preparedness

“To build the future is, primarily and exclusively,
to think the present.
Even as the creating of the ship is exclusively
the inculcating of a trend
towards the sea.”

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Wisdom of the Sands, ch.89



for the day

We each develop our own self-styled ways for preparing to enter the day. Choosing to pull together some words in the early morning of an ordinary day has suddenly made this moment extraordinary. Awake at 5:30am, I’ve had my bath and now slowly savor my coffee poured from the percolator which has stopped sputtering. Only shoes remain needed to send me out the door, between this moment and teethbrushing. The next hour or so offers the respite of unstructured liminal space. Over the years, friends have referred to my “rituals,” while I’ve seen this as a way for me to own my time. And the practices adapt with every environment I’ve inhabited. Silence; with some words written and more printed words to read. As the morning progresses, I’ll add a look at the calendar and a listen for news. Always radio, never the shrill screen. Gentle lighting. A lengthened morning is also a way to ease the pace.

Last winter, the topic of preparedness came up in workplace conversation. A snowstorm was looming and I said, “as long as there’s some half-and-half in my fridge door, I’m all set.” Readiness for the elements and their offerings seems also to begin with that ubiquitous caffeinated beverage. Ways to gather forces and wits vary with situations and circumstances. Preparation is a many-threaded theme. Both sizing up the workday and gearing up for travels involve constructs of provisions to agree with plans. Tools and the appropriate raiment; something to eat, wallet, and keys. Sometimes an umbrella. A thermos of coffee (there it is, again). Cargo space is always allotted for writing materials. Then there is recollection of conscience. I try to use my mornings for mental preparation. At times, it’s an interior narrative, to tell my stubborn mind things like, “don’t let that bother you,” or “why not try that?” Even just to remind myself that things needn’t repeat themselves. Change never ceases. Just walk to the waterfront, and notice the tides.

mystery

Preparation of mind and spirit is as real as any material parallel. It is surely a discipline for a personality type such as mine to keep a steady keel in all things, while also being prepared for the unexpected. Maintaining a consistent inner peace implies a steady connection with one’s foundation. I try to remember the ground of my being, the source of all that lives. In unfettered silence, the longing soul can breathe the bare invitation, Veni Creator Spiritus.

In his book, From Fear to Faith, Martyn Lloyd-Jones mused about remembering foundations in imagery that surely reflected the textures of his home in Wales:

“When, walking on moorlands, or over a mountain range, you come to bogs, the only way to negotiate them is to find solid places on which you can place your feet. The way to get across the morasses and the places in which you are liable to sink is to look for footholds. So, in spiritual problems, you must return to eternal and absolute principles.”

Returning to absolute principles combines taking stock with preparation. Side view mirrors adjacent to a clear windshield. In regrouping there is gratitude for the “givens” in our midst. Somehow it remains more natural to take stock in what is trusted rather than to count fears. Darting across Monument Square, from lunch and back to work, I bumped into an old friend from art school. After we asked each other about how we’re doing, our responses began with being employed. As if that’s the first blessing to count. And this added more to thoughts of preparedness. It began to rain, and neither of us had umbrellas. We kept talking and walking. Perhaps by grounding ourselves during chaotic times by attending to the contents of our basis, we can prepare ourselves to remain calm in the present and through the unexpected. This is central to the life of faith. From the simplest yet most solid aspects, a good launch is possible.

extempore

As concerning spiritual progress, my hope is to be ready for unpreparedness. Reading Saint James’ ancient directive to be “swift to listen, slow to speak, and slower to anger” is a reminder against carelessness. We are all much more connected than we realize. This represents the timeless challenge of pondering actions before making an impulsive move. We’d all prefer that in theory, but this culture provokes an “act now” attitude. It is easy to be conditioned- and caught up in feeling forced to grab- so as not to be left out or go hungry. To succeed, one must be quick and smart; the loudest and most ostentatious are heard and noticed. I wonder at how true that is, and how to claim space and time to prevent from being reactive. Even slow speech is deemed a weakness. And slowness to judge?

Oddly enough, the supplanting of phone communication by "messaging" is open to some consideration space between received message and response. Even 5 minutes’ worth of interpretation and sizing things up can produce a more multi-dimensional reply than a defensive reaction. Now to be prepared to instantaneously respond without defense. Perhaps the way is to walk baggageless through days and tasks. Observation is itself a form of preparation- even a fast reflection. There needn’t be much time to be able to regain perspective. Habakkuk the Prophet, in the 7th century BC, documented his restless exasperation- and his struggle to wait and keep watch:

“And then God answered:
‘Write this.
Write what you see.
Write it out in big block letters
so that it can be read on the run.’”

Of course, I relish the Divine directive to write the vision and state it clearly. Prominently and portably. Even better, the prophet’s name translates to “the one who embraces.” It is for us to imagine all relevant implications.

One can over-prepare, to a detrimental extent. With all this in mind, it really is mental preparedness by being fully awake that is of most effect. When I think of excess contrivance, it gives me the image of being loaded-down. Tiring to even think about. The running thread tying together these thoughts is the training of trust to traverse the wilderness. Preparation is not really living, just as hits during batting practice are not computed into statistics. That doesn’t mean training is unimportant. Its purpose is its implementation. My favorite professor in grad school told me to, “read with an eye on application.” Perhaps applying the fruits of contemplation into living is in itself a kind of practiced readiness. I hope to reach the place at which recollection and application are intertwined and simultaneously advancing. As with unceasing prayer, I’d even have to make an effort to interrupt my breathing-in of the Holy Spirit. A hope. Hoping to be ready to be unready; to be cultivated for the unknowing and adaptable for the unseen- without my own terms.

backspace

“Green grass, go on
There’s nothing to keep you
Green grass, go on.

