going and waiting

"But if we hope
for what we do not see,
we eagerly wait for it
with perseverance."

~ St. Paul, Romans 8:25

hidden and treasured

“Wonder will be the sign
that we are on the way.”

~ Monks of Weston Priory, Song of Creation


These days, I get home from work and land in a heap. Perhaps it’s the month-plus of damp weather; perhaps it was my struggle out of an illness a few weeks ago- or even routines both tedious and precarious. Summer is a rather uncharacteristic time to sense the relentlessness of the long haul. Even my car looked battle weary, especially as its alternator finally gave out- en route to the repair shop. Watching my faithful road-craft up on the garage lift caused me to wonder about maintaining direction. Not to mention its cost. Indeed, keeping inspired means more than focus. Even beneath the weight of tedium there needs to be an enduring sense of wonder.

By this, I am thinking of something more than surface curiosity. The water is wide, and this marathon continuum must traverse the most exhausting terrain. Oswald Chambers wrote how “drudgery is the touchstone of character,” referring to that state of affairs in which there is “no illumination, no thrill, but just the daily round; the common task.” We are enjoined to hallow the ordinary. By doing this my thoughts turn to questioning the sources from which I appear to live- and the sources that need more of my attention.

Somehow, in the face of this marathon’s trials, there seems a form of spiritual adrenaline. Yet, still, inspiration cannot be coaxed; it must be discovered- and not as a focal point, rather a beginning. And for those of us who write, we know the subtleties- even the elusiveness- of creativity. My end of things is left to alertness, flexibility, and motion. The insights invariably arrive, but ever reminding me they are not entirely of my powers. The less strain, it seems, the more pertinent. For instance, during a workday break, I decided not to write, but instead to enjoy a rare moment of calm weather to perch on a bench amidst the sounds and rainglossed colors of the weekly downtown farmers’ market. Witnessing the vendors’ collective relief caused me to take stock of the nuances that strengthen. Many smiles and servings of free samples. It reminded me that keeping aware also means seeking ways to learn anew. With renewed perspectives, the small notices become key pivot points.

If I’m going to keep from stopping dead in my tracks, it will be necessary to follow reminders I saw at the mechanics’ garage. A wise elder friend once taught me that although hardships are inevitable, misery is always optional. This line of thinking paves the way for a view that sees dilemmas as temporary. Stepping stones leading from one to another, simply as means of access. As my parameters seem to close in, there is useful intuition in simply going out- even for those fifteen minutes in the swirl of the open-air market. The trick is to never quit trying to find the energizing gems, the needed vitamins, the words of inquiry and of life, to keep my steps in forward travels. Living hope untethers from tedium, even well aware of the stepping-stone-shaped trials. In a simple exterior instant, my immediate sphere comprehends something new. But how self-centered to presume that which appears to revolve around me! More accurately, my being is an ingredient in the spheres of others. To what extent is not for me to know. The unknowing is more than satisfactory.

ar hyd y nos

“O mor siriol, gwena seren
Ar hyd y nos
I oleuo'i chwaer ddaearen
Ar hyd y nos.

O'er thy spirit gently stealing
Visions of delight revealing
Breathes a pure and holy feeling
All through the night.”

~ Ar Hyd Y Nos, lullabye from Wales, 18th century


A wakeful night, and these keystrokes do not interrupt the silence, nor do these words require artificial lighting. Late hours well underway, the daylit roads past have since routed into dark passages. Stillness is not always a stagnant state- as it may appear. Transformative silence parallels the soul’s thirst for understanding and assurance.

In this heavily material-minded culture, additive approaches are more automatic than subtractive measures. Indeed, there is discipline in our constructs, but it is necessary to call forth a finer sense of discernment, in order to simplify the spatterings of our spheres. Quiet can blanket with consolation, yet also disarm as fears visit the silence. Often, peacefulness and unsettle coexist. This peculiar balance occurs to my thoughts, pacing my apartment in the dark. An old habit of many years has been to survey the world from my windows in the middle of the night. Even the parked cars look asleep, lined up in staid somber rows.

The reference point of being alive to the waking world while all is at rest has had many connotations for me. It is as though standing sentry, keeping vigil with my thoughts. But then again, there are other lit windows along the street. Then come reminders of aloneness in the world, that I am the sole witness to what I know. But then again, there are souls dear to mine in this life. Spectres of ideas invade my thoughts, attempting to convince me of my limitations. But then again, the night sky reveals expanse.

The hours around midnight are the darkest. The mind is at its most pliable, and awakening at its most prominent. Whence come the reminders that cause our tosses and turns? Perhaps an impression the Spirit wishes for us to remember. Or a message of something to be avoided. The stillness I find once awake presents an immediate mystery of dusk and shadowed slumber. And in reverence of the silence, I keep the radio at its slightest murmur. Indeed, such hours become a Gethsemane through which my thoughts both confront and reconcile. Past shipwrecked hopes come to mind. So many pursuits and projects dashed by unforseen treacherous shoals. But then again, by such misunderstood fortunes I’ll never know the shores from which my steps have been spared. Interiors have ways of closing in at night, walls becoming more apparent. Walking along the garden wall outside reminds me of how barriers seem to solidify and blur in the darkness. Some nights I’ll write a few words, lest they be lost by sunrise. Obscurity can bring the impenetrable to unveil ways to look ahead- even through wisps and shreds of clouds.

Several days ago, on a rare sunny day, I caught up with a friend over coffee. The venue was a strikingly sun-drenched garden café, yet this was simply a backdrop for his descriptions of his fears. The contrast was impossible to disregard. Yet this friend launched into societal and political anxieties with a passionate fervor- matching depth of misery with intensity of energy. Listening and chatting I didn’t dare judge, as in my own way I was masking worries of my own. Bad news has its own draw as a catalyst for racing minds, and my responses tried to point out what was good- even the bright weather. We both had plenty to talk about.

At my desk, a few nights ago, I interrupted my habitual reading and listening to the news. Indeed, it is good to be informed, but it’s also good to be cheered. And I wondered about what brings cheer. How strange to have to strain to imagine what causes joy. Consolation and inspiration. A sense of completeness, of recognition, of discovery. The satisfaction of accomplishment- in its many forms. Beauty, art, music, joyful expressions. Being among signs of creation. I tried to remind my friend (and interiorly myself) to try not to count upon things that do not encourage or strengthen. In so doing, it’s easier to remember that which is well and good, despite the currents. Admittedly, I pay for the wakeful nights with drowsy days, and although these are unintentional, there are thoughts to gather which I would not have found any other way.

sometimes by step

no less

“Sometimes I think of Abraham
How one star he saw had been lit for me
He was a stranger in this land
And I am that, no less than he
And on this road to righteousness
Sometimes the climb can be so steep
I may falter in my steps
But never beyond Your reach”

~ Rich Mullins, Sometimes By Step


So many daily conversations, directives, and broadcasts echo the grimness of these times. At first, over recent months, I’d listen to stories of friends, colleagues, and neighbors- and we’d compare notes. It was a pronounced notice of economic hardship. What was overtly discussed has submerged into the unspoken din of perception. If the lens through which looking ahead is tainted by despairing obscurity, it becomes a challenge of looking forward without certainties. A test of perception- not simply of these times, but to realistically consider the past, and to reasonably position for the future. Looking on toward horizons prompts both exciting and dismaying experiences. I had to learn not to wish away my time- as I’d naturally do, banking the present upon hopes for better jobs, housing, and resources. An old habit. Along with that is an abiding assumption that better and later are synonymous.

The other day, during a great lunchtime discussion with a friend, we mused about whether the institutions in our midst are actually improving. It had me reconsidering what “getting better” means. In environments of lost or frozen wages, inflation, and weakened cultural foundations, “amelioration” must be transcendent of all that is in decline. How to look brightly at the road ahead - and at today’s doorstep. Beyond the nuts and bolts of bills and provisions is the flashlight of vision. In dark times, obscurity blends in discreetly, while light itself becomes even more noticed.

Coinciding with this undercurrent of uncertainty are new beginnings. Here in Portland, there are some tangible metaphors. The city is experiencing demolition and construction, such as it has not seen in decades. The concert of trenches, heaps, and roaring vehicles is fascinating. To change these public spaces in close proximity, structures must be systematically dismembered before anything new can arise. The wooden signs and mounted schematics populated by stick figures hardly give an impression of what it’ll really be like when all is said and done. These edifices and passages will be populated and snowed upon- and they will also age. Many will commit more sites to their witnessed memories. Institutions and structures move with the passage of days. The ocean and skies that swirl about this place are still where they’ve timelessly been.

Quite naturally, I look forward. Much of this month, so far, has been drenched in rain- yet the demolition, construction, and paving crews carry on with their missions. Ceasing to make an effort may actually require more strain than continuing with even the slightest momentum. Perhaps judgments of what constitutes an improvement becomes a form of resistance to comprehending the immediate as it is now. Appraising the worth of anything requires a grasp of context.

