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Who Am I, and Who Do I want to Become?

 

 

We frequently ask children, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Many adults have a similar question lurking in the backs of their minds. But that is really beginning at the wrong end. First we should ask, “Who am I?”

Our personalities and desires shape our callings. There is something embedded in each of us that, without robbing us of our freedom, nonetheless prods or tugs us in the optimal direction.

So, when you embark upon a heroic journey—a life filled with meaning and purpose—the first step is to heed the admonition inscribed over the entrance to the Oracle of Delphi in ancient Greece: “Know Thyself.” Search out who you are, and then you will be equipped to discover your heroic calling.

Assess your personality, your natural talents and earned skills, your interests and beliefs, your strengths and weaknesses. Be open to the observations and reflections of others in a nondefensive way.

Once you have a good read on who you are right now, you can begin to consider who you want to become.

 

Misunderstanding Who We Are

Rev. Robert Sirico

 

In the early 1970s the world was awash in movements of all sorts: spiritual, musical, political, and cultural. It seemed the whole world was being turned upside down and a new, hopeful, and utopian horizon was in the offing. In my own personal journey I found myself in the middle of much of this ambience.

One day, coming in from a round of picketing and sit-ins, a group of friends gathered in the living room of my small apartment just off Hollywood Boulevard. As we sat there recounting the day, we spoke of our hopes—even if to my mind now, too simplistically and idealistically—of what the world would be like “when the revolution comes.”

One after another we spoke of our dreams passionately, laughingly. When my turn came I said, “When the revolution comes, we’ll all shop at Gucci’s.”

I was greeted with bewilderment by my jean-clad, Birkenstocked, and patchouli-oil scented comrades. My friend Ann, a radical feminist Trotskyite sitting (appropriately) to my left looked over and said,

“Gucci’s, Robert?”

“What? We are working for the redistribution of the wealth, aren’t we? Gucci’s is a metaphor for a time when everyone will be able to buy quality goods and services at accessible prices.” That was my argument.

Silence.

Then Ann again, “But Gucci’s? I don’t think you are a real socialist.”

How often do we, by an unplanned word or action or choice, reveal our true selves—if not to ourselves immediately, then to those keen observers who know us best?

That perceptive one-word question Ann asked of me that summer day cut to the heart of my identity, of who I thought I was. And it stuck with me over the coming years, even as a transformation of self-awareness began to take shape. Initially this began with reading some books on economics that helped me discover that the fundamental error of my socialism was anthropological in nature: It misunderstood human beings in their need to be creative and free.

The trajectory of ideas that this would lead me on would return me to some of the earliest assumptions I’d learned at home and in the faith I learned as a child from the sisters in those catechism classes about human dignity and transcendence.

 

Stars and Stepping-Stones

Jeff Sandefer

 

Entrepreneurs are driven by action. Introspection, if it comes, comes later. That’s why we are so easily captured by the shiny trinkets of the Rat Race and the never-ending climb toward unlimited power and meaningless success. In focusing on these outward trappings of success we often forget who we are and where we came from.

Yes, being rich has it rewards. But I regularly move in the circles of the super rich, and trust me, in many cases you wouldn’t want to change places with them, not for all the money in the world. Edwin Arlington Robinson got it right in his poem “Richard Cory”:

 

Whenever Richard Cory went to town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

 

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

“Good morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

 

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

 

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet in his head.

 

It’s not wealth per se that destroys people; but wealth without understanding does. Money—or any kind of success—brings its own set of temptations and pitfalls.

So how can you be prepared? How can you gain some perspective?

I challenge my students to seek “Stars and Stepping-Stones” conversations with potential role models who are further ahead on the journey.

Here’s what I tell them: Choose ten people, three under forty but older than you; three between forty and sixty; and at least three over the age of sixty. (You would adjust these numbers, of course, depending on your own age.) Then for at least two hours, interview them about their lives, asking about victories and defeats, triumphs and regrets, and most importantly, the questions they wish they’d asked at your age.

Be willing to learn from their mistakes; be willing to listen to their wisdom. Soak up some much-needed perspective for your journey—seek “stars” that will keep you oriented and heading in the right direction. Seek practical, realistic “stepping-stones” that might lead to your next adventure.

Most of all, remember that these people can help you consider who you are, and who you want to become—something beyond money, power and fame.

