The Call

You don't know what you're going to get into when you follow your bliss. James Hillman

Can you remember a time, perhaps, when you were very young, when life was enough? When you were enough? Not because of what you looked like or what you did, but just because everything was just the way it was. I can remember the very first time of such an experience. Although brief, it was an experience instilled in the psyche that came to fruition. It was the summer of ’53, shortly after my ninth birthday, in Mineral Wells, Texas.

Our house sat on the corner block facing a constant southwest breeze in summer. My bedroom, lined with windows, faced the street. At dusk, the night air breeze was both cooler and calming. I remember so many things about those summer nights.

We lived on a “half street,” so there were very few cars that frequented our road. Across the street, a light post beamed a soft glow through the sheers that warmed my soul. There was something about night sounds that was comforting, especially the locusts, crickets, and an occasional bullfrog bellowing from the creek down the road. Snuggled between fresh, line-dried, crisp sheets, I listened to the night sounds, and the night breeze created a cradle that rocked me to sleep.

Although our neighborhood was within walking distance of town, it did not stop Daddy from plowing and planting a large garden, so the garden fragrances drifted in as well. It was my favorite season because two of my favorite vegetables, cherry tomatoes and yellow-meted watermelons were plentiful.
One afternoon, dressed in my sleeveless sundress, I traipsed barefoot out to the garden for a snack. Walking through the garden rows, I watched for horned toads and goat head stickers. Ah, the aroma of the colorful vegetables was heavenly. Finally, I reached the tomato row.

I quickly pulled up the front of my skirt-tail, and filled it with hot cherry tomatoes. I slowly tiptoed out of the garden, avoiding the dangers to my favorite spot, the swing-set beside the house.

Once I finished off my bounty, my small hands dripping with juices and my sundress covered with tomato stains and seeds, I began walking backwards while sitting on my swing seat until my feet could hardly touch the ground. This was my queue to lift my feet, lie back with arms outstretched, and soar toward the expansive blue yonder. When the swing began slowing down, I pushed the ground hard with my right foot. Every time I went through the motions, I moved at a faster speed and a higher level. As I leaned back with my arms outstretched, the thrill of moving toward the enormous blue sky was exhilarating. After a few pushes, my arms would begin to tire, and I would drag my feet on the ground until the swing came to a halt.

Resting on my swing seat, I gazed at the sky almost in a daze. It was then that something happened. There are no words to describe the moment, only to say that I experienced something strange, yet familiar. Suddenly, engulfed by a gust of wind, I realized with my small mind, it was more than just a gust of wind; it was much more . . . a knowing, a knowing of “something.”

When I grew up, I would be a psychiatrist and help Mama.

Now in my sixties, I remember that day vividly as if it were yesterday. Many years later, I would find a "seed" had been planted in my young mind that summer afternoon that would guide me through life. I learned with time, that the seed was my “calling.”

A quote comes to mind of the great Jungian analyst, James Hillman.

"You may remember this something as a signal moment in childhood when an urge out of nowhere, a fascination . . . struck like an annunciation--this is what I must do, this is what I've got to have, this is who I am." James Hillman