There is an ancient prayer of my ancestors which gives thanks for having been brought to a new season. In doing so, the words cause my thoughts to consider the differences between toughing it out and constructive acceptance. Navigating terrain and waters regarding their own terms, versus resistantly imposing a predetermined method. Letting friction become traction. My gratitude goes beyond appreciating being intact: it is good to know to look ahead, and to think back of the small portions of good guidance that continue with me now. While it’s not for me to know how much borrowed time is allotted to me, it is possible for me to cultivate wise perspective. And these are not all upbeat occasions- far from it. There is plenty to frustrate, but perhaps the useful side of discontent is that which brings us to bold moves. Living along the ocean shows me how roots must deepen and strengthen, as the winds whip up in torrents. And the battering storms eventually blow out to sea.

trails

"Little by little, one travels far."

~ J.R.R. Tolkien

keys and words

“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart.
Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books
written in a foreign language.
...At present you need to live the question.
Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it,
find yourself experiencing the answer,
some distant day.”

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

quietude

“Thus I comprehended the need for silence;
for in silence alone
does a person’s truth
bind itself together and strike root.
And above all, Time is what most deeply signifies.”

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Citadelle


With a slice of unstructured time, I have stolen away to savor momentary solitude. Away from confines of controlled environments and distracting dins, and out to a palpable pea-soup fog. Landscape details are under varying gradations of cover. The sea is in the air, and I am outdoors with rainproofed writing material, making sure to draw deep Atlantic breaths. Answering a built-in alarm prompting me to take the first available instant to mark some thoughts, reminds me of how I’ve learned to maintain a continuum of regathering. There’s no gained ground to lose. And if I can possibly subvert the multitasking- smooth as it may be- with the singular simplicity of collecting thoughts, I will. With imaginings turned to words, I can hear myself think. It’s a treat, and since that is so- I carefully choose where I can savor my sliver of silence.

Acting upon the insight to make opportunities to pause is becoming a cultivated instinct for me. It’s now a necessity. I’m not sure if that makes me a writer, though writing every day does sanction daydreaming and notebook-toting. Recently, I’ve more consciously appreciated maintaining a continuum of articulated thoughts. A tall order, considering the schedules I balance- but a worthwhile order. Noting the journey is an understanding of the vitality of thought. Rather than sedentary musing, I try to give purpose to this adventure- even if simply to savor the road. Indeed, the retreats are rare, so I make the most of short increments where I can find them. In so doing, connecting numerous points through constantly varied days, it becomes possible to notice what has transpired and what is presently before me. Listening to the words of others- as well as my own- and many recalled memories; thoughts stand to be lost or gained. Reeling in the scattered words and thoughts, making sense of them, allows me to realize treasures within the ordinary. When scattered ideas are elusively swept up by interruptions and frenetic paces, just about all I can do with a few minutes is note some words and leaf back through previous entries to find earlier threads. That’s usually when I sense the absence of reflective time. It is as though silence calls to a soul. Much as a gas gauge needle can silently rest over the “E,” while to our eyes it is sounding an alarm.

In the patient recognition of time’s passage, we become able to see transition. Noting these words, while aperch on a rock ledge along the ocean, my attention is drawn by tidal movements. The water is gradually encroaching, though its actual progress will be evident in retrospect. Just as now there are traces of where the high tide had been several hours ago. The quality of meditative observation is found in these words of Exupéry, in Citadelle:

“To be able to sit day by day
on the same threshold,
in front of the same tree,
the same branches.
For thus alone, little by little,
does a tree make itself known.”

A nurturing silence, rather than a desolate void, becomes like water which is both indispensable and unlimited by form. It is in recollective repose that my entrenched viewpoints can be challenged. It wearies me to repeat mistakes, and I hope to barter remembrance for wisdom. Past experiences and adventures ought to be worth something. But that is not the place to affix all my musings, neither is it wise to hasten away time. Careful observing gives place for peripheral vision.

This chilled spring mist blends a housepaint sky with swirled ocean air. The elements’ edges are nicely mixed and undefined. And I am able to enjoy this, having climbed out to a place of seclusion. While driving out here- to neither task nor employment- it occurred to me there’s a history of occasional intermezzos through which my thoughts could be collected. Beginning in childhood, I advanced from long walks alone, to bicycle trips, then to subway rides for more long walks- with camera at the ready. The bigger travels followed and continue to this day; though today it’s a visit to familiar sands and crags. It reminds me of things I used to do, similar yet transformed- much as the sky above the ocean. It also causes me to wonder about retaining so many references to sights and sounds by memory. Perhaps that may be owed to a life of photo images- and now managing archives. It seems I live to worlds that are all far away, yet abide in this one with a navigator’s intent. The unifying aspect is a sense of observation. I cannot imagine ceasing this unfolding voyage, despite the enormous patience required. Another photographic parable: consider how greater depth of field demands lengthier durations of exposure. A sharper picture is made possible by extended- yet finer- openness to light.

graphite appetite

"On my way to town...
I'm dropping pebbles in my tracks;
I will not get lost when I come back

And when I get to town
I will go straight to market
When I get to town
I will do my best 'til the sun goes down.
And come the end of day,
I'll look for the stones I dropped along the way."


~ Kate and Anna McGarrigle, On My Way To Town



Continuity and presence are what comprise the spirit of pilgrimage. And here, following some sanctified time to recharge strength and soul, I am thinking of the colors of my paths as they wind and progress. For the most part, rations and rests are scavenged between obligations. Once in a while, my errands enjoy the tones of discovery with circuitous steps connecting serendipitous stopovers. For me, the shops, libraries, cafes, and decorated streets are all entwined. “Going to market” is not limited to any purchase (of any particular extent); the gleanings also include sites and ideas. Nourishment, discourse, and perspective.

Darting among mazes of streets and subways, exteriors and interiors, solitude and company, there is a unifying sense of motion. Even the rhythm of moving from shop to shop reminds me of contrasts between these social interactions compared to the passive isolation of so many of our culture’s currents and habits. Along my routes are the blessings of friends, spontaneous conversations, and chats with the shopkeepers who procure- shop talk. Indeed, there are always treasures to bring home- aside from the items sought (or perhaps the surprise find). And among the gems are stories to recount and remember. Procuring provisions of mind, body, soul, and craft always reminds and assures me of the unfathomable wealth of the creative spirit. You have to get out to really notice this. Here are some images from a few of the places that are along many of my journeys.

downtown crossing


Here, in one of the central districts of Boston, is the architectural patchwork of Downtown Crossing- dating back to the early 17th century.
My walks from South Station to the Boston Athenaeum library always follow Bromfield Street, where the Bromfield Pen Shop beckons:




Packed into the small shop is an astonishing supply of inks, writing instruments (note the feather quills in above photo), and notebooks. The photo below shows the workbench for pen repairs.





boston athenaeum


I call this 200+ year old library "my Eden," and the plaque at the entrance to the 1st floor reads:

"Here remains a retreat
for those who would enjoy
the humanity of books."

Part of the thrill of the search for inspiration is in navigating the levels between the floors.



Out to the rooftop terrace.



Downstairs for tea, good food, and fellow readers- to send me on my way via the narrow streets of Beacon Hill.





beacon hill





Across the neighborhood from the Athenaeum is the very busy Charles Street. The shop in the picture below is Rugg Road, another friendly and well-stocked stationer.





Kindred souls along the way- and we each have stories.





cambridge


Now to Harvard Square, for more browsing and procuring. When I worked at the University Archives, this was the gate I always used. The motto reminded me of going home to Maine and helping out wherever possible.
Below is a fine read, from Houghton Library:




Bob Slate, Stationer- on Massachusetts Avenue



Slate's comprises aisles and aisles of writers' treasures, amounting to a cornucopia of all manner of marking instrument and surface (bound and loose leaves alike). The best selection of notebooks and journals I have seen on this continent.


On this particular occasion I caught up with a fellow writer, and we made one of our errands to Arlington to attend to some typing matters...




arlington


This shop is just two blocks north of the Cambridge-Arlington line.






Shop talk and a few minor adjustments with Tom, the shop owner. Tom animatedly recounted how joyous his customers are; much more so, he felt, than the average consumer upon the purchase of a new computer.





Trying out a variety of candidates before Richard makes his choice (below). We all had a great time. The machine is named "Erika," and they're an item now.





copley square


Additional errands (and cafés- for journaling, of course) usually bring me back downtown- to the grand Boston Public Library. Exhibits, the Great Reading Room (below), and the inner courtyard (bottom image) are my stops at the Library.

