Vocation

It is natural to be committed to something one does well. Everyone understands that. Whereas there is something pathetic, mysterious and vulnerable about being devoted to something one does poorly.

How comic that I should be a traveler. Ten minutes pass before I’m brave enough to speak to the waitress. I am afraid of crowds, dogs, noises and strangers. (This is also a list of things I love.) I cannot cross the street. Recently, on a street corner in Cambodia , I waited helplessly until a soldier came, smiling, took my hand, and led me tenderly across. Helplessness is rarely so lucky.

Tone-deaf musicians, one-legged dancers, lecherous monks. I imagine they feel the same shameful compulsion I feel, as I sit down to write. There’s no escape from being ridiculous. Try to relax into it.

I love Taoism because heaven is a huge bureaucracy and you just have to find the right office. There are problems with this system, however, and they show up in places like these. The official in charge of vocation—the lady who makes the calls—has no communication with the lady who passes out talent. They had a falling out several millennia ago, over some no-good man.

This is no excuse for me, I know. I ought to stick to doing things that I do well: clearing tables, polishing silverware.