The Phone Call

 

Albert’s mother called him, and after a friendly “hello dear” began raking him over the coals. “I just don’t understand. It’s so foolish to waste your life. How will you ever be able to take care of yourself? What if you should get ill? There’s nobody and you’ll have nothing. Well, take care dear. G’bye.”

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These calls always left Albert stunned and bewildered. He sat at his wicker table and watched the water flow past for a while, and then a Blue Jay screeched, demanding food. Albert rose obediently and got the bucket. He had no trouble understanding the Blue Jay. In fact, after he got the hang of it he had had no problems understanding himself. Once he got the hang of it he found his little life of no interest and he entered into Life, which he found infinitely interesting.

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When the birds were fed and watered – oh, yes, the fish were then fed, and the puppy – yes, now he sat and pondered. Today the phone call had produced an image of a wide plain with a great crevass, an abyss. On one side was mother, babbling concernedly about all her fears, and complaining about her inability to instill them in her son. On the other side was Albert, a whole different species, almost. Listening to the suffering voice, appealing to him to give up heaven and come back to hell. Renounce maturity and come and be a blind juvenile. Come back and believe what Albert had discovered were life. Come back and live a harmful, meaningless life. Renounce all you are and be miserable. If only his mother and most of humanity would listen to themselves. Somehow that seemed not to be a possibility for them. They certainly weren’t about to listen to Albert, or anyone else who had crossed the abyss in consciousness.

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For many years Albert had been very uncomfortable, not suffering in a world devoted to suffering. His mother and others had tried to pass him off as an optimist, an idealist – unrealistic and, finally, a hopeless case. No, he had not “found out,” had not “grown up,” had not “wised up,” had not “faced reality,” had not discovered they were right after all. In fact, he had found that his life seemed to flow ever into more expansive and understandable realms, and he no longer was concerned by public opinion. He knew what he knew, first, because he experienced, and second, because he could discern obstacles and move them out of his way. Albert had settled into his time on earth with confidence, grace and interest.

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Some of the books he read understood. They were not popular books. The vast majority were ancient. He did not feel out of time or place, for his realm was not of the worldly, but of consciousness. He was not looking for success in life, for he had begun to know life itself as most successful, and he cooperated with its natural unfolding.

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Albert was not always right. At first he thought folks would want to know. It caused him to ponder greatly when not only did they not want to know, but they bitterly resented that he should suggest such theories. How do you get someone to understand that you are not a theory? When no one is interested, it is really impossible to share or give of your experiences. Albert learned this. He found that he became quiet, rather than ruffle feathers. He found, just like so many of his companions in understanding, that he eventually became a hermit. The world moved away, and he was left in paradise. He was left in an abundant world of life, free to live, unfettered by foundational ignorance and fear. He did not care who called him the fool. All that was fine. The great urge to serve humanity was in his every thought, word and deed. Calling him a fool was just a misunderstanding, a lashing out by those that knew in their hearts that it was they who were being foolish. No matter, for the one thing about living in infinity is that there’s no time…

​

 

The telephone rang.

 

“Hello.”

 

“Hello, dear. Now, we really must discuss some things. Are you happy?”

 

“For the thirty thousandth time, yes.”

 

“Well, you don’t seem to be happy.”

 

“I’m happy.”

 

“Will you come in for lunch? You never come and see me.”

 

“It’s much nicer when you can get out here. You have your own cabin and I love to cook. And we can talk on the phone.”

 

“Do you think I should sell Bombardier and get into GICs?”

 

“I’m not the one to ask. You always do fine when you listen to yourself. I don’t know.”

 

“Well, they’ve only paid a dividend of one hundred and fourty-one dollars this year. I can get up to sic per cent and only tie up the money for one year.”

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Albert sighed. He lived on air, it seemed, but all his needs were met. For twenty years it had been miraculous. Nobody noticed. He could always feed people when they came. He could keep the gardens tidy and the wood box full. When his last car died he couldn’t get another, but he didn’t feel he needed one, and, sure enough, he didn’t. A few friends could help him meet his simple needs - once a week to the village usually handled everything.

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In the early years there had been quite a few people who were eager to help. They thought Albert would tell them a secret to make them happy. He had told them, but they didn’t like the “secret,” it wasn’t what they wanted to hear, and they quickly vanished. Albert would chuckle to himself as he thought of the wealth at hand if he just packaged  and sold himself at fifty thousand a pop. This was the way people wanted it. Foolish people, but they would learn from their foolishness – a great teaching tool – someday, some life.

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“Dear, are you there?” His mother’s voice broke in. “I worry about you. You can’t save the world, you know, and nobody ever changes. You need to get out more.”

 

Albert silently reminded himself: “Patience is a great virtue.”

 

“What are you doing today?”

 

“”Well, a little gardening, baking bread, writing, reading, pondering.”

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Albert had written three and a half books. Mother would not read them. No, she did not understand them, she stated, staring at the closed cover. She was relieved, however, that Albert was now, in her mind, an eccentric genius, a moody writer. For a year she would preface every call with, “I’m not disturbing your writing am I?” For a year Albert said “no, not at all. I always have time to talk.” It never sunk in. Nothing did. This could have frustrated Al, but fortunately he was mature enough to understand.

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“You need to be with people like yourself. Why don’t you go to the university? There must be others like you.”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to be like me?”

 

“What!”

 

“Free from fear, conflict, hate, jealousy, envy, attachment, knowing my own ignorance yet also knowing how to know, liberated and creating life in Life.”

 

“Don’t talk that way dear.”

 

“Goodbye, mother.”