Having found what was needed, so that I can continue pursuing what is necessary and vital, it's always a pleasure to savor the route with a few recorded thoughts before making the journey home. This is just one stage of travel along a life's pilgrimage. Indeed, the mosaic is all made of jots, words, and images.

dressed to rest

“When evening comes,
and the day of toil is over,
give us rest, O Lord,
in the joy of many friends.”

~ Monks of Weston Priory, Yahweh

spring forward

“I have a guide,
and in his steps
when travelers have trod,
whether beneath was flinty rock,
or yielding grassy sod,
they cared not, but with force unspent,
unmoved by pain, they onward went”

~ Thomas T. Lynch, The Staff of Faith

erase

“The labor, of course, is in the unrelenting struggle
to banish the countless distracting thoughts that plague our minds
and to restrain them beneath that cloud of forgetting. This is the suffering.
All the struggle is on man’s side in the effort he must make
to prepare himself for God’s action, which is the awakening of love
and which God alone can do. But persevere in doing your part
and I promise you that God’s part will not fail.”

~ The Cloud of Unknowing, ch. 26


Our journeys are accented with words and images. The words may be written as well as spoken. How many of the events and words remain committed to memory is not always within my control. The popular adage, “making one’s mark in life” lends reference to accomplishing major, even indelible, works. I assume there may potentially be many marks. With adventures we accumulate figurative jottings and storied anecdotes.We may hear a lot of “don’t mention it,” or “think nothing of it,” but that doesn’t always prevent us from mentioning and thinking.

Darting across the rainy streets of my lunch hour today, I thought about the lasting marks. Which memories are not washed away by storms? I wondered about the gathering of words, images, and information, balanced by some means of erasure. Our events are irreversible, and that is in the nature of action and coexistence as we live. Our recollections remain, and these become potential resources to inform our own navigational charts. Can there be an eraser? So many works and expressions begin and end in figurative charcoal dust. As it is with time, reflection is fluid and fleeting, with graphite jottings subjected to smudging and erasing.

Memory fascinates me as a uniquely human mystery, particularly in its intricacies. Experientially I am aware of remembrances’ powers, both within and in my everyday work as an archivist. Recollections accurately called forth may be both blessing and liability. Indeed, my musings have oft visited this double-edged sword. This time I am contemplating how an eraser of thoughts can be employed. At times a shared history can become a corporate memory- the type from which more than one person can draw. In this instance, I am thinking of personal recollections. My vivid memory seems to produce a random rotation of reminiscence, perhaps depending upon what touches off the images.

Ancient minds used the imagery of an ethereal written record. Inscriptions in the Book of Life. Perhaps the geography of the spirit has a gazetteer. The Psalmist prayed for offenses to be blotted out. Can the engraved be erased? Isaiah penned these consoling words to those in his midst, in the 6th century BC:

“I have blotted out, as a thick cloud,
your transgressions, and,
as a thick cloud your sins:
return to me;
for I have redeemed you.”

Though reconciliation may come to me from high and low, it remains for me to forget what is reckoned with, and past. The clouds of forgetting may be the strata beyond remorse and resolution.

Encyclopedic lives comprise details and nuances whose justice can hardly be served by mere words. But that doesn’t discourage me from trying. There is imagery to accompany the words. And editing, too; involuntarily subjected to our interpretations. Perhaps the additive aspect of living implies a natural subtraction. But what of that which is difficult- perhaps impossible- to erase? A wise friend used to tell me about wanting to be as a stream that runs clear.

To erase is to remove scribed marks by means of abrasion. Other ways to clean documents include light-bleaching and alkaline aqueous washes . When I think about keeping a clear and unjaded vision, the clean slate comes to mind. A tabula rasa, translated, is a “scraped tablet,” a renewed writing surface readied for new inscription. With palimpsests, scraping away portions or entire layers of text, reconditioned parchment for new illuminations and words. With our computers, we simply reformat drives and overwrite files.

In recent years I’ve instinctively found myself practicing my own way of reckoning by overwriting. It was one of those unintended solutions that occurred quite by accident. A career change and the beginning of my hard-worked graduate school odyssey were my attempts to recover from a deluge of intense personal crises. As the worst of it passed, including a near-death experience, I had little left, aside from my work and my path toward my masters degree. I recall an excruciating semester of uncertainty, concluding at Christmastime, with a perfect set of grades. Still raw, but surprisingly strong on my feet, I found myself using my open afternoons to retrace my steps.

At both ends of my 120-mile commutes between Portland and Boston, it seemed there were paths and venues for me to revisit. Very consciously, I’d stop at landmarks such as the Café Paradiso, on Brattle Square, which had unwittingly become a late-night way-station through my anguish. But this time I walked through all these places with a strength and perspective that, in my own way, set things straight. From workplaces, to bus stations, campuses, and streets- as my notebooks are my silent witnesses- every valley was exalted. It wasn’t until I had been well on my way- with teaching, publishing, and a new savor for living- that I recognized this way of setting things right by overwriting what had passed. Writing through the journey. Taking myself out to a certain restaurant alone had been startlingly emotional; returning to it, as well as to a variety of locations and settings became a kind of reclaiming adventure. And in true pilgrimage fashion, the means could not be the destination.

Overwriting and revisiting has been for no other accomplishment but for me to transcend. Surely, not every inexplicable side of life lends itself to such an application. Time itself, requiring patience and discipline, has erasing properties. The passage of time broadens spaces between living beings and fixed landmarks, though I know enough not to expect it to heal all wounds. Erasing the prominence of darker marks by overwriting might be an odd form of poetic justification, but it does liberate me from outdated apprehensions. Even friendships have been mended in this way.

Just as memory can soothe, it can also be a forum of torment. As any volatile substance, remembrance is subject to destructive misuse. Past is prologue, but it is not intended to be repeatedly relived. Studying manuscripts in the soul’s archives provides for a panning distillation of history to reveal the gold nuggets of usable currency. And from there? Recording, erasing, overwriting, and clouds of forgetting are now in my consciousness. These are skills that are occasionally necessary, if old steps are to be retraced in order to cultivate constructive perspectives. Very gradually, my antidote to prohibitive fears has been to build trust. And those “corrective” efforts find their way to becoming the new memories, the new reference points, and my own reckonings of their respective places and predecessor events. Indeed, this attests to the forceful influence of connotation and iconographic symbols and signs.

graphite ignite

“Take this
Mute mouth
Broken tongue
Now this
Dark life
Is shot through with light.”

~ Suzanne Vega, Pilgrimage

depths

“Pieces of coal, hewn from the deeps of the earth,
Here in my hand, spectra of lights retain;
Crystal on crystal knit, back in its birth-
Sun meeting sun again.”

~ Huw Menai, Pieces of Coal

formed from this earth

We are formed from this earth. Like the coals drawn from untold and lightless depths, the soul is drawn to surge upward to divine fires. With the coal-blackened laborers and the burdened haulers, I, too, know the work is relentless. Nothing less than conscientious effort is needed for me to arise and walk this earth with strength and wisdom. Through the winter, I’ve had a fragment of coal on my desk. It is from very far beneath the ground, brought up in untold tons by unseen hands that toil and risk their lives’ safety. Souls whose wildernesses are subterranean, whose ocean is the earth’s crust, and their enormously hard-worked paths are confined to narrow tunnels.

In the work life I endured that enveloped my twenties, my average workweek saw very little daylight. Prolonged travail in complete darkness disrupted my sense of what time it was- save for deadlines. Further and broader still, extended overtime and intenseness in a foul and exploitive darkness seemed to meld the years. I don’t know how much more of my earnest energies I’d have added to that job, had I not found myself in a tide of layoffs. It was confining and toxic- though only one level underground, but being a daily reality, difficult to break away from. I free-fell into the light of day, and though it was barely ten years ago, some of that shock of life-contrast does remain in my ordinary thoughts. Re-evaluating one’s continuum sets a soul on the verge of self-definition. Aquinas wrote of how the reality of creation stands at the brink of the world. Every time we dare to behold the wonder of creative power, we stand at the edge of the known world.

depth and depths

What breathes life into dry ground and stone ledges? Along the roads, still layered with months of sand and grit, the landscape remains barren with granite, ice, and spines of trees. Outstretched branches try to collect enough rain. They do not wait in vain to be reshaped, even as fire transforms masses of anthracite to set colossi into motion. Often when we think of our sources, we refer to the ground of our being as though we had a geographical idea of our rootedness. But surely my basis isn’t limited to the substrata beneath my feet. Might there be roots nearby, far above, and even right alongside my hands writing these words? Speaking of a “center,” or a “core,” may confine us into imagining the spirit that gives us life begins within us, rather than respirating through us.