Red tree, go on
You’ve waited a long time
You’ve waited a long time.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Green Grass, Red Tree

Remedies for our constraints: backspace and margin release.

faraway

“There’s a rushing sound that is sometimes heard
when your mind won’t let you sleep.
It’s the flickering sound of a thief
who’s come to tear up all these dreams.
Stealing from the heart, stealing from the soul
stealing from the future
On the wind that blows away my words.”

~ The Alarm, The Wind Blows Away My Words



seen from afar

Having strongly visual thought processes, concepts tend to begin as images. Many ideas formulate as pictures, which are equivalent to language. Often, thoughts are first “seen” in my mind’s eye; after that, words follow. As well, memories are retained as images. In perspective, words and images are brought together by points of reference both felt and seen. Even extraordinary and new sites can cause the mind to reach into the past recesses of the archives of the soul. While on the road the other day, looking up at very clear weather brought to mind how skies appear when traveling by plane. Flying over New England, I recognize the lakes by their shapes. Over the Atlantic, I’m fascinated by strata- and noticing ships very far at sea. If it’s clear and bright enough, at the head of a long linear wake, an ocean-going ship is a study in determination from 35,000 feet. It’s going somewhere, there’s a crew aboard, and an assignment. The vessel is as small to me, as the large jet must appear to those on its deck. Proportion is based upon distance. Driven and directed, the craft goes on. Leaving a straight trail to dissolve on the water’s surface, it is not marooned. Piloting is not determined by sight, and navigation and travel must continue- no matter the light, the absence of light, or weather. It must go forward, and get where it needs to go. That’s the real goal, and the only way to do that is to persevere. Land is out of range, and the ship is at once far from its port of departure and from its terminus.


distances covered

Becoming aware of my own traveled distances is as liberating as it is occasionally sorrowful. When I woke at around 3am the other day, my thoughts could only be assuaged by penciling some words in my journal. Hours later, in the evening, I re-read it as my own version of a ship’s log. The jottings are as from faraway at sea, very long away from family memories and my mean-street adolescence. The closest thing to a sentence reads, “try to keep the world from getting colder, vaster, less-familiar.” It’s how a wakeful and longing mind writes: not very rational, but it somehow makes sense. Every past has both its smooth stones and broken fragments, and in the wake of time a dissolving dispersal among deepest waters. Yet there are those nights when I awaken, realizing the very fact of the irretrievable. The distance itself becomes more prominent than childhood experiences or my varied journeys over the years since. The port from whence I launched is long out of contact, and the places have transformed into things hardly recognizable.

The following day those same words looked up at me, as my journal opened to sunlight outside with coffee. Looking skyward, I almost couldn’t relate to my own words. Reflecting back can be daunting and obstructive in times of weakness, and a similar recounting can be contrastingly optimistic in satisfying times. Darker nights can tempt the mind with regrets, with inventories of what cannot be done, with recollections of wrong turns, and with ruminations of wasted efforts and time. The light of history, meant to view events and ideas in context, illumines achievements and blessings. Reminders of what I’ve endured cause me to better appreciate what I discover. Experiences do provide strength and point to potential, when their value is recollected. Distinguishing the uses of the past is a discipline in itself, demanding a distillation of time’s complexities. Praise is often tied together with pain, returning my thoughts to the solitude of ostracism and distance. I wonder at how far I have really traveled, while reminding myself that as the ocean-going vessels seen from the air I am neither lost nor without direction.

uses of the past

“Wisdom consists in knowing God and in knowing oneself,” wrote Bossuet, in the 17th century. “From the knowledge of self,” he continued, “we rise to the knowledge of God.” A sense of self, within a context of reality, can help maintain solid forward movement. The first challenge, however, is to be aware of oneself without becoming self-engrossed. My own check-and-balance system incorporates tempering my tendency toward introspection with old parental disgust at my interest in things past and spiritual. But to establish self-awareness and to transcend as Bossuet enjoined implies knowing one’s true self. A life’s journey that comprises recollection, understanding, and renewed perspective. And to challenge judgements, examining how true they are. The purpose must never be to create a closed-loop of self-obsessed isolation. Quite to the contrary is the aspiration to blend into God’s presence in this world.

This self-knowledge imperative may also have a root in what most would call the less-than-spiritual. My earliest years were fraught with having to stand my own defense- and run fast- having been shown the ways of this world at the hands of merciless bullying. Younger, lighter, quieter, and smaller than the others in my grade, I was an easy target for bulked bands of armed cowards that lurked the hallways, basements, streets, public schools, and parks of my crowded crime-ridden section of New York City. The stuff of nightmares. I remember how, as a bloodied nine-year-old, I collected myself and sought out the head of the summer camp for some kind of justice. The director could not understand what the daily beatings and tauntings were doing to me, and gave me a talk about “peace and harmony.” The sheer uselessness of this was representative of misunderstanding and disregard at so many turns. I could comprehend others, but was very rarely understood- and never taken seriously. The grand reward, following more years of tension and muggings, was my determined departure from the city. Survival took a different form, certainly without the violence. Liberty does have its costs, and for some it is the solitariness of self-navigation- intensified all the more for the family black sheep.