Because no matter how big the house or jet plane or yacht, the winner of the Rat Race is still a rat.

 

What does this saying mean: “The love of money is the root of all evil.” Or this: “Money makes a good slave but a poor master.”

 

The Golden Touch (Abridged)

Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804–1864)

 

Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter named Marygold.

This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father’s footstool. But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. He thought, foolish man, that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow, glistening coin that had ever been heaped together since the world was made. Thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose.

Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger.

“You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!” the stranger observed.

“I have done pretty well,—pretty well,” answered Midas, in a discontented tone.

“What!” exclaimed the stranger. “Then you are not satisfied? Then what would satisfy you?”

Midas thought a moment. “I wish everything that I touch to be changed to gold!”

The stranger’s smile grew very broad. “Be it as you wish, then,” he replied. “To-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with the Golden Touch.”

In the morning Midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room, grasping at everything that happened to be in his way. He seized one of the bed-posts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. He pulled aside a window-curtain, in order to admit a clear spectacle of the wonders which he was performing; and the tassel grew heavy in his hand,—a mass of gold. He took up a book from the table. At his first touch, it assumed the appearance of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume as one often meets with, nowadays; but, on running his fingers through the leaves, behold! it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the wisdom of the book had grown illegible.

He hurriedly put on his clothes, and was enraptured to see himself in a magnificent suit of gold cloth, which retained its flexibility and softness, although it burdened him a little with its weight. He drew out his handkerchief, which little Marygold had hemmed for him. That was likewise gold, with the dear child’s neat and pretty stitches running all along the border, in gold thread!

Somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please King Midas. He would rather that his little daughter’s handiwork should have remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his hand. But it was not worthwhile to vex himself about a trifle.

Wise King Midas went down stairs, and smiled, on observing that the balustrade of the staircase became a bar of burnished gold. He lifted the doorlatch (it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden. Here, as it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Their delicate blush was one of the fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet tranquility, did these roses seem to be.

But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his way of thinking, so he took great pains in going from bush to bush. By the time this good work was completed, King Midas was summoned to breakfast.

There he heard little Marygold coming along the passageway crying bitterly. This circumstance surprised him, because Marygold was one of the cheerfullest little people whom you would see in a summer’s day.

“Pray what is the matter with you, this bright morning?” cried Midas.

Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently transmuted.

“Beautiful!” exclaimed her father. “And what is there in this magnificent golden rose to make you cry?”

“Ah, dear father!” answered the child, as well as her sobs would let her; “All the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweetly and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! They are grown quite yellow, as you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance! What can have been the matter with them?”

“Poh, my dear little girl,—pray don’t cry about it!” said Midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted her. “Sit down and eat your bread and milk.”

Midas poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a matter of course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it up, was gold when he set it down. He lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and, sipping it, was astonished to perceive that, the instant his lips touched the liquid, it became molten gold, and, the next moment, hardened into a lump!

“Ha!” exclaimed Midas, rather aghast.

“What is the matter, father?” asked little Marygold, gazing at him, with the tears still standing in her eyes.

“What is the matter, father?”

“Nothing, child, nothing!” said Midas. “I don’t quite see,” thought he to himself, “how I am to get any breakfast!” Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt to be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next snatched a hot potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a hurry. But he found his mouth full of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared aloud.

“Father, dear father!” cried little Marygold, “Have you burnt your mouth?”

“Ah, dear child,” groaned Midas, dolefully, “I don’t know what is to become of your poor father!”

With a sweet and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, our little Marygold started from her chair, and, running to Midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees.

“My precious, precious Marygold!” cried he.

But Marygold made no answer.

Oh, terrible misfortune! The victim of his insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no longer, but a golden statue!

It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in the fullness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor yet to look away from her. While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger standing near the door.

“Well, friend Midas,” said the stranger, “pray how do you succeed with the Golden Touch?”

Midas shook his head. “I am very miserable,” said he.

“Very miserable, indeed!” exclaimed the stranger. “Have you not everything that your heart desired?”

“Gold is not everything,” answered Midas. “And I have lost all that my heart really cared for.”

“Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?” observed the stranger. “Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is really worth the most—the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of clear cold water?”

“O blessed water!” exclaimed Midas. “It will never moisten my parched throat again!”