Among my disciplines is an effort to avoid clichés, or at least unclarified terminology. In this society, we accept too many catchphrases, pat lines, and sound bites- and it seems counter-cultural to take the time to explore and more thoroughly comprehend. It’s fine to conscientiously “go to one’s center.” All right, go to the source. And then what? You just stand there? Not at all. I’d like to think life is more a working library than a sealed-off museum. The source is for our immersion. Mine the depths of the soul; jump into that water of life. Traverse that guardrail from spectator to participant. Looking at a sumptuous meal is one thing, but savory dining is quite another interaction. Even in the early morning, I find it vital enough to give space to recollect thoughts- but that coffee should be downed while it’s hot. If stopping at the shoreline of the Source isn’t satisfactory, take that as a good sign. Indeed, as the Holy Spirit takes hold, the unresisting natural course is to respond and pursue. My understanding of immersion begins with internalizing the wisdom that I gradually comprehend. “So walk ye in him,” wrote Paul, as he wrote his listeners to practice their professions of faith. For me it is to seek more of the source, and even to become part of it. To arise with a constant gratitude that mirrors the constancy of the wellspring of life.

coal and work

The coal on my desk was given to me by a railroad trackman, along the waterfront. The heap of coal reminded me of the histories that described black mountains of anthracite on Portland wharves that were regularly offloaded from massive schooners. Nowadays, we rarely see such elements as those which are consumed in the operations of our days. These pieces of coal may have been cut from seams that were two or three kilometers underground. But they look like they could be from the Moon. As it were, reverse-meteorites from darkest inner-space. When struck by light, the fragments reflect as glittering silver. During my fourteen years in photographic manufactures, we’d quip about our labors as “silver mining,” with hours in which we could not see our hands in front of our faces. I remember driving to Pictou, Nova Scotia and stopping in Stellarton. It was only months after the Westray Mine disaster, and I wanted to pay my respects to the more than two dozen miners that perished at their work far beneath the ground. It was a rain-spattered afternoon, and amidst a mournful and desolate stillness, I stood and sent my deepest prayers to the living and to what memories they had of the deceased. May they rest in peace. Almost reluctantly I took a few pictures, since I often think through the camera. About a half-dozen years later, the entire Westray complex was torn down- the ashes returned to the earth.

Westray Mine; Plymouth, Nova Scotia, Sept.1993 - after the disaster.

antiquity and present

Bringing our souls up from the depths means a descending of mind into profoundest heart- and there we mine the bituminous ore the Spirit can ignite. The ancients whose thoughts are compiled in the Philokalia shared their imagery of prayer as being a descent into the heart of our being. Imaginably inspired by their desert wildernesses, inwardness always seems equated with ways modern westerners refer to upwardness: vast yet intimate. It is fascinating to notice what appears as an inversion of upward and downward, perhaps not intended by the ancients as a reversal of popular perceptions. They described contemplation as a search through the depths of the human heart, prayer being the descent. In these journeys, it is necessary to navigate through the darkness of one’s most haunting and destructive thoughts- armed only with faith and a disciplined mind. With a view that considered thoughts as separate from self, St. Neilos the Ascetic wrote, in the 5th century, of how “the mind descends into the darkness of our thoughts.” But indeed, we are not to simply dwell in such crepuscular paralysis. Realizing the presence of mercy, and that it comes not from but through us, we are brought to a humility that cleanses the heart. Arriving at a recognition like this, even in tears, as Nikitas Stithatos noted:

“...your consciousness of the love of God will grow lucid and you will begin to contemplate the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven and the inner essences of created things. The more you descend into the depths of the Spirit, the more you plumb the abyss of humility.”

Thomas Aquinas, in the 13th century, observed how the brink of creation is known in our depths. He equated the darkness encountered by the soul as Divine mystery. When we realize how creation was called into being from nothingness, our sense of wonder defies plain sight, and we plunge into truths we cannot see. But going forward must be without hesitation, even if one is “caught between the terror of mystery’s invitation to step out into the darkness- and our mind’s insistence on knowing the truth.” Comfort is found, alas, in realizing one’s mind is not the full measure of all truth. In this instance, vastness takes the astonishing form of reassurance.

Miners' Memorial: Springhill, Nova Scotia - 2003.

source

Still amidst times of seismic upheaval, I know the vitality of vigilantly drawing from sources of strength and trust. And as I heard myself say to a friend the other day, it can be as unspectacularly consoling as opening a cherished book and seeing the soothing words. In the swirl of the fluidity of these times, I take heart that God is both steadfast and creating force. As strengthening as it is to know what the ancient Psalmist called “the everpresent help in times of trouble,” I try assuring myself of the unusual dynamism of unknowing. Rather than to presumptuously assess that which is around blind corners and distances beyond my field of vision, I’d sooner take stock in the openness of what is yet to be. God is ever so much nearer than I thought. As near now as in the murky, damp, cement-floored darkness that I’d grown accustomed to as I made my living for a fourteen year span. What fascinates me now is this unseeing sense of certitude even though I am not sure how dark the figurative glass of comprehension, through which I must navigate, will remain. Next week, I’ll return the coal fragments to the heap near the railroad where it will all be used. And I’ll continue to wonder at the prospect of whether depth is measured from above or below, or if the spiritual life even has a fixed surface from which to determine measurements. Is the pitch darkness in an earth-gripped tunnel or a lightproof corridor as close at hand as the sky? The Divine is as near as the notebook in which I write my words. Indeed, proximity may need only one reference point.

olympians

“Waiting at the airport on my suitcase,
a girl traveling from Spain
became my sudden friend,
though I did not learn her name.

And when the subway dimmed
a stranger lit my way.

This is the brotherhood of man.”


~ The Innocence Mission, Brotherhood of Man

fine lines

“When all is dark and dusty down the tracks;
And all paths from exile have roadblocks
on all points saying ‘no way out of here,
go back to where you came from.’

Only the thunder knows
what drives a man in his darkest throes
Fortune and poverty,
they’re so close, so close.”

~ Mike Peters and The Alarm, Only the Thunder


Stories, and rumors of more losses, surface and loom with each day’s passing. Pausing during a coffee break, it occurred to me how many setbacks I hear about, at nearly every turn. People moving out of the region, a neighbor vacates without notice, and numerous plans must be minimized. Long-standing businesses and cultural fixtures dissolve or downsize. Many who elude job losses must navigate warily in threadbare and fearful environments. And still, across all situations, there are more who listen to personal testimonials that string together with broadcast news stories. Pondering this today, I started categorizing the relocation, layoff, dissolution, and transition stories I’ve been hearing daily. The listening is part of dignifying the need for individuals to tell their adventures. And it’s hard listening. But there are unspoken embers of hope when the language of defeat is superimposed by creative alternative plans. There seems a fine line dividing what we determine to be success or failure. Indeed, our realities are challenged when another reality visits upon us. Of course, we’d prefer to draw the lines, rather than to have them drawn for us by somebody else. In this continuum, we will surely note the changes in our midst. And somehow, in realizing all that is transitory, the status quo reveals an undertone of fragility.

When considering the meaning of fragile, what comes to mind is the breakable. My thoughts turn to this imagery when the permanently dependable looks precarious. The idea of fragility speaks of delicate plants, complex mechanisms, anything requiring sensitive and conscientious handling. Hopes and health. Though essential, easily forgotten. And paradoxically, through these, strength is found. Disrupted balances are causes to perceive well-being as hanging by a thread. Is the status quo as delicate as it appears, when stopping to think about it? Perhaps it’s best not to stop and think- or at least not to allow a focus on vulnerability to derail forward continuity. Peace of heart is, in itself, fragile- even if well-anchored in road-tested faith. The nature of dynamism is fluidity, which may be considered a fragility. But in vigilantly maintaining balance and a consistent openness to the Holy Spirit, flexible strength is reinforced. There is fragility in all that is dynamic, and although it may seem a conflict of terms, both require the depths of our patience. “Tears may endure for a night,” wrote the ancient Psalmist, “but song finds us in the morning,” hours during which reassuring joy is easier to discern. Oh, but to thrive against restrictive limitations! In these times, so many of us find ourselves taking stock in our most palatably compromised ways of functioning and making ends meet. But it need not cheapen our dreams.

As the road ahead must negotiate unpredictable detours, it is vital to be able to prosper through instability. Whether or not I can serve as a conduit of hope, my proximity to the wellsprings of promise requires steady vigilance. A most surprising moment occurred last week during a long-distance pilgrimage travel: At the heart of complicated logistics, commotion, and exhaustive music preparations- was a ten-minute silence amidst over 400 people. A forgiving, respirating, and transporting quiet. Afterwards, resuming my instrument to play the next piece, I thought about how I might find ten-minute slivers in my early mornings- or even lunch hours- to help balance frenetic work weeks. Confident aspiration is a long looking-forward, hopefulness a serious business to which we must take hold.


