The Calling

I’m driving to work listening to “Morning Edition” on National Public Radio.

As I pass by the Galleria shopping mall, an interview with a senior-aged artist who says he’s from another planet catches my attention. His name – Howard –and his well-seasoned, down-to-earth voice lead me to trust him.

He says it was in a vision that he heard his calling to draw, paint and create. Like most prophets, he asked, “Who, me? I can’t. I don’t know how.” But his religious experience overpowered him and, now, a prophet and muse, he obediently pulls out of the depths one successful work of art after another.

Imagine that: a vision … a religious experience … and, as a result, an artist who’s making it … all in the twentieth century.

I’m so engrossed in the program I almost miss the turn-off to the employee parking garage.

The orange-and-white-striped wooden arm that brings me to a halt at the garage entrance suddenly reminds me of a border crossing checkpoint. I can feel it coming back. The eight-to-five stranglehold. With all the self-doubts … the questions.

“Am I driving or being driven? Am I entering into real security or being held hostage by my insecurity? Who’s living my life? Me or not me?” And with each question, the grip tightens.

The electronic sentinel acknowledges my card key and raises its arm to let me pass. In my rearview mirror I see it come down again with cold finality.

The radio interview ends.

I pull into my usual spot, turn off the engine and sit in silence. My courage returns and I dare to ask: “Can I not be an artist?” I feel certain the question is echoing throughout the whole garage for all to hear.

But I don’t have time to wait for the answer. It’s five after eight. I’m late for work.

I open the car door and breathe in the familiar garage fumes. Gradually I come back to my senses.

On my way to the office the next day I remember the radio interview. “Maybe I’m in time for another act. What if I get inspired to listen for my own voice again?” I click on the radio. Eureka! A young playwright is making it. And then the parking garage jams my reception.

With each sunrise I tune into these prophetic voices of the airwaves. Like the sweet yet painful siren song, they freshly accuse me of aborting my own soul.

Why do I torture myself thus? But dare I stick my fingers in my ears? Either way, I will be consumed.

I’m the 7:50 a.m. radio artist. An artist on air. Each day, for the space of five minutes, a breath of freedom seeps through my self-imposed curtain of oppression.

But just as the veil begins to lift, another voice desperately cries out: “Hurry! You’re late to work again. Remember you’ve got a family to take care of. There’s plenty of time to make your dreams come true. For now, you’ve got to do the right thing.”

And I respond, “But must it be either/or?”

Once more, I open the car door and breathe in those familiar garage fumes and the temptation begins to fade. Those kindly intoxicating fumes. “That was a close one.”

The radio is off now, but the bittersweet lyric still beckons: “The life within – your life – demands to be expressed.”

And I think I hear myself secretly pray: “Oh, please do not cease to torment me. For, one day, I might convert.”