Truly, there is too much that is laudable and open-ended, rather than for me to waste another minute in bygone quagmires! Momentum will not tolerate wallowing. Just like the Passover commemoration, sufferings are remembered in order to give thanks for the present and the gift of a future in a better land. A navigation without instruments or charts is that of the spirit of trust- within. This exploration can allow for a surpassing of obscurity into a less-impaired heart, through which I can embrace the Divine. Not a wallow, but well worthwhile; worth exceeding the weight of anguish. Here, past adds propulsion to present. A bridge is not purposed to be a place of permanent residence. Sure I can articulate disappointments and missed opportunities, but the next thing is that there must be a next right thing. “Build something positive out of the fragments,” I wrote today in my journal, during a breath’s worth of a coffee break. Memory is precious space; loosen the grip. Back at my desk, it occurred to me that as an archivist, memory is documentation. This manifests in many formats, and the enduring value of records concerns their authenticity and their uses to inform. Whether the information is “good” and “bad” is aside the point. The most critical aspect is accuracy.

ports of call

A favorite saying came to me from a Quaker who said, “the Christian life may be rough on the feet, but it’s good on the soul.” Times of respite are to be cherished, as they are exceptional. The reality of pilgrimage- especially one that fully embraces the whole voyage- it that it’s not always pleasant. Rarely easy, but surely not without joy, either! Balancing contexts of past and present is joined by perceiving horizons. For me, it means to steer carefully without getting caught up in the what-ifs of the not-yets which may only be mirages. Distances covered are facts of this life, and there are many more gratitudes than regrets. Even a small distance, such as between an especially dark night and a seat in the sun, aired my words to the light. What a wonder to notice anxious thoughts disperse as night predators do before sunrise. Patient observance is an ability slowly learned, and some great examples have been among wise and kindred friends. Claiming islands of quiet time- however humble or momentary- has been the best way to take stock and take care.


re-setting course

Resuming the voyage and tacking into the wind, I am aware of such times when the rigors of so many miles covered are sharply felt. But that is still not a reason to stagnate or to cheapen aspirations. “In speaking of the debt of reason to revelation,” Etienne Gilson wrote, “we may have in mind the moving memory of those moments when, as in the meeting-place of two convergent rays, the opacity of faith suddenly gives way within to the transparency of understanding.” Because there are daily responsibilities and many who count upon me, the two-sided coin of unknowing will have to ride on the dashboard: It remains both assuring and troubling alike, being aware of how little I really know. Within the gradual learning process, perhaps times of disappointment and despair are growth pains. Looking back, those hardhearted environments I’ve endured, in both childhood and since, have left the inadvertent by-product of sensitivity to others. But the more dangerous waters to avoid are replayings of harmful earlier chapters. Such awareness would attest to having truly learned something. To be watchful and to be spirited calls to mind Gilson’s imagery of that moving memory of moments, converging the rays to understanding. By pursuing this direction, even as the voyage traverses points without return, there will continue to be images to exceed those which have been seen, retained, and finally released.

streams

“...The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.”

~ Dylan Thomas, Poem in October


From above the trails, leaves sailed down from extended branches to rushing waters along my steps. I returned home on river-trimmed roads, down from inland elevations and up to the mist of the Maine coast. Navigating widening roads, noticing the changing waterways, my thoughts remained with the intimate trails I left in Vermont. Before leaving the region, I had to hike to one more waterfall. With light and weather changing, these moments are to be savored all the more. From still rock perches, I’d watch one leaf’s progress from aloft to waterborne. Some of them would find refuge on solid surfaces, others were carried by cold rapids. The woods, in combined intricacy and grandeur, are conducive to subverting thoughts of self.

The journey was an unburdening, as much as an addition of new experiences. What returned with me, as my wheels resumed the night-darkened, yet vividly familiar neighborhood streets? Alongside weathered boots and word-thickened notebooks, some helpings of peace, morsels of discipline and confidence, and many thought pictures. Colors, sounds, and temperatures. And a wavy yellow leaf that somehow found the inside of my typewriter case, wafted to my kitchen floor.

By its very nature, the motion of spiritual journey perseveres though imperfection and unknowing. Implicit is an aspiration toward the sacred, yet also the assurance of acceptance. As with those floating leaves, landing places cannot really be predicted. My preparedness for the future does not foretell what is ahead. Where do the streams we know join the changing rivers and vast oceans as yet unseen? It is as bolstering as it is disturbing. At times anxiety and excitement coexist. In silence and respite, with a change of scenery, I can draw from strengthening sources to be better able to navigate the unknowns. Not that the source of what lives is limited. Yet it seems I’ve just come from places which brought me to a much more direct experience of sources of creative life and trust. Subsumed in the return to work and multitasking is an abiding cord of gratitude. I’m slowly learning how to avoid burning out, while keeping alive the fire of the Spirit.

Reflecting back- even now- as with an ancient devotion, there are new and crisp images for the archives of the soul. When my front stoop and some of the nearby waters freeze to stillness, I’ll recall lush, singing, and aromatic forests. In a similar sense, while hiking I could imagine the Long Trail’s verdant density transformed and hidden under snow. The lasting effects of a sojourn are determined by time. It is fascinating to consider how minute and glancing details can become gems in our memories.