Reflecting upon the many stories I’ve listened to recently, along with the hard-worked years of my own, I think of how to arrive at consistency amidst instability. After seeing enough times how circumstances can delicately oscillate, my thoughts turn to how one can pivot the fine point from untenable to productive. While so much is said about “bad to worse,” or as a neighbor once said to me, “just worser and worser,” this is enjoining me to aspire through such darkness. A solid course of trust pursues a fine line through narrow gates, laying tracks of trust. One recent cold post-midnight, gazing through icy windows at silent streets, I thought of that dividing line between despair and confidence. How to press forward along the high road. Somehow, the most reassuring thought was to remind myself of where I am now, and how far I’ve traveled on this marathon voyage.


There are prospects yet to ascend. Within a vital perseverance must be a solid sense of durable certainty. Memory recalled the words of the imprisoned apostles, passed down from antiquity, referring to being held captive by their hopes. The fine line may be one of perception of circumstances, how derailing realities can be dealt with and interpreted. Fluid situations demand a readiness which must rise above the gravity of grimness. Indeed, thriving above undertones of instability requires more daring than before, challenging me to continually renew inwardly despite what is outward and perishable. At times the juxtaposition of enduring and impermanence is more obvious than others. For now, the present exposes such contrasts. As an artisan, I am aware that with an increase in contrast there comes an emergence of sharp edges and fine lines.

so fine

dart

“Cease not in thine intent, but strike evermore
upon this cloud of unknowing that is betwixt you and your God
with a sharp dart of longing love,
and loathe for to think upon ought under God,
and go not thence for anything that befalleth.”

~ The Cloud of Unknowing, ch. 12


The dawn-to-dusk workday offered scarce light and no rest. What impelled me through the hours was the prospect of relaxation and fresh air that evening. By mid-afternoon, I had decided upon a hot bath as a clarified and appropriate reward. My chilled walk through the dark streets going home began the process of exhaling thick dust and grime out of my lungs. A good bubbly hot water immersion needed some efficacious thoughts, so I coincidentally brought Baxter’s The Saint’s Everlasting Rest with me. Sinking into the suds, the 17th century orator’s words wafted to me from my weary arm’s reach: “A heart seldom thinking of heaven can fetch but little comfort here.” The hardworking chaplain of Kidderminster held to the ancient contention that “there remaineth a rest” in the eternal future. We are unsettled in our earth-bound lives, Baxter claimed, because we neglect to meditate upon heaven. Impressed by these poetic reminders, while draining away the day’s travails, it occurred to me how I don’t think much at all about what we refer to as “heaven.”

Admittedly, I do get bogged down, if not diverted, with immediate concerns and the weight of keeping as many jumps ahead of deadlines as possible. Indeed, this culture refers to the stuff of heaven as the “afterlife.” When I stop to ponder, I realize how far one can perpetuate distorted perspectives. Rather defensively, my response is there’s so much “down here” in the “real world,” occupying my energies and all personal resources. Perhaps projecting some ingrained ideas from my uninterrupted working life of grinding and burning-out, looking ahead to some yonder break. The intermissions are never enough, and I tend to spend half of those times trying to stabilize myself with rest so that I can actually enjoy wherever I am and whatever I’m doing. Unfortunately that taints my view of heaven: that I’ll work on numerous well-intended projects and self-improvements until I simply can no longer. Then my life will be followed by some sort of ‘perpetual paid vacation,’ entailing a lot of harp-playing inside the fabled pearly gates. Merciful heavens, this can’t be it.


The problem is that I interpret references to heavenly eternity with terribly distorted and uninviting imagery. Quite the opposite of goodness and peace. No wonder these pictures of a hazily simplistic heaven are never in my thoughts or dreams. I begin to regret the notion that it may not look like Paris. Or eastern Maine. Surely there must be gentle people, books, good coffee, and bicycles. I, too, apply my own humble human projections. A bit more Robert Doisneau and a whole lot less Fra Angelico; I’d like that. Indeed, Richard Baxter himself- and the biblical sources- cannot spell out what we will see and do not bend to the limits of the scale of human perception. Baxter calls heaven “our own happiness,” and that a life of praise and inclination toward the infinite Divine, draws us away from being devoured by our convenient miseries. Whatever it is, or can resemble, will be our very utmost good. At this point it’s more than enough to get me to visualize a 4-day weekend, let alone heaven. Still, meditating upon these things helps me re-learn how a heavenward focus causes a more balanced earthly view. This evening it’s easy to imagine a perfect rest. That everlasting rest for all who have labored and knew heavy burdens. “On earth as it is in heaven,” begins to look to me like “in application as it is in ideal.” The place is for later.

Piercing those clouds of unknowing is a concerted effort and a constant need. Each day begins with a former perception to shard away. Perhaps darts that transcend cloud-coverings are not about the world to come, but really about an undaunted pursuit. These are aspirations. An unseeing intent that reaches forth to the Divine attains to the absolute. Yes, going forward even when unable to see through the void of a fog bank; even without sonar. The anonymous writer of Cloud of Unknowing wrote of the blind intent stretching to God, which, if wholeheartedly directed toward God, will surely meet its goal. The sharp dart of longing love is essentially an unfettered desire through which the soul attains the absolute, which really cannot be apprehended by any particular contrivance or method. Hidden between the rigidity of contraries- such as speaking and silence, eating and fasting, company and aloneness- is the sublime spirit discovered. “Up there,” as so commonly gestured, becomes “close at hand,” with distances delineated not by miles but by the will of the heart. Perhaps a better view I might have of what life manifests beyond might be to contemplate the passing away of the unknowing. Knowing even as we are known.


It seems I am reaching forth by faith toward something for which my understanding is evolving. But knowing enough to reach, and even to strike upon the clouds, envelops the pursuit in this very assuring mystery. A vivid recollection involves hiking to a favorite place of solitude, close to home and along the ocean. One of those countless ledges of crags and pines. This time, I encountered a dense and palpable fog, so dense that it was impossible to see the edge of terrain. My steps became vignetted by the same blanched smoky void that was straight ahead of me. The sound of crashing waves informed my advances. Of course while knowing what was on the other side of the fog, I couldn’t tell how near. Standing on a jutting rock, I simply marveled at the upward view being undifferentiated from the views ahead, left or right. What vistas await, surpassing the unknowing? Details are less important, but the goal must not be forgotten. Sowing must not hesitate with fears about quantitative results. “Contemplatives,” wrote Thomas Merton, “must empty themselves of all created love in order to be filled with the love of God alone.” With this in mind, my imaginings of what follows might remain at the edges of peripheral sight, yet the heavens are surely present.

solace

“Some winters are harder than others.
We are going to take our cameras
and look through at black trees with empty arms,
and sled tracks wandering as we are.
To see him, to see him happy.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Snow

un avenir de paix

“Some are bearers of peace and trust
in situations of crisis and conflict.
They keep going even when trials or failures
weigh heavily on their shoulders.”

~ Brother Roger of Taizé, A Future of Peace

Ever since my youngest childhood years, I’ve befriended my most elderly neighbors. Perhaps beginning with the patience of my grandmother, and on through my school years I could recognize how my eldest teachers could listen best, and also tell the most captivating stories. And this was common between playgrounds, neighborhood stores, and- when I began working- the customers I served. One of my grocery delivery stops, when I worked for a market in New York City, was the home of a retired teacher. In my gratitude for the wise anecdotes and gentle encouragements, I would give her drawings I made, which she cherished. As I advanced into art school, one of my very rare fortunes in those days was to have landed in an elderly illustrator’s final class before he retired. He had apprenticed with Edward Hopper, and I would divert him from critiquing my work with requests for more stories about camping in the woods of Brooklyn in the 1920s, watching Zack Wheat play for the Dodgers, and the horse-drawn brewery vans in Bay Ridge. This man must’ve been in his 80s, and he taught us plenty about rendering and gesture-drawing. To this day, I remain fascinated with eras that long preceded my birth.


Getting through an enormous hardship, about 14 years ago, and deciding to rebuild my life by focusing all my forces into graduate school, it was an octogenarian neighbor who gave me words of faith. I went to visit him with the good news about beginning graduate school in Boston (to study medieval history and archival sciences). “You’ve been through a lot, for your age,” he declared, adding “but you have a brilliant future,” with his hands gripping both my shoulders. This gentleman passed away shortly afterwards, and so these were his last words to me. At that time, I had so many doubts about my abilities and needed those words. Too much uncertainty to presume far ahead.


These times are replete with indefinitely grim forecasts, all following litanies of harsh news to which we have grown accustomed. And with reason. Added to a general societal apathy are swelling tides of discouragement. Decreases in employment, commerce, and economic opportunities are well entrenched in this culture. In recent months, I have seen friends and neighbors numbered among the disenfranchised. In our conversations, we wonder where the road turns. Have we yet seen the depths of this current duress? Having surpassed the winter’s epicenter, it seems easier to imagine the harshest of generally difficult times is past. But numerous commentators broadcast the worst is still to come. Downsizes, cuts, outsourcing, the “elimination of redundancies,” and references to “the pauperization of the middle class.”What to believe, and where to place that proverbial grain of salt? Beyond that, to be as hopeful as one is realistic- perhaps even more so. Confidently going forward, even as we walk through streets of “closed,” “for rent,” and “foreclosure” signs affixed to empty spaces.


