On Callings and Cloisters

Funny how words change over time, how contextual they are -- defined by space, experience, culture, situation and location.

When I was a child, I would often hear my farmer-father calling out to his sheep to bring them home at twlight. My sister and I could readily be heard calling out to our beloved dog, drawing him to our side. My mother's voice -- at meal times especially -- was as a hearld, calling out to gather us in.

Voices calling out meant good things --
serenity
peace
comfort.

As a young teenager, I wrestled with another voice calling out to me. Thirty years later, I still do.

This voice is not alwasy so predictable -
or perhaps it is.

At times it frightens me, causes me to doubt and overwhelms me with a desire to flee.

At other times, it fills me with confidence and certainty -- too much so at times -- bordering on arrogance -- puffed up in my own self-importance.

And at still other times, this voice sends me deep into the receses of myself --
into the I that is me --
in introspection,
humility,
and quiet reserve.

It is a voice calling me toward something,
into something,
away from everything --
beyond the cloistered boundaries of my soul.

By it, I am called.
Through it, I am called out.
Under it, I am set free to call forth myself.

Can I?
Will I?
Dare I?

It is the voice God --
calling out to me to be.

Will you let me?