accompaniment

“I see at certain epochs of history what seems like an emergence,
an incursion, of the Divine Life.
It seems as though in a marked way
and to a peculiar degree the Life of God-
again humanly revealed- has broken, like a vernal equinox,
into the lives of humans and into the stream of history.
A new installment of life has burst into the world,
like a mutation, that changes the old level forever...
Divine wisdom, changing the line of march...
Not always was it a saint that did it,
but it was always a transmitter,
and always the trail was luminous.”

~ Rufus Jones, The Luminous Trail.


among others

As I proceed, the trails of my creating are as equally evident to me as the paths I’ve chosen to follow. Survival has required years of roadbuilding and provisioning, albeit through poor visibility. And this is said amidst constant, resourceful, and tireless work. There are countless souls in far lesser straits, visible daily in these stratified times. Having lived for decades in a small city that suddenly turned so radically and severely into gentrification, my continuum has been pushed to the margins. Among those who manage to stay for various reasons, we substantiate one another’s experiences. A significant portion of the pre-2020 Maine population has out-migrated for improved fortunes elsewhere. When a five-year resident looks like a seasoned doyen, community memory loses its depth. As local resources such as businesses and churches have continued closing, replaced- if at all- by big-box versions of both, the hunger for comforts intensifies. It is seen and heard. And the seeing and hearing are right at the surface at squalid inner-city bus stops. The bus line with which I commute to work is busier on occasional Thursday evenings when a city church offers free suppers. I know this because passengers talk to me, and I always respond. Many climb aboard and disembark with backpacks and plastic bags of belongings, en route to shelters. That’s not to mention the desperation along sidewalks. The wait for my return evening bus witnesses the banter among those turned out for the night. Some help one another haul their bundles. City officials really need to get out more. I could teach them how to be an observer and a participant at the same time.

When we recognize each other, we’re reciprocally bearing witness at the most basic level. From there, we can corroborate our stories. That is inspiration’s ground of being- every scenario from pavement filth to plush meeting offices. When U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy published about the Epidemic of Loneliness, he emphasized the vitality of community connections and genuine, mutual care. I’ll add that when we acknowledge each other, we begin to give validity and respect to those in our midst. This is a way to broach an antidote to desolation. Students and colleagues tell me about how dauntingly difficult it has become to make friends. We all agree about how ironic this sounds, in light of abundant connectivity. Invariably we talk about how social media has redefined “friendship” into something virtual and unsustainable- especially without initiative and conscientiousness. “I’ve seen you here before,” a weathered bus stop standee said to me, followed by “You want some food?” She offered me something from her bag. I thanked her and politely declined, mentioning that I had groceries at home. “You should come to Thursday suppah,” she said, “it’s really good.” “I might just do that,” I replied. I used to serve similar suppers, at a crosstown East End ministry called The Root Cellar. Poverty takes multiple forms, including lack of provisions and shortages of human acknowledgment. Our needs for accompaniment are paralleled by that of mutual recognition. What happens when we are “strangers in town” (or even in our own town whose population abruptly shuffles)? How important is it to be recognized and known?

On a lighter side, I’ve taken to trading wisecracks with one of the grumpiest bus drivers, the fellow some of us call Lurch. I think he does pretty well to keep even-keeled, considering all he tolerates. Well, one morning, as Lurch’s bus approached the stop at which I was awaiting, I witnessed some strikingly reckless driving that included an illegal U-turn right in front of his crowded bus. Boarding and scanning my pass, I said to the grimacing Lurch, “Wow, I saw that red Rav-4,” to which he replied, “Yeah, you can’t make up this kinda stuff.” By sheer participation, we accompany those in our midst. Even Lurch. Among my closest friends is a social worker who is also a pastoral minister. I spoke with him recently about how I’ve especially noticed the value of accompanying others, even in subtle ways, both for others and myself. John understood what I was describing, calling what we can do “the ministry of presence.”


saints

Out of necessity, my recent 2½ years of daily commuting have been on public transit. That helps explain my numerous comments about the liminality of waiting under the elements and having to spend a lot of time doing that. For the previous 17 years, I had a few minutes’ walk to work- until downtown life became an impossible luxury. During my twice-daily waits and rides, there have been opportunities to be made, so that I can redeem the time. Choosing away from the ubiquitous phone-fiddling most everyone else does (“lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil”), I always have books with me that serve as companions. Being an unhurried reader that takes notes, requisite index cards are typically handy. My satchel is also provisioned with a prayer booklet for reflective pauses. These sources carry forth into my workday pauses, known in my journals as coffee canticles and bus-stop novenas. Long-known as scribbling and nibbling journaling and lunch breaks go together, one as everyday as the other.

