I’d forgotten about returning over Labor Day weekend. That might have been why going through customs at LaGuardia in New York provided such vivid impressions of Americans.
One woman, who’s orange-red hair, red lipstick, clunky jewelry, tons of luggage, and a voice as big as she was, seemed to epitomize who we were as a nation. Looking at and listening to the babble around me, it was easy to see our heritage stemming from indentured, criminal, and adventurer stock. It was I who felt the misfit here.
I was still used to conversational tones a decibel or two lower, equating money with class and culture, subdued fabric colors. The lights, the rush, the loudness, the vulgar language, the energy—this was America. I was home again.
Home Again
I don’t remember who picked me up from the airport and drove back to West Caldwell, New Jersey. There’s a photo of the Afghan Hounds greeting me in my parent’s living room—a joyous reunion with Cleo and Rama after being away for a year.
The photo of Richard Nixon shaking Dad’s hand, which used to sit on the bookcase in the living room, was now on a ledge in the basement TV room. After all, it was 1973 and Nixon was being impeached.
Mom had my old bedroom ready for my return, and a temp agency lined up to find me jobs. Dad told me I was invited to have dinner with a family they knew from church. The father was interested in hearing about the school I’d been going to in England. Of course, all this once I was settled-in for a day or so.
Re-entering Society
Getting to the church family was the first time I’d driven by myself since being back. I followed the instructions to their house, remembering some of the streets and neighborhoods from my college visits home. Still in a sensitive state from the course at Sherborne, I was excited to be sharing something of the experience with a curious party.
I was ushered into the dining room where the whole family sat around an oval table. How nice. I had to admit that I was floating between the finer state of awareness developed at Sherborne and the raw and somewhat jarring impressions of every-day life “in the world.”
Anxious to share the sense of an inner life with this earnest and interested family, I dove right in. What could I convey about the Work? What were their questions? That the father wanted this to be a family discussion seemed touching and remarkable.
As the meal progressed, I began to share some of my extraordinary experience of the Course at Sherborne. Probably speaking to the basic ideas that as we are, we are asleep. That “man cannot do,” that we need to learn how to be “real human beings.” How the school, in an old Manor House, had students divided into groups. One group cleaning and cooking each day as the other two went to classes.
Returning Home
At least, I might have spoken to all this if the father had not interrupted me and began talking about the devil and cult influences. I was shocked. I felt booby-trapped. Had this stranger invited me to his house to denounce me in front of his family?
I drove home completely shaken, feeling abused. It was dark, the headlights of the car behind me seeming to follow each time I turned a corner. Now I was scared, was someone following me? I began to make evasive turns, not wanting to reveal where I lived. After several aimless blocks, the headlights disappeared.
Returning “home” was not as I’d expected.
I hear that….
In 1980 when I was all set to go to Claymont, my Mother marched me to our priest at St. Rose. Father Joe Lemp.
She talked first.
My son has changed since visiting this place in West Virginia and I hear so many stories about young people getting drawn into these terrible cults. I’m afraid he has found one. What do I do?
Father Lemp listened on and heard her confess all of her worries. She got it all out. I was listening too and truly felt some level of anxiety that I was causing her such distress over little old me. Having met Pierre and the strangers who felt like long lost friends there during BC 5, I felt comfortable speaking to Father Lemp about my (albeit limited, but no less life-changing experiences there). I spoke about the common meals, the morning quiet, the real content of prayer that I experienced there — in contrast with the rather empty rote droning of prayer in Sunday masses. I told him how disconnected I felt from nearly everything whether in church or society — the way the cars rushed out of the parking lots on Sunday morning, obligations fulfilled–back to empty shallow gas guzzling lives again. I wanted to slow down and go as deeply into spirit as I could. And university work, and jobs, and even marriage just would not do it for me. I had to find out what this place was about. I closed by mentioning to him my readings of Thomas Merton, esp Seeds of Contemplation. I recalled some passage that I can’t remember now, but I summed it up and basically said….the teachings at Claymont can open us up to these religious feelings. We can be in the world but not of it.
He was listening. Very intently. I knew I had reached him. Perhaps he was reminded of his own calling. It was a calling we shared.
He turned to my Mother and said to her…
“Mrs. Farrelly, you need not worry about your son. If he is spending time with Thomas Merton’s words and finding inspiration in them, he is still on a path that you have wanted for him. Be at peace…”
Or something along those lines.
I’m forever grateful for Father Lemp for having put her mind at ease as best he could.
She let me go. I think she knew my mind was made up anyway.
When I returned from Claymont for Thanksgiving, Mom noticed a change. I wanted to help prepare the Thanksgiving Meal…something I had never done before. And all through the trip she sat in the kitchen almost in s a state of disbelief, “Jimmy, you never used to smile doing the dishes…what has gotten into you?”
I said…from the time I was a little kid, Mom, right out there in the backyard, I’ve heard music in the stars. Real music. I wanted to know where that Music comes from. The ancients called it The Music of the Spheres and people regard it as superstition. The medievalists had their chain of correspondences where Man was a little above the animals and below the angels, and that pretty much determined our struggle in this life. But that music, that calling from the stars–who is making that music? And can I do the dishes while trying to keep listening and seeing it all around us. What does it mean…” the kingdom of heaven is all around us but we do not see it?” It is possible to see and experience this but it is not an easy thing. We want things to be so easy and get what we want so cheaply without having tp pay for it. I’m learning or trying to learn how I can pay for things while I’m here. And don’t worry, I’ll put the dishes away, too.”
She laughed and I knew at that point, I’d be alright. She knew her son would return to her in June, July, or someday and be just fine. I had changed but I was still her little dreaming drummer boy.
James, that was a wonderful blessed sharing…thank you so much for recalling and enabling us to enter into snippets of your experience and, by observational proxy, those of your parents and Father Lemp.
The initial skepticism they felt, given all that was (is) going on with various cults, was totally understandable. The way you gracefully responded with sincere/being efforts, resulting in the allwviatiin of their fears, was inspiring!
Thanks again for sharing.
Perhaps he was unable to observe beyond his own CULTure…perhaps today he would be able to observe how a large part of our society’s enCULTuration😵💫is … a bit of a challenge !