“The Golden Touch,” continued the stranger, “or a crust of bread?”

“A piece of bread,” answered Midas, “is worth all the gold on earth!”

“The Golden Touch,” asked the stranger, “or your own little Marygold, warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour ago?”

“Oh my child, my dear child!” cried poor Midas wringing his hands. “I would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!”

“You are wiser than you were, King Midas!” said the stranger, looking seriously at him. “Your own heart, I perceive, has not been entirely changed from flesh to gold. Tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden Touch?”

“It is hateful to me!” replied Midas.

“Go, then,” said the stranger, “and plunge into the river that glides past the bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the same water, and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again from gold into its former substance. If you do this in earnestness and sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has occasioned.”

You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up a great earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched it), and hastening to the river-side. On reaching the river’s brink, he plunged headlong in, without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes. As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to see it change from gold into the same good, honest earthen vessel which it had been before he touched it. He was conscious, also, of a change within himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out of his bosom.

King Midas hastened back to the palace. The first thing he did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the golden figure of little Marygold.

“Pray do not, dear father!” cried she. “See how you have wet my nice frock!” For Marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor could she remember anything that had happened since the moment when she ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King Midas.

Her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser he had now grown. For this purpose, he led little Marygold into the garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the rose-bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses recovered their beautiful bloom.

 

When does the desire to expand and flourish become a destructive obsession?

 

How Much Land Does a Man Need? (Abridged)

Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910)

 

[Pahom, a peasant, begins buying land as he is able. He wants to accumulate as much land as he possibly can. He learns that in a remote part of Russia, the Chief of the Bashkirs is selling off parcels of land “by the day. As much as you can go round on your feet in a day is yours, and the price is one thousand roubles a day.” Pahom agrees to these wonderfully generous terms, and the Chief tells Pahom to dig holes to mark his boundaries as he goes.]

 

The Chief took off his fox-fur cap, placed it on the ground and said: “This will be the mark. Start from here, and return here again. All the land you go round shall be yours.”

Pahom started walking neither slowly nor quickly. After having gone a thousand yards he stopped, dug a hole and placed pieces of turf one on another to make it more visible. Then he went on; and now that he had walked off his stiffness he quickened his pace. After a while he dug another hole.

Pahom looked back. The hillock could be distinctly seen in the sunlight, with the people on it, and the glittering tires of the cartwheels. At a rough guess Pahom concluded that he had walked three miles. It was growing warmer; he took off his under-coat, flung it across his shoulder, and went on again. It had grown quite warm now; he looked at the sun, it was time to think of breakfast.

“The first shift is done, but there are four in a day, and it is too soon yet to turn. But I will just take off my boots,” said he to himself.

He sat down, took off his boots, stuck them into his girdle, and went on. It was easy walking now.

“I will go on for another three miles,” thought he, “and then turn to the left. The spot is so fine, that it would be a pity to lose it. The further one goes, the better the land seems.”

He went straight on for a while, and when he looked round, the hillock was scarcely visible and the people on it looked like black ants, and he could just see something glistening there in the sun.

“Ah,” thought Pahom, “I have gone far enough in this direction, it is time to turn. Besides I am in a regular sweat, and very thirsty.”

He stopped, dug a large hole, and heaped up pieces of turf. Next he untied his flask, had a drink, and then turned sharply to the left. He went on and on; the grass was high, and it was very hot.

Pahom began to grow tired: he looked at the sun and saw that it was noon.

“Well,” he thought, “I must have a rest.”

He sat down, and ate some bread and drank some water; but he did not lie down, thinking that if he did he might fall asleep. After sitting a little while, he went on again. At first he walked easily: the food had strengthened him; but it had become terribly hot, and he felt sleepy; still he went on, thinking: “An hour to suffer, a life-time to live.”

He went a long way in this direction also, and was about to turn to the left again, when he perceived a damp hollow: “It would be a pity to leave that out,” he thought. “Flax would do well there.” So he went on past the hollow, and dug a hole on the other side of it before he turned the corner. Pahom looked towards the hillock. The heat made the air hazy: it seemed to be quivering, and through the haze the people on the hillock could scarcely be seen.

“Ah!” thought Pahom, “I have made the sides too long; I must make this one shorter.” And he went along the third side, stepping faster. He looked at the sun: it was nearly half way to the horizon, and he had not yet done two miles of the third side of the square. He was still ten miles from the goal.