When I first met Brother Roger, in Taizé, he was 88 years old; two years before he published the words quoted above in an essay. He addressed present-day society with references to the ancient Jeremiah, “God has plans for a future of peace for you, not of misfortune.” We must not let ourselves “be caught up in a spiral of gloom,” as some of us have been called to encourage others and be “bearers of trust.” With courageous hearts “we must keep on going,” in spite of the heavy burdens of trials and losses. Brother Roger’s words speak to that antithetical resolve- that determination to persevere when one’s conviction is the only persuasive evidence. Then we really do become creative bearers of stability in the midst of despairing souls. And it is a confrontation of the challenge of that easily spiraling gloom, bearing a shared burden of trust.

We cannot predict where, or when, or if this somber road will turn a corner. Listening to so many grim personal stories and being immersed in this society, my perspectives are put to the test. And listening, saturating as it can be sometimes, is often my wisest response. We all wish to be heard. My recollections only comprise one severe time of recession- that of the early 1990s. The current economic decline brings to mind those years of closings, job losses, and an exodus out of this region. I had been only a few years out of college, and saw most of my friends leave, while I worked two jobs to survive- and be able to stay here. It meant living alongside a lot of misery, investing in what many told me were lost causes. One of the most infuriating things I’d be told, mostly by evacuating acquaintances- and it happened countless times- was “you’re still here?” I developed some good responses, such as “and you’re visiting here?” Brother Roger reminded me that Jeremiah invested in a field that was located in a disaster area, a place from which his friends had fled, as he became certain of his purpose where he lived. But it’s always easier said than done. The necessary ingredient is to trust that assurance of a hopeful future, of bright days ahead, of consistently seeing spring though the winter.


This is an era of hesitancy. Yet we are ever enjoined to go forth, as our days advance in linear succession, even when details and timetables are elusive. Even when what we believe conflicts with what we see. I've lost jobs through layoffs twice, and during one of those ugly processes a coworker of mine blacked out faces on a corporate group photo- respectively with the dismissed employees. He wrote across the top, "who's next" with his marker, in a pained show of gallows humor. When his turn came, after he packed his effects, he returned to the common room, and blacked out his own face in the picture. For those who must bear witness to these things, there must be a reckoning of our own approach to life when there are so many justifiable reasons to be pessimistic. Evidently there will always be trials for us to contend with. And just as fears can be dispelled and stood down, so can ideals be put to the test, and constructive reinforcement can be founded upon reality.


When our tangible sources run thin, our precarious fulcrum points upon which our lives turn become apparent. How to stay inspired, and how to proceed with a realistic positivism, instead of gravitating into that ubiquitous spiral of gloom? Drawing nearer, and depending more upon the wellspring of life, my thoughts can dwell on the hopeful things I can count. Health, abilities, and prospects are stock-taking ingredients. The inadvertent and invaluable investments of rich friendship. Reflect upon the life-giving. Recall the finest words we have received; these things remembered have no expiration date, and are worth committing to memory. Save the good words for the gold coins they truly are. Good-tasting nutrients help too, I have learned from an elderly friend. And it's all needed, since getting through these times requires a lot of energy.

post tenebras

My time of day is the dark time...

When the street belongs to the cop
And the janitor with a mop
And the grocery clerks are all gone

When the smell of the rainwashed pavement
Comes up clean, and fresh, and cold
And the streetlamp light
Fills the gutter with gold

That’s my time of day.

~ Frank Loesser, My Time of Day (from Guys and Dolls)


In my most silenced and darkest waking hours, there is time to regather. With ambient light dimmed to crepuscular graininess, even the objects and structures in our midst emerge with softer edges. How are the pre-dawn hours so unlike those we call “late night?” Is there a zone of demarcation- like, say, 1 am? I find the noticeable significance when my awakening renews my alertness very early in the morning, before sunrise. Unlike a world-weary after-midnight wakefulness, my regained consciousness parallels hot water and soap, clean clothes and coffee. The windows are still blackened with night, and mirror my interior back to me. The world is still asleep. Muted sounds from my table radio, the sole permitted murmurs through the holy silence of the day that seems not to have started yet. There’s time, in these nascent hours, to reflect on the day passed and aspire to the one yet to form.

Yesterday’s newspaper sits on the dining table, rendered obsolete by the simple traversal of the night hours. At my desk, situated where I’d left them, my wallet, books, sweater, and writing things await. These inanimate objects in their respite, as the parked cars lined up outside at chilled ease- yet lingering with their owners’ residual imprint. What remains of us, when our instruments and habitations remain in our absence? Does your bicycle in the hallway, the notebook atop your desk, and your chairback-draped coat await only you? By the second cup of coffee, the grey light presents a black-and-white photo exterior. Perhaps in this essence of advancement there may be found the difference between the darkest hours before and after repose. More than a marking of time, it’s an alteration of perspective, the division between the winding-down of well-worn thought processes and the restarting of rested reasoning.





In these precious, slower, somber moments of the half-lit day, there is a sense of catching up with time’s pace, witnessing light’s increase. The scenery outside develops, reminiscent of images manifesting in darkroom processing trays. In the holy darkness, we do not wait in vain. These vigils recall creation, with light dividing the uncomprehending darkness. With such thresholds are new thoughts and reflections to accompany my routines through the work day’s structure and its daunting complexities. Such silent spaces are my Divine Hours, and the hushed darkness- those times of less apparent visibility- invite an expanse of inward roads.

I have never found myself begrudging the early-waking. The time seems to belong to me; it is uninterrupted and given gratefully to unstructured contemplation. Being awake is all there is to be concerned about. There is still time to dream. The slate is clear, hot coffee fresh, and the liminal gradations through dusk are navigated with certitude into light. As I learned in memorable wonder through my many monastic sojourns, from vigils and lauds the day silently emerges into being, and with the ensuing visibility a new admiration for the full sunlight that follows. Another set of very-early-morning memories rewinds my thoughts to junior high school years when I began to take to waking before 5am, hearing my Dad readying for work. We were both half-awake, he with his coffee and me with my cereal bowl, and the New York Times sports section before us. And cartoons. Sometimes, at the opposite end of especially prolific baseball days, we would go out walking after 11pm, to buy tomorrow’s Times. We were the vigilant and purposeful souls, awake before the rest of the block, save for- at least it seemed- the delivery trucks and Newsradio 88. This was the safest part of my adolescent day, and only now when thinking of it I realize the origin of all my good connotations and sensitivities attached to these hours.





Walking home last night, scaling the embankment along Pleasant Street, I remembered tracking those same sidewalks after groggy all-nighters in my studio at art college. During senior year, I worked a third shift in the dusty press room of the city newspaper, walking home to grind the ink off my forearms with abrasives. Of the divine darkness, there is no defined duration. Perhaps that cognizance of eventide remains with a soul, in varying degrees and times of day. Dionysius wrote how it is in this kind of lucent darkness that we long to be, “and through unsight and unknowledge to see and to know that which is above sight and knowledge, by very not seeing and not knowing.” About nine hundred years later, in the latter 14th century, there followed the anonymous author of The Cloud of Unknowing. Perhaps the symbolic cloud is as much a place of uncontrived comprehension as it is a shield to counteract what Dionysius called the “oversensible.” In silence and in sparing shreds of light, the soul may “be borne aloft to the superessential ray of divine darkness.” At this moment of writing, early in the morning, I am borne aloft by an unseeing sense of expectation. Not really rested, but as always a clean slate. Now writing of this gift, I become more aware of the ingredients with which each day begins.

lettera

“There is in books
one voice and one letter that is read,
but it informs not all alike.
For I am within,
secretly hidden in the letter,
the teacher of truth,
the searcher of the human heart.”

~ Thomas à Kempis, Imitatione Christi, ch.43

How amazing to consider the ways jottings and their configuration can call forth a full spectrum of lived experience! The names and symbols above recount an evening I spent at Fenway Park, last June.

drop-off and pick-up

“When the past haunts you
Leave it alone.

You’ve spent too many nights staring at the ceiling
You can only beat yourself so long
You can only hurt so deep.
What you need is a new sleeping canvas
To paint your dreams a new color
A brighter scheme.”