Now re-acclimating to the stream of routine, my thoughts turn to whether I have been changed by these two weeks. Transformation is always in progress; the specifics remain to surface for me to describe. Pilgrimage sojourns, being islands amidst the quotidian sea, tend to attest more pronouncedly to discovery. The Weston Priory itself has been a life’s landmark to me for 15 years; a beacon and consistent place of tranquil welcome. When I mentioned to the brothers how it had been 10 years ago that I lived the monastic experience with them for 6 weeks, we were all amazed at the passage of time. It is one of my life’s great and enduring inspirations. 1999 is as much a long time ago as it was just a bunch of fleeting seasons back.

Journeys of many shapes, distances, and purposes have brought me to cultivate better travel skills. And transition abilities. “Descending from the mountaintops” has rarely been easy. At times, it had been anguishing- especially when returning to sharply contrasting situations. The ability to straddle different spheres has grown with me since childhood. Rather than distinguishing mainstreams, wherever I am is a nowstream, gathering and blending otherwise scattered and arcane influences. But to maintain the heart’s treasures- to preserve and nurture what is holy and useful! Even the ancient desert wisdom in the Philokalia offers as much about cultivation as about watchfulness of the mind. The monk Nikiphorus called the latter discipline an art form to be refined with one’s life. He advocated training the intellect through patient discernment via the heart. With the mind rooted in the heart, extraneous factors are less likely to discourage and distract. A tiny rock from a mountain stream now sits on my desk. Indeed, the good reminders subvert the discouragements. Now at ocean’s edge, the rapids are as evident to me as the tides.

l'envoie

“There’s a hidden life for everyone.
Sorrow remains though you can tell no-one.
The host on your tongue is a perfect moon;
It does shine inside you.
You shine into the room.

And I can only say
that I have hoped for you.
Safety from fears and darkness.
Are you feeling better
than before?”

~ The Innocence Mission, You Are the Light

“May your word, O God,
be rooted in us,
and may your Spirit
move us to forgiveness
and compassion.”

~ chant from the Monks of Weston Priory

rain round write

written in the rain...

bienvenue

“Vraiment, tout vouloir et
se contenter de très peu:
Voilà bien le secret
d’un emerveillement
qui ne soit ni naïf ni illusoire.”

~ frère Pierre-Yves, de Taizé, Le Souffle de l’Espérance

A welcome from Brother Elias!

wonder

"Oh my soul
Sometimes we don't know what to do
We work so hard
Being tough on our own
But now it's me and you
Let's give it up
Sad bones
'Cause we all fall on hard times
But you don't have to stand up all alone
Just put your hand in mine."

~ Shawn Colvin, Climb On a Back That's Strong

light traveller

“Down by the riverside
I laid my burdens down,
Now I'm traveling light
My spirit lifted high
I found my freedom now
And I'm traveling light.”

~ Joel Hanson and Sara Groves, Traveling Light

blog award

“Try to remember
that to some extent
you’re just the typist.
A good typist listens.”

~ Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird


A surprising and splendid acknowledgment has come my way, and I am very grateful. For my part, blogging grew out of journaling, and for the past 3 years has paralleled my daily handwritten journals. For years, I’ve been maintaining a kind of tandem journal: fleeting thoughts jotted in pocketable notebooks in pencil, and larger tomes for developing thoughts as time permits in ink. Carnets and cahiers. The nickname for the little penciled jottings has been my “life in graphite,” La Vie Graphite. The words and themes- even the tools I am fortunate to use- are open-ended means. The real subject is this life’s voyage, the pilgrimage of trust.

The award requires that I post a presentation- and very happily involves a celebration of other writers whose work I respect. The presenter of my award is the esteemed Olivander, author of Collapsing World. And here is the Kreativ Bloggers award:

I am very pleased now to present this award to 7 creative bloggers.
First, here are the rules for the recipients:

1. Thank the person who nominated you for this award.
2. Copy the logo (above) and place it on your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you for this award.
4. List 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting. (see below)
5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers.
6. Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know they have been nominated.


And here are the winning blogs:

Lissa: Scenes From a Slow-Moving Life - http://www.justwritingwords.com/
For poetry and poetic fiction, with imagery, with consistency and tenacity.

maxxgrl: Ottavox - http://ottavox.blogspot.com/
Encouragement for a new blog of personal expression and exploration.

Sarah Rachel: Lie Down and Sleep- http://liedownandsleep.blogspot.com/
For eloquent and candid narratives of a woman’s spiritual journey.

Br. Richard: A Capuchin Journey- http://acapuchinjourney.blogspot.com/
For his down-to-earth observations, poignancy, and humor.

Chris Routledge: Chris Routledge blog- http://chrisroutledge.co.uk/
A many-faceted and very well-presented blog- from a fellow Olympia typist!

Donald: Writing Cabin- http://writingcabin.blogspot.com/
For thoughtfully and subtly writing his journeys.

James Watterson: OlympiaMan’s Typecast - http://olympiaman1010.blogspot.com/
James also wields a couple of typewriters, and enthusiastically writes his musings.

To all of you: Congratulations!
Bon Courage et Bonne Écriture!


Finally, 7 random things:

1. I commute to work with the bicycle I’ve had since I was 16.
2. My career in the visual arts began when as an 8 year old I saw the Chagall production of The Magic Flute at the Met.
3. I taught Benedictine monks to sing in Hebrew.
4. On formal occasions I wear real bow ties.
5. I have been published as a photographer, an illustrator, a historian, a book conservator, and a philosopher.
6. My first language is French.
7. My favorite food in the world is steamed and spiced kasha.

textures

“Northern light
come softly down,
and touch the land I know.