“No,” he thought, “though it will make my land lopsided, I must hurry back in a straight line now. I might go too far, and as it is I have a great deal of land.”

So Pahom hurriedly dug a hole and went straight towards the hillock, but he now walked with difficulty. He was done up with the heat, his bare feet were cut and bruised, and his legs began to fail. He longed to rest, but it was impossible if he meant to get back before sunset. The sun waits for no man, and it was sinking lower and lower.

“Oh dear,” he thought, “if only I have not blundered trying for too much! What if I am too late?”

He looked towards the hillock and at the sun. He was still far from his goal, and the sun was already near the rim. Pahom walked on and on; it was very hard walking, but he went quicker and quicker. He pressed on, but was still far from the place. He began running, threw away his coat, his boots, his flask, and his cap, and kept only the spade that he used as a support.

“What shall I do,” he thought again, “I have grasped too much, and ruined the whole affair. I can’t get there before the sun sets.”

And this fear made him still more breathless. Pahom went on running, his soaking shirt and trousers stuck to him, and his mouth was parched. His breast was working like a blacksmith’s bellows, his heart was beating like a hammer, and his legs were giving way as if they did not belong to him. Pahom was seized with terror lest he should die of the strain.

Though afraid of death, he could not stop. “After having run all that way they will call me a fool if I stop now,” thought he. And he ran on and on, and drew near and heard the Bashkirs yelling and shouting to him, and their cries inflamed his heart still more. He gathered his last strength and ran on.

The sun was close to the rim, and cloaked in mist looked large, and red as blood. Now, yes now, it was about to set! The sun was quite low, but he was also quite near his aim. Pahom could already see the people on the hillock waving their arms to hurry him up. He could see the fox-fur cap on the ground, and the money on it, and the Chief sitting on the ground holding his sides. And Pahom remembered his dream.

“There is plenty of land,” thought he, “but will God let me live on it? I have lost my life, I have lost my life! I shall never reach that spot!”

Pahom looked at the sun, which had reached the earth: one side of it had already disappeared. With all his remaining strength he rushed on, bending his body forward so that his legs could hardly follow fast enough to keep him from falling. Just as he reached the hillock it suddenly grew dark. He looked up—the sun had already set. He gave a cry: “All my labor has been in vain,” thought he, and was about to stop, but he heard the Bashkirs still shouting, and remembered that though to him, from below, the sun seemed to have set, they on the hillock could still see it. He took a long breath and ran up the hillock. It was still light there. He reached the top and saw the cap. Before it sat the Chief laughing and holding his sides. Again Pahom remembered his dream, and he uttered a cry: his legs gave way beneath him, he fell forward and reached the cap with his hands.

“Ah, what a fine fellow!” exclaimed the Chief. “He has gained much land!”

Pahom’s servant came running up and tried to raise him, but he saw that blood was flowing from his mouth. Pahom was dead!

The Bashkirs clicked their tongues to show their pity.

His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave long enough for Pahom to lie in, and buried him in it. Six feet from his head to his heels was all he needed.

 

This classic parable is, at first blush, about using money well. Yet can it not also be read as a story about using whatever resources one has—money, skills, talents, connections—rather than being too timid to ever venture out and use them?

 

The Parable of the Talents

Jesus

Matthew 25:14–30

King James Version

 

Note: A talent was a weight of precious metal worth enough to pay a day laborer for twenty years.

 

For the kingdom of heaven is as a man travelling into a far country, who called his own servants, and delivered unto them his goods. And unto one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one; to every man according to his several ability; and straightway took his journey.

Then he that had received the five talents went and traded with the same, and made them other five talents. And likewise he that had received two, he also gained other two. But he that had received one went and digged in the earth, and hid his lord’s money.

After a long time the lord of those servants cometh, and reckoneth with them. And so he that had received five talents came and brought other five talents, saying, Lord, thou deliveredst unto me five talents: behold, I have gained beside them five talents more.

His lord said unto him, Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.

He also that had received two talents came and said, Lord, thou deliveredst unto me two talents: behold, I have gained two other talents beside them.

His lord said unto him, Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.