~ Brian Hardin, Love Will Not Care



This unusual New Year’s observance included an odd general combination of relief, reluctance, and catharsis. The recent calendar’s turning wasn’t even like the millennial “Y2K” anticipation, which was mostly one of excited anticipation- despite fearful survivalists’ exclamatories. This time around, there’s been a hefty dose of political and social commentary showing a kind of mortified hesitation about proceeding into the new year. As if we could actually select not to face tomorrow- or choose alternatives to the natural progress of time. Admittedly, much is not well with this economy and society, but what causes us to look at accepting the motions of time as if it were some sort of choice? Would I really want to go back? Even if I did long for a past era, these would be places for which there are no connecting roads or usable itineraries. “For most, this year’s special joy is in ringing out the old,” read an article title in the January 1st Boston Globe, and I have to agree. The occasion of a year turning (arbitrary as the first of January may seem), provides a forum to do some wringing-out, but also a renewal opportunity. Even with a perspective of living among beginnings, a year’s anniversary marks an extraordinary threshold. Personally, with the closure of an expired year, and a new one presenting itself, I become aware of how much I have navigated the Terra Nova of life in the Spirit. And while I wish to discard old millstones, I also want to bring along the good things I have known and collected.

Every advance of time is a threshold, and a pilgrim’s steps transit between liminal spaces. Thinking of how travelers are increasingly exhorted to minimize their baggage, I am thinking of something more permanent than a sojourn: there is material that should not traverse the new threshold with me. Excess may be physical objects with weight, as well as thoughts and attitudes that figuratively weigh upon us. Noticing how places of transportation have places of inquiry and admission, they also have checkpoints for embarkation- and areas for drop-off and pick-up. The latter functions concern the transition of passengers and merchandise. Usually it is an exchange from one mode to another. With a time-landmark such as a new year, my thoughts turn to the ideas I wish to drop off at the gate and not take with me. But the need for even the simplest provision informs me to pick up necessities. What unnecessary bulk should not be carried into the new year? Here is a chance to put off what holds me back, and in order to do that, I’ve had to identify what that is.

Walking with the idea of dropping off the notions that prevent me from reaching forth, I arrived at the word “justification,” and wrote it down while waiting at a stop light. Not an item, but a concept. It occurs to me that I hold many of my memories in order to give some kind of justice to my survival. Recollecting details about jobs, schools, people, and all sorts of failures and triumphs alike, becomes a way of immortalizing what ceases to exist. In my young life, I’ve witnessed many places and events: countless lives, localities, situations, emotions, and environments. My words and vivid memory-pictures keep all these things- good and bad, joyous and tragic- alive and retrievable. Archivally stored. (When writing of what I call “the archives of the soul,” that should also include applying some good process appraisal principles.)

“Justification,” in this context, means articulating the evidence of what’s been endured, committing details to memory. Justifying how I dealt with adversities, or what needed to be done. Remembering the good and the bad, thus entrenching those assessments. “The best offense is a good defense.” Making sure my experiences retain their value: all that tolerance, hard work, and perseverance were worth something. How exhausting and diverting. I must simply have faith that no honest effort is a wasted one. Notwithstanding the value of historic perspective (practiced by few in this culture), that persistent sense of self-vindication is something to let go of. What to leave outside the threshold brings me to think of the convergence of memory and burden- and their needed divergence. The daring challenge is to let go of failing tallies as well as successful ones. Beneath this is a sense of universal forgiveness.

The strength of negative memory is formidable, and if defeatism is to be dropped off and counteracted, something will have to be picked up. Indeed, not an impulse purchase, but something more of an upgrade. Trade the wasteful guzzler for something practical, durable, and maneuverable. Just as a change of diet, nutrients need to be reconfigured. What is picked up can surely be more trim than what was dropped off, but the soul will need something to take along for the journey, replacing what was dislodged. “Replacing” here refers to how the mind must be occupied and enthralled- yet not ensnared. We are not wired to be devoid of thought. The mystery of our lives’ symmetry involves exchanges of time, of endeavors, of directions. We finish a book and begin another; “the end” implies there will be something else. We intuitively turn pages and restock cupboards.

Just the other day, distracted by the encroachment of materials and cluttering thoughts, and moved to continue my writing at a library, I realized that I needed to thoroughly clean out my desk upon my return home. Reveling that evening in the ability to read and write at my small desk, with both elbows on the newly-polished surface, the pick-up to supercede the drop-off occurred to me. The antidote to narrowing horizons is a healthy sense of fascination with life. Even a kind of constructive tension to parallel the hunger to learn, informing me of how much more there is out there than what I see from my doorstep. And if I am to be confident enough to drop that over-compensatory burden of self-vindication, it must be replaced by an assuring sense of significance. In the face of a stale view that pries into my days with convincements of senselessness, I’ll pick up its very antithesis:


Each day’s set of paths has substance, and none are wasted. And if “finding” the meaning seems forced, well then I’ll fall back on reliable ways, as a journal-writer, the meaning tends to find me. I think I may have had it wrong when I tend to look for fulfillment before getting into a project or job. It seems the other way around, that I must do the work with faith that it will incorporate into a broader sacred vocation, which may be momentarily undefinable. In my favorite of her books, The Golden Sequence, Evelyn Underhill expressed how we cannot know the depths of artistic magnificence unless, “we have learned to look and listen with self-oblivious reverence, acknowledging a beauty that is beyond our grasp.” Realizing this, my relating to creation and the created order becomes something new. The closed-loop litanies of remembered faults, in response, become dead weights. Renewed aspirations allow for open-ended ways ahead, and incomplete mysteries are less daunting and more alluring.

first-night graphite

To one and all, a wish for peace, blessing, and encouragement;
smooth and fine points well-taken,
and boldly composed type,
throughout the year and always.

seeing and hearing

“Calm on the listening ear of night
Come heaven’s melodious strains,
Where wild Judea stretches far
Her silver-mantled plains.”


~ Edmund H. Sears, Calm on the Listening Ear of Night

l'esprit consolateur

“Hold on
to what you believe is right;
Don’t let anyone turn your eyes.
Look ahead;
Don’t stop to look behind.
The past ain’t no friend of mine.”


~ Mike Peters and The Alarm, We Are the Light

After work, I went back out for a walk. The outdoors, in such varied forms, can present the world to me as refreshingly greater than the constraints of workday routines. Perhaps some of you know those paradoxical occasions of being simultaneously saturated and drained. It happens; fortunately, not every day. Giving and doing require the counterbalance of reflection and release. So out I stepped, stoop to sidewalk and across my street in a westerly direction, away from busy thoroughfares. My feet needed to move, so that I could absorb fresh cool air and the panorama of the night sky. Mazes of shadowed streets, interspersed with green spaces, dissolved fine details into the night’s landscape. My steps slowed to notice a lit doorway here, a window there, and finally upwards to stars.

Intuitively, seeking a place to focus my thoughts, my steps brought me to a church courtyard with a very plainly sculpted statue and glass-encased votives planted in the ground. The stone carved outstretched hands gave me just enough detail to resettle my thoughts, in the darkness, and the peace of that moment became a reminder of the Spirit which calls from within. I remembered a recent monastic pilgrimage at which, upon my weary arrival, I could only gaze at a sparsely-lit icon. The sight was profoundly comforting, and my prayer that night- and for the following two weeks- began with, “what words do you have for me?” An unexpected dialogue. Just a few days ago, outside under the night sky in the small courtyard, that familiar question returned to my thoughts. “What words are there?” What might I learn anew of this hidden wisdom that impresses so deeply- this concealed knowledge that eludes contrivance?

Intermissions from repeated routines, such as the quiet brisk walks, bespeak a thirst for clarity of thought- and for assurance. Specifically, a state of being assured is to be certain in mind and confident in manner. When we are assured, we find ourselves free of self-doubt. In the obscurity of the courtyard, under a night sky, the word settling in my stilled thoughts was believe, recalling the context, “let not your heart be troubled.” Surely a consolation for one who strives relentlessly. Now I question whether outcomes and personal worth are results entirely dependent upon my efforts. Stopping to breathe and reconsider in that courtyard took more discipline for me than to simply persist in my usual customary uphill marching. With trusting steps, there will be less for me to unlearn and more to comprehend.

Cloaked in shadowy hues that blended firmament and ground, it came to mind that I have indeed known the soul’s ascent. And this brings me to reflect upon the wonder of submerging in God, rather than pushing myself to emerge with recognition. Little recollective tastes to remind me that I do know the source of spiritual consolation, and I don’t doubt the place of Divine friendship to which I’m called. There are apprehensions in fears of being forgotten, and that may a basis for my powerful memory. As well, the motivation to preserve is to see to it that essentials of living and caring are not tossed away, but instead enshrined within. But why remember wrongs more indelibly than goodness? Memory is so unquantifiable a mystery, yet it instructs me to cease steering into dead-end roads and expect them to be passable. Considering reality without becoming jaded. In this Advent season, my thoughts turn to creative visitation of Spirit into sense.

