Sunday, 1 February 2015

The Call

It starts out as a twitchiness.

Restless, nervous energy that makes setting down and focusing on any one task impossible.

It drives me to walk around the house; at a loose end and confused by the sudden need to eat, to visit the bathroom, to seek out peoples' company--confused because satisfying these urges does not satisfy, and because even as I do the very things this desire calls me to I am not sated but rather hunger ever increasingly for things that do not fill or fit my need.

Desperate. Utterly unsure and undone by this rising need for the unknown and, apparently, unobtainable I seek distraction and refuge from the now gnawing understanding that I desperately, desperately, desperately need to be somewhere else, doing something else; only I know not what.

Immersion, deep and demanding, is where the need to hide from the pressing need within my brain drives me. Books, once and often my favoured companions, do not command from me so much attention that I can shut the doors to in and out and find solace in the quite and isolation. Music, my violin and my voice, supports me for a while; but eventually sore fingers, shoulders, back, arms, throat and soul force me to stop and I find myself once again faced with a now howling thirst (ho, thirst sounds far, far too timid for the cacophonous lack driving me from before) that has grown in the waiting--grown and fed by the very sounds I sought to hide in.

In the end, abnegation seems like the only cure. To sink myself so deep in story, puzzle, challenge, or experience, that eventually the storm passes and I find that, like in the Bene Gesserit litany, I am all that remains.

All that remains.

I, and rare knowledge that I did not hear; though I claimed to have ears.

...

It's always definite, the call.

Steady, undemanding, and dreadful as the dawning conviction of present opportunity--it rings gently in my heart and my mind:

The call, to put off present weakness and step out in greatness that will shape the course of things to come.

For we are what we do repeatedly; our minds and hearts and spirits' sinew--they all have ruts in them we've worn from days and weeks and days of treading out our lives in the moments and the instants that make up our time.

Mediocrity is but a step away; churlish disdain for what might, what aught, be effected with just a moment's moment's effort spanned over duration's endeavour. Toil, is hard to come by when rest is near at hand; and any sign of shinings and great achievement is too distant but for a dream.

But the call.

The call.

The call.

It remains, clear and consistent; though buried in muck and dust and life's dower gloom it might be. The call to put off lesser things; to honour and esteem those things that seem remote and distant; to seek to know, like Paul before us, to know the power and fellowship of crucifixion and painful suffering--and to glory in its Author's Name.

Lesser, baser, things arise to fill and take the place of the call's hunger and its thirst. A restless, nervous energy and a hollow, driving, drive.

But the call is still consistent; not to bury, hide, immerse me; no.

It's calling me to fly.