Moon of Alabama

Big P and I were standing in the tall grass outside his house.  He was relating his joy in going to college, a joy which he had not felt before.  The difference, this time around, was that he had found something to study that he really loved: ancient Rome.  He loved Rome because Rome was full of misfits.  In the beginning, the Romans recruited all the castoffs and outlaws and undesirables from the surrounding region to come be its first citizens.  Big P could identify with these guys, and he loved learning about them.  What he really wanted to do was to teach kids about Rome.  There was just one problem: drug testing.  By his own evaluation, BP could not be a teacher because he loved smoking dope too much.

The shame of this, in my mind, was that Big P could not let go of who he had been in order to become who he could be.  I’m not saying that it is wrong to be a stoner grocery clerk, but given the choice, I’d rather be a history teacher.  On the other hand, I could also understand how hard it is to give up my idea of who I am, no matter how much sense that idea makes or doesn’t make to anyone else.  Giving up cigarettes involved my giving up a little bit of who I thought I was.  Giving up active participation in local politics meant giving up a lot of who I thought I was supposed to be.

In “the Sound of Music” Maria has a line that goes. “When over God closes a door, he opens a window.”  This is pretty close to the Quaker saying, “Way will open.”  Parker Palmer, a good Quaker, points out that sometimes “Way will close.”  Whenever a door opens, it seems to me like an invitation to go inside, and yet some rooms are not meant for me.  How would I know this if I did not go in and check it out?  So I back slowly into the hallway and watch the door close again.  But then it’s dark.  And the window does not always open automatically.  And I would sometimes rather be back in the room that sucks instead of out in the hall where I don’t know what is going on.  At least when the next door, or window, or transom, or pet egress, or mail slot, or whatever opens up, I will know that — going in or coming out — I am still me.