Then he which had received the one talent came and said, Lord, I knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hast not sown, and gathering where thou hast not strawed: And I was afraid, and went and hid thy talent in the earth: lo, there thou hast that is thine.

His lord answered and said unto him, Thou wicked and slothful servant, thou knewest that I reap where I sowed not, and gather where I have not strawed: Thou oughtest therefore to have put my money to the exchangers, and then at my coming I should have received mine own with usury.

Take therefore the talent from him, and give it unto him which hath ten talents. For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.

And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

 

And what if you feel that you have very few resources?

 

Do What You Can

Anonymous

 

There was once a farmer who had a large field of corn. He harrowed it and weeded it with the greatest care, for he wanted to sell the corn and buy good things for his family with the money. But after he had worked hard, he saw the corn wither and droop, for no rain fell, and he began to fear that he was to have no crop. He felt very sad, and every morning he went out to the field and looked at the thirsty stalks and wished for the rain to fall.

One day, as he stood looking up at the sky, two little raindrops saw him, and one said to the other: “Look at that farmer. I feel very sorry for him. He took such pains with his field of corn, and now it is drying up. I wish I might help him.”

“Yes,” said the other, “but you are only a little raindrop. What can you do? You can’t wet even one hill.”

“Well,” said the first, “I know, to be sure, I cannot do much; but perhaps I can cheer the farmer a little, and I am going to do my best. I’ll go to the field to show my good will, if I can’t do anything more. Here I go!”

The first raindrop had no sooner started for the field than the second one said:

“Well, if you really insist upon going, I think I will go, too. Here I come!” And down went the raindrops. One came—pat—on the farmer’s nose, and one fell on a thirsty stalk of corn.

“Dear me,” said the farmer, “what’s that? A raindrop! Where did it come from? I do believe we shall have a shower.”

By this time a great many raindrops had come together to see what all the commotion was about.

When they saw the two kind little drops going down to cheer the farmer, and water his corn, one said: “If you two are going on such a good errand, I’ll go, too!” And down he came. “And I!” said another. “And I!” And so said they all, until a whole shower came and the corn was watered. Then the corn grew and ripened—all because one little raindrop tried to do what it could.

 

If you are convinced you are a mouse surrounded by stronger and more impressive people, ask yourself, “What can I do that these mighty lions can’t do?”

 

The Lion and the Mouse

Aesop (circa 620–560 BC)

 

Once when a lion was asleep a little mouse began running up and down upon him; this soon wakened the lion, who placed his huge paw upon him, and opened his big jaws to swallow him.

“Pardon, O King,” cried the little mouse: “forgive me this time, and I shall never forget it: who knows but what I may be able to do you a good turn some of these days?”

The lion was so tickled at the idea of the mouse being able to help him that he lifted up his paw and let him go.

Some time after the lion was caught in a trap, and the hunters, who desired to carry him alive to the king, tied him to a tree while they went in search of a wagon to carry him on. Just then the little mouse happened to pass by, and seeing the sad plight of the lion, went up to him and soon gnawed away the ropes that bound the King of the Beasts.

“Was I not right?” said the little mouse. “Little friends may prove a great help.”

 

Must you follow the same calling throughout your life, or might a calling change as you grow, age, and change? Is a hero’s journey a singular calling or a series of meaningful adventures? Or do these meaningful adventures culminate into one grand calling?

 

Apple-Seed John

John Chapman (1774–1845)

Carolyn S. Bailey

 

There was once a farmer who had worked in the fields all his life. Every year he had ploughed and planted and harvested, and no one else had raised such fine crops as he. It seemed as if he needed to only touch the corn to have it yellow and ripen upon the ear, or lay his hand upon the rough bark of a tree to be sure that the blossoms would show and the branches hang low with fruit.

But, after years and years, the farmer grew to be an old man. His hair and beard became as white as the blossoms on the pear trees, and his back was bent and crooked, because he had worked so hard. He could only sit in the sunshine and watch someone else ploughing and planting where he wanted so much to plough and plant. And he felt very unhappy, because he wished to do something great for other people, and he was not able, for he was poor.

But one morning he got down his stout cane from the chimney corner, and he slung an empty bag over his crooked old shoulders, and he started out into the world, because he had thought of a good deed that even an old man could do.