Northern light
come softly down,
and touch the land below.

Northern light
is in my eyes
and in the places I knew
If a light can carry freedom,
let it shine on you.”

~ Frieda Morrison, Northern Light


As days are replete with images, words, and ideas, so are they textured. A recent journey to a nearby island brought to mind some of the dazzling textures in my midst. The view from the ocean presents a context of water, sky, and land in unity. Within these grand worlds are countless elements. Gazing from the boat, after having collected some thoughts about fragments and edges, textures began to surprise my attention. The ocean has constantly shifting characteristics. And these contours, these palpable experiences, like ideas and words, become reference points.

Tactile qualities are essences, and with this in mind it is easy to see the common root of the words texture and text. The Latin textus refers to cloth fabric- material comprising many intermingled threads into one gathering. In the textura of the broader journey are reminders and memories of essences. The sea air itself has a thick, salted, and chilled consistency; gusts of the airborne ocean. In turn, the rugged terrain encompasses numerous textured patterns. Observing sands and tides brings to mind the grander entirety within which I am a very small component. Considering the miraculously and mysteriously appointed order to the universe is a humbling assurance to me.

Being attuned to texture indicates awakened spirit. When I notice my appreciation of aspects often overlooked, there follows a welcome reminder to cultivate ways to perceive on many levels. Comprehending subtleties, essences, and beauty encourages by steps along this unpredictable voyage. Some shells and glass fragments, rounded my incessant tides, sit upon my desk as reminders of how the forces of creation can transform surface textures. It is the same Spirit that exalts valleys and makes rough places smooth.

Transitory chapters, liminal spaces along the way, cause the soul to be acutely aware of immediate textures. Whenever I have ventured out to the unknown, my senses have been noticeably attuned to surface and scent. The cool, ink black air of thick forests at night. The fearful, as well as the peaceful, has texture: it’s when we unavoidably sense our heartbeat. Freshened school buildings, with glossed floors and anesthetized halls that somehow enhanced our echoing steps and voices. My grandmother’s potato pancakes- coarse, then buttery, then spicy. A heartfelt Mass, after which I stepped from the cavernous cathedral, out through a frozen Montreal night, and down into the crowded subway filled with faces for whom I sensed a deep affinity. Standing in that crowded train became a prayer for all present, with the aftertaste of bread in my mouth.

Texture is woven into the pages of memory’s tomes. Just as there are immortal words meant specifically for an individual’s heart, there are indeed textures that we can each uniquely comprehend. Stored memories of essences remain with me as both reminders- and even as consolations. Curiously enough, in response to institutional eliminations of books, popular outcries cite the attributes of tangible volumes. We animate all that books comprise, with our imaginations and movements, and can hold them close to heart.

Compare fast food, and its consumption, with a savory meal- even a simple one- with aromas and strata of tastes. Memorable dining has always been an experience of ambience and spice; a totality of texture. My recollection of a deeply-appreciated dinner, after a hot day of wearily walking Burgundian roads, is ever colorful with the garnishes, sauces, porcelain plates, and paper lanterns of the outdoor tavern. I was on my dusty way to Taizé, and, knowing that, the waiter gave me an extra glass of wine. Within the textus of the moment there emerged the sounds of the environment beneath a night sky in eastern France.

Pilgrimages and daily routines alike provide chances to gather. And the collecting varies from artifacts and addresses, to words and experiences. The ancient emblem of pilgrimage is the scallop shell, and I never remove mine from my backpack. The shells reflect roads, skies, lightness, and friendship back to me. A few of the smaller shells were tied in place by children wishing me well on my way. Such treasured tastes abide, and descriptive words seem insufficient. Similarly, there are only so many expressions to attempt to give an accurate sense of the millions of steps in a life’s pilgrimage. Rather than to tire myself by trying to describe infinity, there are more intimate and intricate ingredients to meet my finite understanding. Beginning with shells- and the very lines I inscribe in my notebook situated on my oak table.

edges

“Who would dare to go nameless
in so secure a universe?
Yet, to tell the truth,
only the nameless are at home in it.”

~ Thomas Merton, The Fall


Edges and ledges ceaselessly captivate. Writing these words, I am aperch near the ocean. To consider a vantage point as a perch bespeaks a fascination with precipices. Edges take many forms- and formless aspects, as well. Changes of surface and texture are seen, sensed- even tasted. And when a corner is turned, revealing a new landscape, from within come reminders in our own language of our transition. The soul’s geography surely has a gazetteer, with words either preceding, paralleling, or following human steps. An edge indicates where events connect, and how one person’s sphere must be overlapped by a much more universal fulness. Turning an edge, in itself, has an extraordinarily intrinsic energy; striking a match to light a candle brings this to mind. Edges can be sparks, instances, and even margins of space between symphonic movements that anticipate a change of timing. Drawing a line on a piece of paper, threading lines and letters, brings an idea across an edge. Observing a photographic image materializing in developer, even for the millionth time, never loses that mysterious amber-bathed sense of threshold.

An edge can be felt as well as seen, and aspects of place are both material and spiritual. Visiting a physical marker is as tangible as recollecting a thought. The moment of transporting insight is itself an edge. But these less-visible edges are for me to recognize, and although not easily delineated these are indeed indelibly felt. An interior edge can be recognized as surely as a road’s sharp turn. But there are many grades of hard and soft edges, often keeping it a mystery to know when one has actually embarked into the unknown. Thankfully so: I am grateful for the unobstructive unknowing.

