So half a dozen years later, what was I doing at Pendle
Hill, a "commune" known to few, run by an offbeat
religious cony munity that most people can identify only by
their oatmealwhich, I hasten to add, is not really made by
Quakers?
IT tell you what I was doing: I was in the craft shop
making mugs that weighed more and looked worse than the
clay ashtrays I made in grade school, and I was sending
these monstrosities home as gifts to my family. My father,
rest his soul, was in the fine chinaware business, and I was
sending him mugs so heavy you could fill them with coffee
and not feel any difference in weight!
Family and friends were asking me-and I was asking
myself-"Why did you get a Ph.D. if this is what you are
going to do? Aren't you squandering your opportunities and
gifts?" Under that sort of scrutiny, my vocational decision
felt wasteful and ridiculous; what's more, it was terrifying to
an ego like mine that had no desire to disappear and every
desire to succeed and become well known.
Did I want to go to Pendle Hill, to be at Pendle Hill, to
stay at Pendle Hill? I cannot say that I did. But I can say
with certainty that Pendle Hill was something that I couldn't
not do.
Vocation at its deepest level is not, "Oh, boy, do I want to
go to this strange place where I have to learn a new way to
live and where no one, including me, understands what I'm
doing." Vocation at its deepest level is, "This is something I