Calling

by Bob Schwartz

A friend wrote to me today about the choice of living in a desert city, at this crucial climate time. It led me to this by Robert Frost:


Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice


We can no more ignore or discount sense, science and knowledge than we can live unconditionally and entirely by them. People will label the various balance points as enlightenment, pragmatism, rationalism, romanticism, idealism.

Things call to us, we are called, there is calling. The prophets to their caves, the desert fathers and mothers to their wilderness. Most common and human of all, love and friendship, which are not science (despite the attempts to dissect them) but are callings. None of this is stupid, as in a stupor, but soulful.

It has rained in this desert city more than any month in contemporary history. It is only a blip on the current path of heat and drought. The front yard is dirt, rocks and palo verde trees. But the rare constant deluge has grown patches of grass where none were. A deer climbed the hill to munch the grass, having been called by the green.