Even the self has the aspect of edge. But rather than to venture out to the generic sense, I’ll speak for myself. There are perimeters of knowing still to be found. A lifetime of discovery won’t be enough. But it seems the profounder comprehension begins at the ends of self. The plural makes more sense to me, as I believe the self has many ends. These edges seem more to me as perforations, ready to be torn away. Ancient monastic thought pointed the aspiring individual to “lose themselves” in Christ, and to desire a kind of edgeless life of immersion. Thinking of this causes me to wonder where and if self-distinction can dissolve, in this culture of endurance and survival. What are the distinctions worth preserving? Thomas Merton’s many definitions of the “false self” revolved around the rejection of immersion into the divine. Moving beyond all-costs striving to self-immortalize, to traverse the ends of self-ness. It is reminiscent of the rabbinic sages’ image of diving into the “ocean of divinity,” and to cease focusing exclusively on oneself. Merton wrote of his struggles to get out of his own way, and that reminds me of releasing the results for which I irrationally hunger.

Last week, I brought a couple of close friends to the Weston Priory for their first visit. What a rare privilege, to guide loved ones through a place that means so much to me. And to listen to their first impressions. The monastery is a simple array of barns and wooden structures, blended into the mountain landscape of the monks’ environment in central Vermont. Simply arriving there is the beginning of an unburdening- and untethering from material anchors. Even after 15 years of sojourning there, it continues to impress me to realize how little is needed to live to the full.

With my friends exploring the pine-scented terrain, I found a perch of my own. The familiarly medicinal silence returned consolingly to me. As if I needed to ascend a mountain to find what should be with me in the city- and always. Then I began to notice edges: sloped meadows and untamed fields, the brothers’ plain structures angling into the trees, the rotation of silence and sound, the earth and sky. Even the latter presented a soft edge amidst thick mountain fog. Where one edge ends, another begins. I hadn’t been to the Priory since the winter, and wanted to visit Brother Philip’s grave. What I found was unexpected- considering how previously the community used individual grave markers. Upon the occasion of Brother Philip’s passing, the brothers created a group gravestone, with each of their names and respective dates of their monastic professions- all engraved next to their brother’s “completed” inscription. It was at first astonishing, then it seemed a bit morbid to me. But then I realized how very deeply affectionate this gesture is- not just for the brothers, but for anyone else reading the memorial. The community of brothers communally felt their own lives’ edges.

Part of the fascination with edges is to contemplate their very definitions. An inadvertent tendency of mine is to leave objects too close to edges of surfaces. Then when I knock them over, I berate my own clumsiness. When I’m a little more present to the moment, I notice myself pushing things like coffee cups and cameras closer to the centers of tables and shelves. Today, my thoughts turn to what lessons are in ledges. Looking toward the layers of crags and ocean waves causes me to wonder about what is forming, what is on the verge, and what might be burgeoning. Obviously, over the edge is some kind of risk. Beyond spiritual edges is the unexpected, and the invitation to confront what has intimidated me. The wish to see around corners is the desire for knowledge, the spirit of inquiry. Ends of terrain at my feet are meeting the enwrapping arms of the ocean. Horizons and margins only appear to me as edges, but these are simply directions. Even the sunlight lands at a changing edge. The season at this threshold is at once timeless and new.

different now

“You say suddenly you
cannot see yourself out in the world.
With your school suitcase.
Tomorrow- well, you don’t know,
you don’t know.

We’re coming away,
Everything’s changed.
Everything’s different now.
Everything, even the sun.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Everything's Different Now

(some of my grandfather's tools of his trade)

sight and sound

“Words that build or destroy
Dirt, dry bones, sand and stone.
Barbed wire fence cut me down
I’d like to be around
In a spiral staircase
To the higher ground.”

~ U2, Promenade


Moving through days and distances, the skies and air revealing changes, the increments themselves are what fascinate. In a split-second’s snapshot there is a complete scene before me: of trees, terrace, and a chair to be inhabited. In a fleeting tilt of a silent gesture is the kindness of a stranger. Comprehensible small steps. When the view forward appears pervasively unsure, and institutions uncertain and tenuous, it becomes necessary to take stock of interior treasures reminding me of my own foundation. The exterior gems become easier to find, albeit in a current of overlapping multi-tasks, one interrupting the other. Frequently, work and words are so consistently cut into that it’s hard to tell if something’s ended or if it’s just been broken up again to make way for yet something else. It becomes a challenge of coexistence- and one more balance to master. Average days are replete with fractured efforts and transitions; streams of consciousness diverted into stray rivulets. Of course I want to be able to unify all spheres of my continuum, and see far ahead as vividly as the table upon which I presently write. But long-distance views are often elusive. Simply looking to the present uncovers humble incremental steps. Perhaps the fragments are as much as can be managed.

fragments

Now I am pressed to consider if there is any voyage, of any extent, that is not pursued in paces. Like the correspondence between subject and photographer, that which attracts our gazes and draws our attention is composed of fragments. Perhaps rather than being thwarted by a life of puzzle pieces, steps, days- even words- may be constructively perceived as structural modules. Walking across town today, a steep street brought me to notice my steps, cobblestones, and clouds. Simply being in view, these fragments are brought together. Even the spaces between and around components are, as I once learned in typography classes, counterforms. Contours and contiguous spaces define one another. Definitions of objects and spaces can even effect a dynamism. Consider shadows cast by backlit subjects and how light shines through trees.

words

As with structural elements, accumulating into paths and solid forms, words have momentous potential. These are modules which can build or destroy. We assign by way of our appellations. Further, when communications and rapports must be truncated, the few emerging words become critical pivots. Verbal “sound bites” can wield even more influence than their intentions. Ironically, a culture that shuns silence with space-filling media cannot countenance completeness. I try to prevent myself from following this trend.

