I think I've just figured out part of why. Normally, I can't have radio or television because they command my attention -- it isn't my rhythm; I've got to make my own. I need to concentrate. I do my own thing, and I really do it.
      "Yet that isn't all of it, either. A long time ago, I discovered that I am drawn to music. Too late to do too much about it, unfortunately -- I was already caught up in another walk of life. I push a pencil now. I guess I could as easily have pushed piano keys or a bow -- but here I am doing what I'm doing. There were hints along the way, I now realize -- but I was too wrapped up, too much into problems to know it. There was a time when the parents asked me to take up a musical instrument -- a tuba, I think it was, of some kind, or the piano, at different times, and I got to know some music students in a school once, and, well, several different things. I've been coming to the conclusion that I really should have done it, and now I guess it's too late to make it really count.
      "So why am I drawn here so powerfully? I feel like joining you, like making music too."
      He looked at me peculiarly, then at last spoke. "You belong here."
      The hammer went off, and I was terrified. "But I can't play. I didn't answer that inner call years ago. I'd break up the beautiful harmony here! I --"
      I realized I was panicking, and then knew it was utterly foolish and without ground. Again the house had a message for me. It had no more appearance of professional polish and superficial finish -- in a word, prestige -- than a hill made by nature. It was obviously man-made, but just as obviously natural -- natural according to human nature, natural in the sense of being in complete harmony with nature. Measure of performance was certainly not in question here. I looked at the hills, the houses, the field, the gardens: all excellent -- in harmony, but without artifice, without foolish fancy in the way it was done. "Perfection?" Hardly! I found myself wondering what the term could reasonably mean here -- or anywhere on earth, and knowing that these people would share my doubt. I felt calmed by a curious feeling as though it was all really right. I wondered what my anxious words meant to the musician. I looked at him, the question in my expression. I found my answer in his face as he watched me intently: Again, no hint of perfectionism.
      "We ordered you," he said. Obviously he was a man of few words -- and yet he managed to get tremendous and heartfelt messages across in them. I discovered I knew exactly what he meant. I sensed his strain in having to work too hard, the long hours of providing an atmosphere to a whole community, and knew that the question had been discussed. I somehow found myself knowing that many of the people here had made heartfelt appeals to Higher Powers, each according to his own understanding or conception, for someone to help the musician.
      After so ruminating, I spoke again. "I see that now. Do you really think I can be of any use? I can try, but don't know whether I can do it or not. Yes, I really could arrange things and come here. But could I fit in? I sense something really tremendous going on here. I feel that there's a closeness of knit here that sustains -- I guess recreates -- the people you have. Maybe even me? Wow! I hope I might be of at least some use. Gads, it's so hard to know! I feel so insignificant -- this place seems to have such genuine, excellent people -- I wonder. I've been so full of noise, of problems --"
      I was interrupted by his holding out his hand. His face radiated a peace and a love of incredible warmth, along with a quite incongruous boyish grin. But again, his few words cut away all nonsense as we shook. "Welcome to the club," he said.
      It was enough. Quite unnecessarily, I let my gaze again take it all in: the now-pinkish sky as sunset took over, the natural bowl between the hills, the colors, the homey atmosphere. I knew.

Copyright 1985 W. Gommel