Gifts and Crucibles

"When one door closes another door opens; but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us."

-Alexander Graham Bell  

My mother said many times during my struggles with disappointment—she was a good friend—that when a door closes, another door opens.  I came back to this place, knowing deep inside that my life must change. I’ve struggled way too long with this feeling of lacking purpose, even though I realize that my life does make a difference, and it has made a difference. Like so many others, I don’t give myself much credit.

A friend here is in the early part of her journey with a serious illness. During a visit shortly after I returned we talked about her surgery and the treatment that must follow, and we talked about making a small garden outside her front door—something she wants and a gift I can give, and like all gifts, receive equally in return. So far, though, she remains very focused on what is happening to her, and a garden must wait for better days. During our visit I commented that I must start doing something productive here, adding, “if I can just get focused.” “I think you’re very focused,” she replied, suggesting that I might need to relax a little, letting things come to me naturally. Isn’t it odd, thinking that you lack focus, when others don’t see you that way at all, in this case a licensed therapist responding as a friend? Pay attention,

I am doing something about my sense of purpose. Last week I began volunteering at an organization that, among other services, provides daytime respite care, mostly for seniors, although one of the clients at this time is only in his 30s. When I interviewed to become a volunteer, I said that I wanted to work in the kitchen and in the garden. As it turns out, I can only serve food and clear away dishes after the meal, but this feels good. I’ve virtually been given carte blanche in the garden, so I’ve decided to do something with herbs and roses. Imagine the fragrance.  The job shop, which is the only for profit component of this organization, is building raised beds that will allow the clients to dig in the dirt, should they choose.  My need to stir around the kitchen in some fashion will be realized this week when I become a kitchen angel with an organization here that prepares and delivers meals to shut-ins. All I had to do to change my life was pick up the phone.

By design, and many times I wish I were somehow different, believe me, I am continually looking for an open door. I like to solve problems. Tell me your dilemma, and my brain goes into action. Much of this goes nowhere. It is my instinct, nonetheless, just like our Blue Heeler Casey, who lived the first 15 months of her life in the city, instinctively herded the horse and cows on the land in Leon County, even though it wasn’t in her job description. When she was young, she would attempt to herd humans, nipping at your heels as you walked across the yard. I think we all must sense that we are needed, especially when allowing ourselves to be needed is a choice we make. It feels good to give, to nurture, to see others smile in gratitude for something you’ve done or said. We become beneficiaries of our own gifts.

Recently I found myself looking up the definition of crucible. I don’t recall why. The only crucible I’ve been aware of recently is the one I tried unsuccessfully to sell in a garage sale a group of us held in Texas several weeks ago. It went back to my garden. This crucible is an iron pot with a handle, and it’s marked on the bottom Tyler Texas. Its official purpose, according to the dictionary, is as “a vessel of a very refractory material (as porcelain) used for melting and calcining a substance that requires a high degree of heat”. I think melting metal for shaping bullets might serve as an example. Interestingly, the secondary definitions for crucible are a “severe test” and a “place or situation in which concentrated forces interact to cause or influence change or development”. Life, it seems to me, is a crucible. When Arthur Miller penned his play, “The Crucible,” which uses the madness of the Salem witch trials as metaphor for the equally mad hunt for Communists by Senator Joseph McCarthy in the middle of the 20^th century, where lives were destroyed, and people died, the world was in a time of severe stress. Things change, and yet nothing changes. Our world remains in severe stress. Miller’s play elevates fear mongering to art. We are stunned to watch man’s inhumanity to man.

Our lives are about crucibles, and so it seems to me that my life, especially now, is about being up for the test. I want it to be, and I want to prove to myself that making a difference is filled with grace. If I get out of my way and let a light shine on the path, I can make it.

Gifts and Crucibles—Santa Fe New Mexico (May 19, 2008)

R. Harold Hollis