Between scurrying and spaces of solace, a slice of Silent Night has appeared to me- in uncomplicated anonymity. The world can seem so small, when our slavish pursuits can set us into narrow trenches. Ascent and assurance follow aspiration- and an openness to the serendipitous present, rather than to assume all that is needed, with the exact forms these answers must take. Aspiring is much like dreaming, and I hope for neither to become foreign to me. If I am to revel in the sphere of dreams, then I do need to untether myself from derailing diversions and defeatism. Yesterday, I was remembering the report card comment for which I’m proudest of all: At the end of my year of second grade, my teacher filled in the comment box with, “he daydreams too much in class.” My colorful high-floor view of the swirl of 94th Street was far more captivating, evidently, than whatever was being taught from the blackboard. And I’m still learning the fine balance between disciplined structure and healthy sidelines. But we need not consider whether it is permissible to dream, or all right to look further than this week’s problem-solving. Perhaps no-one can remind us to pursue realms of hidden wisdom, above and beyond “the wisdom of this age.” We can, however concealed, manifest consolation, and be living reminders for others. Our prayers are surely not unheard whispers in the wind. Now to believe and to remember this.

sharp points

“And you live life with your arms reached out.
Eye to eye when speaking.
Enter rooms with great joy shouts,
happy to be meeting.

And bright,
bright,
bright as yellow.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Bright as Yellow


Recently, as part of a group of traveling musicians, I shared the joyful experience of welcoming hospitality. The last, and the lengthiest, of these road trips brought me to a small and elegant church in the Berkshires. The enthusiastic welcome actually began with thanks- just as we had all arrived. Our host’s exuberance- expressed at the outset, and not after any results of our presence- was especially touching, phrased as “there will never be enough thank-you’s, so I’ll start right now!” This brimming graciousness was disarmingly earnest and entirely pleasant. Now, in reflection, I can recall when I have either witnessed or felt this kind of abundant, overflowing, and extraordinary gratitude. Such profound expression may be occasional, but its roots are in everyday graces. Manifesting grateful acknowledgments may rest on the surface, with handshakes, written notes, and tokens. Unusual exceptions, such as I’d seen the other day, remind me of something beyond those fine and courteous practices. When a gesture seems closed-ended, we may decide to express our gratitude with our lives. Becoming our gratefulness needn’t necessarily imply overt emotion. More than anything, it is a communicating of this spirit in ways that comprehend the context of wherever we are- silent and festive alike. The depths of our own mysteries are visited, when gratitude overflows to the point that we sense the insufficiency of our words. It’s similar to the impatience we experience when we try to wish away worries or hasten a healing process with our intentions. Willing spirits find creative expressions.

The continuity that follows my desire to express appreciation, more than surface recognition, is the hope to live this gratitude. How do we carry ourselves and move through this world with a conscientious sense of reverence? Advancing from impressions, it is a challenge of faith to set forth from what we initially articulate. Living a spirit of gratitude imposes neither occasion nor space. Among other things, this means exercising myself to understand that which is difficult to accept. Cut loose the old grievances and grudges; shred the catalogues of misdeeds, and delete the read-only migrated files that take away space from the new. Part of the learning is posing the simplest questions, when noticing myself complaining in the face of goodness, asking “what’s good about this?” or “what’s good about today, this person, that job, this situation?” Graciousness may be expressed silently, and if we consider eternity as our goal, the need to be the last word dissipates and thankful intercessions for others will find their expression in our most unseen recesses. A gratefulness to God can be reflected as reverence and respect for all that lives and gives life. As acknowledgment for another person, it is compassion for that person’s sake- and for whom and what they may hold dear. Appreciation is openness and expanse of heart. We can be active witnesses to those who bear witness to us! And we can gratefully accept the unpredictable nature of our responses to graces we daren’t expect.

For the moment, I am very simply grateful for this time and space in which I can write at my warmly-lit desk, while outside the rain and wind pelt and beat upon the windows. As my thoughts turn through the topic of thankfulness, I think immediately of my friends. My companions and mentors are light-bearers along this broadening and humbling pilgrimage, and their influences transcend time. “So great a cloud of witnesses,” expressed so well by the ancient apostle Paul, encompasses us about such that we are freed by their inspiration to rise above all that weighs us down. To his friends in Philippi, he gratefully began his discourse with, “I thank my God upon every remembrance of you.” Remembering encouraging souls is a source of assurance. Progress comes through unity, not isolation. When I think of the kindred souls and guiding elders for whom I continually give thanks, there follows the wonder of the gifts of their accompanying presences- through the years and now. Even while writing in silence, I am aware of their company. A way of caring for those dear to me is to profoundly respect their lives, personalities, and memories. Always giving thanks, upon every remembrance.

call and answer

“Seek the face of the Lord,
and long for Him.
He will bring you His light and His peace.

I have loved you
with an everlasting love,
I have called you
and you are Mine.”


~ Michael Joncas, I Have Loved You

lux in tenebris

“you chose to listen not to your doubts and fears,
but to your greatest hopes
and highest aspirations;
we mark the end of one historic journey
with the beginning of another...”

~ Barack Obama, speech- 3 June 2008


On my returns home from work much of this week, after what would seem an unbroken chain of saturated days and events, I’ve simply had to go back out for walks. Just a few blocks. Some days’ cumulative effects leave me consumed and with scarce reserves; these days have made for such occasions. These are grim times- save for our recent election euphoria, and night falls so much earlier quite suddenly. Thursday night I took one of these decompression walks, out in the dark chilled air. Across Longfellow Square and south onto State Street, passing the little floodlit shrine beside the convent, then west onto Spring Street. The West End now has as many leaves underfoot as overhead. Slowing my paces, I thought of how vital it has been to continue writing- even straight through my fatigue; even if the words don’t immediately amount to anything. Finding a bench near some street lighting, I penciled a few notes, finding a little verbal traction to strengthen my reach. When seeking new words fails me, I reach for the best ones I can remember. When my recollections are clouded to the extent that I cannot determine what is best to recall, I keep my feet moving forward. By proceeding, even without words, I am trusting they will emerge in time. If I only know to reach forward, that is sufficient.

Just as it was intuitively vital to take those after-work fresh air walks, I am equally grateful for perseverance in writing- albeit in fragments, lists, and all I could conjure up during ten-minute coffee breaks. In continuity, particularly the unspectacular kind, is found the essence of faithfulness. Indeed, there are seasons of any length that challenge us to continue in constructive motion, trusting the words will follow. But to prevent from being diverted or stifled by distrust and fear is a learned effort. The spiritual discipline of “fear not” causes me to consider what I can do to keep unfettered by apprehension and to cultivate trust. As I think of this as a learned practice, at this moment today, it means maintaining a consistent spirit of prayer at each and every turn. Be sure there are breaths of reflection interspersed through the day, offsetting the chaotic with lectio Divina and silence from the clatter and clamor that can encrust as barnacles on the side of a boat. Another is to continually think the best of others- even if I encounter intentions that are difficult to comprehend, or if I notice myself chafing with a pace far too slow or reticent for my sense of urgency. Still another, and a lamp to keep fueled by night, is to wholeheartedly embrace the spiritual gift of belief that the best is still yet to manifest.

But our road conditions and visibility will vary; we are not always navigating through adversity. And if we do regard vast tracts of this culture as spiritual wilderness, then we might consider fatalism to be the most corrosive of desert temptations. To practice a life of “fear not,” the challenge is to not capitulate to cynicism, and to transcend obstacles in our way that ignite fear and small-mindedness. It is a practice, because it demands constant application. Through minefields of doubt, and the margins along which many of us walk alone, perseverance allows us to explore the length and breadth of the meaning of faith. There is a danger in basing our prayers upon just the few things we can see. Without boldness, how would anyone know humility? There is more than this, far more than one could ever see in the distance.


Looking forward needn’t mean losing the moment. I spent years out of my life grudgingly wishing for what I did not have. An attitude like that diverts from taking stock in blessings immediately at hand. But it is worthy to aspire. One might ask what is worth accumulating, or what sort of yearning is healthful. Wishing for something more can be a sacred calling from within. To comprehend more and to provide better. To know the strength of the new life, in its fullness, was the wish articulated by the ancient apostle Paul. He also wished this for his friends and readers: to live as one who is risen from the dead, and to know love that surpasses understanding. The pressing forward, and the drive to persevere, is the high calling that becomes our lighthouse through dark nights at sea. And in this transformative journey I sense my wearily limited perspective very gradually broadening as it dissolves into that risen life. Evidence of simply the motion itself is a light to me. The action of reaching hopes we saw from afar is assurance of renewal.

spiritus autem vivificat

“The hope we share
on this journey
is simple and pure.”

~ The Monks of Weston Priory, Pilgrimage of the Heart

tout cela

“Tu toucheras la terre
La mer porteuse d’îles
Tu verras les bateaux,
La barrière et le moine
Le château et le pont
Et tous les champs d’avoine.

C’est à toi tout cela.”


~ Félix Leclerc, Tu te lèveras tôt