Over the meadows and through the lanes he traveled, stopping to speak to the little wild mice, or the crickets, or the chipmunks, who knew him—all of them—and were never afraid when he went by. At every farmhouse he rested and rapped at the door and asked for—what do you think?—just a few apples! And the farmers had so many apples that they were glad to give some of them away, and the old man’s bag was soon full to the very brim.

On and on he went, until he left the houses far behind, and took his way through the deep woods. At night he slept upon a bed of moss out under the stars, with the prairie dogs barking in his ears, and the owls hooting in the tops of the trees; and in the morning he started on his way again.

When he was hungry he ate of the berries that grew in the woods, but not one of his apples—oh, no! Sometimes an Indian met him, and they walked along together; and so, at last, the old man came to a place where there were wide fields, but no one to plant them, for there were no farms.

Then he sat down and took out his jack-knife, and began carefully cutting the core from every apple in his bag. With his stout cane he bored deep holes in the earth, and in every hole he dropped an apple core, to sleep there in the rain and the sun. And when his bag was emptied he hurried on to a town where he could ask for more apples.

Soon the farmers came to know him, and they called him old Apple-seed John. They gave him their very best apples for seed—the Pound Sweets, and the Sheep’s Noses, and the Pippins, and the Seek-no-Farthers. They saved clippings from the pear trees, and the plum trees, and the peach trees for him; and they gave him the corner of the settle which was nearest the fire when he stopped with them for a night.

Such wonderful stories as he told the children of the things he had seen in his travels—the Indians with their gay blankets and feathers, the wolves who came out of the wood at night to look at him with their glaring eyes, the deer who ran across his path, and the shy little hares. And no one wished Apple-seed John to travel on the next morning, but he would never stay. With his bag over his shoulder, his clippings under his arm, and his trusty cane in his hand, he hurried on to plant young orchards by every river and in every lonely pasture. And soon the apple seeds that had been asleep when Apple-seed John had dropped them into the earth awoke and arose, and sent out green shoots, and began to be trees. Higher and higher they grew, until, in the wind and the sun, they covered the ground with blossoms, and then with ripe fruit, so that all the empty places in the country were full of orchards.

After a while old Apple-seed John went to live with the angels, but no one ever forgot him; and the children who knew him, when they had grown to be grandfathers themselves, would sit out under the trees, and say to each other: “This orchard was planted by Apple-seed John.”

 

Does a calling come from outside of you, or does it come from within? Or is it often a combination of the two?

 

Vocation

Frederick Buechner (1926– )

 

“Vocation” comes from the Latin vocare (to call) and means the work a man is called to by God.

There are all different kinds of voices calling you to all different kinds of work, and the problem is to find out which is the voice of God rather than of society, say, or the superego, or self-interest.

The kind of work God usually calls you to is the kind of work (a) that you need to do and (b) that the world needs to have done.

If you find your work rewarding, you have presumably met requirement (a), but if your work does not benefit others, the chances are you have missed requirement (b).

On the other hand, if your work does benefit others, you have probably met requirement (b), but if most of the time you are unhappy with it, the chances are you have not only bypassed (a) but probably aren’t helping your customers much either.

Neither the hair shirt nor the soft berth will do. The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.

 

 

Ask This

Here are some questions to help you assess yourself and your potential:

What skills and talents do you possess?

What do you enjoy doing?

What do you love doing so much that you lose yourself in it?

What do you hate doing?

Do you tend to rush into things, or hesitate too long?

Do you tend to save up for a rainy day, or does every cent burn a hole in your pocket?

Are you a perfectionist who always demands the best, or are you satisfied with better-than-before?

Are you a natural optimist, or do you tend toward pessimism?

What do you have to offer?

What can you do that no one else can do?

What needs do you see in the world around you?

Are you willing to take risks in the hope of great rewards?

Are you ready to use your resources—your natural talents, your ideas, your money—instead of burying them?

 

Try This

Who do you want to become?

Sometimes it’s useful to talk with people who see things from a different perspective. As you consider your life goals, it might be a good idea to visit someone elderly. Ask him or her about his/her greatest joys and greatest regrets.

Then imagine that you are very old, and a younger person has come to ask you the same questions you just asked. Write down what you would like to be able to say:

What would you like to be known for?

What would you like to have accomplished?

What sort of person would you like to have become?

These three questions are very important. They help you begin your journey with the end clearly in mind.