Our words are finely-faceted mirrors and windows, reflecting and revealing. From antiquity, we have Saint James’ timeless discourse about how expressions of faith are tarnished by careless talk. He didn’t really focus on words, but instead referred to how we address one another and how we speak to our own conditions. James compared an unbridled tongue to a ship’s flawed rudder. He challenged his readers to match their verbiage and lives consistently. Not knowing what our words can potentially do to others is akin to not knowing one’s own lethal strength. In a conscientiousness of language and movement, we are brought back over and again to the source of life-giving words. In our transformation we may find a new vocabulary building within us- and even new tones. The simplest articulated reference can cause changes of perspective.

I believe we all have our own “root words.” For me the word trust has been a poetic gift from the monks of the Taizé monastery. They use it parallel to the French word confiance, to describe faith, a life of confiding in God, and confident forward movement. This sense is prominently in my lexicon of pilgrimage. It causes me to think of ways to encourage sincere trust wherever I go. When I started journaling, about 15 years ago, it was my antidote to workplace unrest which demanded enormous patience. One of my colleagues saw me writing in my notebook during an outdoor break. Between drags on his cigarette, he commented “it’s good you write; it concretizes your thoughts.” Too good to forget. Words and thoughts, alike, have textures. And the sounds of the pronounced letters cause the mind to visualize.

time

Yet another fascinating module is the measurement of chronology. Apart from calendars and clocks, we interiorly mark our passages of time. Parallel to fixed frameworks, we have our own timepieces and milestones known better by ourselves than anyone else. Our own relationships with time. The long shadows cast by my academic sundial extended from my school years, to teaching years, through post-grad, and then on to years of working in schools. I still buy calendars in August and divide the year into “fall” and “spring” seasons. The late-summer light and air transitions return vivid recollections of returning to school. And there are “eras,” characterized by personal watershed events, as well as small moments counted as tastes of life. The aroma of pine and sweetgrass. The heightened expectation of travel. Invoking a loved one’s name. An ancient Jewish custom assures the ceremonial remembrance of the departed on the anniversary of their passing: yohrtzeit, which means time-of-year. This is a special memorial, among the numerous, more informal ways souls are remembered.


impressions

Then there is the currency of time. If we choose to cultivate a skill, or to simply appreciate a silence, it will demand of our schedules (even as we’ve been conditioned to believe time is money). That means there is an expense involved. But perhaps we may measure time (and its worth) a bit differently than others. I know that I do- considering that I chose to write at this moment, above other leisure activities or any other amusement (wait, this is an amusement!). Time may move in a universally measurable progression, but it can be for me to set the increments, even if not the sizes of the notches. Perhaps that’s it. We each have our historic landmarks and festive days (as well as our days of mourning), but we can determine our own quantities- if not the units of measure. I wonder if impressions may also be fragments. Indeed they are ingredients portioned in each soul. That which we have seen, and heard, and held; these are as tangible to us as they are indelible to our memories and hopes. Imagery has an iconic staying power, and it has always drawn me to seek meanings beyond surfaces. It is a wonder to me, how I can remember moments- tiny snippets and fragments of the distant past- above and beyond other things. But just as the senses can surprise me with reminders, I cannot predict which present ingredients will endure into the future. Today is amidst notions and encounters that will be fixed in time as remembrances.

la via rhodia

"I do not write it to survive
My mortal self, but being alive
And full of curious thoughts today,
It pleases me somehow to say,
'This book when I am dead will be
A little faint perfume of me.'"

~ (Maine author)- Edna St. Vincent Millay, Journal

The pilgrim journey of jots and jumps makes an ephemeral diversion, with a welcome to my dear home, Portland, Maine. The small city cradled upon the Atlantic waves of Casco Bay was ever beloved by native Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (whose home is pictured above).
This small coastal state, at the northeasternmost corner of the U.S., has been home to numerous writers and artists. This visit, however, has a scribbler's twist: we begin by crossing the street from Longfellow's house...

Endeared to artists, writers, and list-makers are the French-made, famously orange Rhodia pads. This one (above) is at the Art Mart (pronounced Aht Maht). These writing pads are all over Portland.

At left in the above photo is our 202 year old signal tower, which is on Congress Street. Below (as well as the lead photo at the top of this entry, with the "Rhodia roof") is an example of West End architecture.

...of his home town, Longfellow wrote:



"Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and downThe pleasant streets of that dear old town,And my youth comes back to me."

The folks at Artist & Craftsman Supply kindly encouraged my photographing for this essay. The store, located near the University of Southern Maine, is a cavernous emporium of calligraphic treats, among other wares for creative pursuits.

Amidst aisles of paints, canvas, clay, and captivating novelties, are all things graphite, ink, and paper.

Beside the Revere Street counter, a second Rhodia display- conveniently near the supply of journals and yet more arrays of pens. Now to the East End of town.

Visitors to Portland may take note of our orange and black taxicabs.








A Portland tourist information guide makes helpful notes.To landmarks and lobster dinners the purveyed perforated pages prompt !



Pencil only, in the famous Portland Room, at the Portland Public Library.

Maine's official beverage is Moxie, invented here in 1884. I describe this as "root beer with viscosity," and Rhodia's colors are complementary to the imbibement of Moxie.

The Portland Museum of Art is a cleverly successful I.M. Pei design, in plenty of Maine granite and brick. Locals such as the Wyeths, Edward Hopper, and Winslow Homer are among the artists represented here, along with an eclectic spectrum of works of art.

... and finally to misty Portland Head, note-inspiring to legions of thinkers and artists.

On a stroll here, Longfellow reflected:

"The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,And on its outer point, some miles away,The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day."

~

with special thanks:
ABC Taxi Company, Art Mart, Artist & Craftsman Supply, Greater Portland Landmarks,
Maine Historical Society, Le Papier Gourmet, Paper Patch, Portland Public Library,

and

scrivening allies across the country at Rhodia Drive.

close kept

“the word is very near you;
it is in your mouth and on your heart
so you may apply it.”

~ Deuteronomy 30:14

A significant part of my work involves what the archival profession calls description. It would not suffice to simply transcribe the obvious contents of documents. The work of analytical interpretation implies connecting the materials to their respective contexts. Rather than to settle for the discreet artifact, vital points of reference are to be found amidst the palpable yet invisible space around the artifact. In doing this, even for some of the driest of records, I do note my gratitude for the prominence of words themselves in my days. Pleasurable as it is, the work is intense, and is enmeshed among scattered duties, deadlines, and a busier bigger picture. Having negotiated a rare day off, there are now enough moments to string together here at the Boston Athenaeum library. Paradoxically, overwork simultaneously generates both fatigue and wakefulness. And it is the restlessness that reminds me of the cravings of the spirit.

During a particularly sleepless night this week, it became very difficult to settle all the racing thoughts. Even my prayers wound up into circles. Then, unexpectedly, I noticed my repose as two simple and soothing words smoothly wove through the discarded clamor:
So Near.
With a life of producing and consuming words and images, thoughts often take shape in typographic forms. It was as though I entered into the already existent words, upon their recognition, and so near became a prayer for consolation and of gratitude. The restlessness calmed, the assurance of a safe harbor, and the reminder of a future. An unusual, yet perfect lullaby.

The next day, thinking about this brought to mind the anonymously authored Cloud of Unknowing. The writer’s own prayers were often nearly wordless, or as the 14th century text translates, “the fewer words the better.” Further, still, “the efficacy of one little word surging up from the depths of one’s spirit, is the expression of one’s entire being.” With very little, perception becomes easier. The so near puts all else that distracts quite far away.

But these are more than mere words. Though indeed, to write of the inner life does mean ascribing limited, finitely-articulated thoughts to the scarcely describable. Yet I do so, and am gladly undaunted. The so near that dispelled my troubled thoughts, the Holy Spirit, was called paraclete by the ancients. Translated, this refers to “the advocate that stands at one’s side.” When the noisome clutter clears away, the Divine spirit is noticeable as the soul of my own heart. As near as the words I am barely thinking of praying. As my thoughts gather into the So Near, the consolation exceeds years of pains of rejection- and even the struggles of career striving.

I’d imagine this knowledge to be enough, with plenty of assuring reserves. Yes and no. Another paradox. (Only references to manna are archival, not the manna itself.) Perhaps it’s more like an increasingly effortless vigilance. Sure, there will be more restlessness, but that attests to a form of thirst which draws me to reach forward. And answers arrive.

The beginnings of a soul’s spiritual thirst involve pondering a mystery without beginnings. It is amazing to imagine an innate yearning for the sources of trust. The invitation is not initiated by me, rather my thirst is to respond. At times, the response seems involuntary. Directing away from anxiousness, uncertainties, and recollections of losses, is a motion in favor of strength. The drive is for enough cultivation of the spirit to continue on constructive paths, through both present and future days.

In my continuing experience, I find the essence of the Spirit is in its very pull. This draw toward the source of life occurs quite spontaneously. Especially in silence. It is for me to simply reach back. This mysterious pull reminds, signals, and calls forth, causing me to give thanks for the rootedness that is somehow already within. In recollection, I imagine how my steps have been punctuated with experiences of holiness. Whether great or small, all significant. What comes to mind are the superimposed impressions of grace upon my trails. As with photographic imagery, corresponding imprints are made as light compensates for darkness. The greatest amounts of silver are collected where the contacted negative has been the most transparent.

This week, the unexpected gift came in the form of reminders of the so near; as I described to a friend, le tout-proche. And to meditate upon the meanings of these words, in this context, is consoling through the day. Comfort in the thought of having always had a witness to my being- even in its most perceived ignominy. Amidst my unknowing, the knowing consoler emerges with nuanced and glimmering remembrances of my very origins. Something I do know is to ever turn toward the source, confiding and trusting- without which the incompleteness would be unbearable. Yes, as much in the silence as upon my ocean ledges at home, or this morning’s rapid swarm of Boston traffic during which I heard myself add my own litany of so near to the morning’s psalmody.

tout comme avant

Mais l'habitant en rigolant
S'enfuit en courant dans son champ
Pendant qu'à bicyclette Ti-Jean
Reprit sa route en chantonnant tout comme avant...

~ Félix Leclerc, Contumace














in English

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.