My studies and spiritual practice have run juxtaposed lines for many years. Parallel to sacramental sources in ecclesiastical institutions are the wellsprings of inspiring troves found in libraries. Escrivá referred to his spiritual reading as building up a store of fuel. “It is from there,” he wrote, “that my memory spontaneously draws material which fills my prayer with life.” As it frequently happens with favorite authors, I discovered Escrivá’s work through footnotes printed in books. Most of my beloved authors and works have met my path via written references and by spoken recommendations. The incomparable and indispensable Cloud of Unknowing was first introduced to me by a bookstore owner. A late colleague and friend taught me an observation I’ve shared numerous times: The saints are always teaching us. I’ve long tended to latch onto brilliant thinkers of yore by starting with quotes and compelling portions of books, then their biographies, and finally their own works. An example is San Juan de la Cruz, who became profoundly dear to me. I read all the biographies of him that I could find, leading to contextual readings about his contemporaries in Spain and France, after which I revisited his poetry- and then, feeling prepared enough, The Ascent of Mount Carmel. Studying that great work, over a period of months, I created my own annotated index; it was as though I was navigating the mountain, too. After traveling with it, I had to rebind my copy of the book. His work and his life are inextricable and informative. There are many other saints, not necessarily canonized, and no less significantly- teaching me. Erasmus, Ruysbroeck, Kempis, Pascal, Merton, Tozer, Brother Roger of Taizé- naming just a few- ever accompany me. Faithful companions and their words make for a better provisioned voyage, always teaching me. Another saintly and Quaker companion, fellow Mainer Rufus Matthew Jones, teaches us through his enduring books to not limit our vision to proprietary denominational thinking, and rather to transcend societal fractiousness. From his applied wealth of learning and insight, Jones’ books The Luminous Trail, and Studies in Mystical Religion present vignettes of saints in his characteristic unvarnished eloquence. His descriptions of Saint Francis of Assisi stand alongside the similar reverent biography written by Saint Bonaventure. The latter’s life and works have been integral to my current focus of studies. These teaching saints accompany, and they always mention their accompanying portions of holy writ.


mentors and guides

Dovetailing the ancients are the guiding mentors I’ve personally known. As old friends and cherished teachers, I look to them all as beacons in the night. Earlier this week, after an especially arduous day, while waiting for an elusive outbound Number 9A, I noticed myself straining my eyes as far as possible for that rolling and heated transport. It was a brutal 7 degrees below zero, windchilled and pitch-dark. In that coarse half-hour, everything but a 9A passed by. Having memorized the Divine Mercy Chaplet, I focused on that, also adding to my intentions all those that are without homes. When it finally arrived, stepping up and in from the mound of rock ice, I told the driver he was a God-send. He liked that. Then I sat and thawed a bit, before descending for the last part of my pedestrian journey in the deep freeze, the Chaplet returning to me again. Sources and refuge often intertwine.

We strain into the distance for lighted trails, for game-changers leading to better days and paradigms. There are surely many others; in the search for accompaniment, we can each be accompaniment for one another, adding meaning to our shared continua. Perhaps ponder what and who accompanies you through your days. Who follows whom? What and where are the places and contexts of refuge? Amidst the overwhelm of contemporary culture, there remain lifegiving ideas and gestures to memorize.

Seeking the solidity of consolation, in the absence of accessible places of intellectual and spiritual nourishment, I’ve been seeing how many turn to libraries. People thirst for respectful and nonsectarian acknowledgment. And most may not even realize this. There isn’t a week during which I don’t hear, “You’re about the last familiar face I can find.” Who doesn’t want the assurance of familiar faces? Our vulnerabilities hinge upon mutual recognition, which is essentially validation. Whether patrons, or associates, or even donors, there is a common search for witnesses to our lives- for substantiating observers. “Do you remember that?” “Did you know so-and-so?” “Why don’t pictures of such-and-such exist anywhere?” We can only find what has been preserved, and what can be found is what can be preserved. Basic as that sounds, this must be expressed in the gentlest of ways. Interactions reveal food for thought- whether among students, casual visitors, patrons, or colleagues. An occasional researcher totes a large, antiquated computer“tower” with him, which he hefts in a canvas bag. It’s his memory- containing an untold amount of his work; I don’t dare to judge. And then there’s cultural memory. The almost-universal fascination with microfilm is remarkable. Most workers dislike it; I find it very interesting. I call the miles upon miles of filmed newspaper pages history in real-time. Often the queries boil down to people simply wanting to see a time they knew. Reminders. They love telling me about the advertisements they find, along with the long-ago prices. Personal references are often all that any of us can see, in our limited visibility- as with the lights of a homeward bus.

forging ahead

“I am still following, still forging ahead, still walking,
still on the road, still extending myself; I haven’t yet arrived.
So if you, too, are walking, if you are extending yourself,
if you are thinking about the things that are to come,
forget what’s past, don’t look back at it...
You ask, ‘What does walking mean? I’ll tell you very briefly;
it means forging ahead, in case you should possibly not understand.”

~ Saint Augustine, Sermon 169.

As the new year began, five years into what has come to be known at the covid era, I was able to make two very long-awaited monastic pilgrimages. Part of my respite time scarcity corresponds with the nearly two years of quarantining, as well as closures to the public of retreat lodgings. All measures taken for the causes of safety and stabilization. In addition, since February 2020, at my workplace I’ve been a department of one, having to adapt into being an especially productive jack-of-all-trades. True to the adage, all work indeed means no play. No complaints. I get everything done, well and fast- and I’ve been gratefully employed the whole way. Forging ahead remains paramount. Over the years, banking up enormous quantities of largely unusable earned hours caused me to squelch hopes for those vital spiritual and artistic retreats that have provided nourishment throughout my adult life. It’s a trial of absorption and adaptation. Absorbing the constraints, while adapting to the tenable. A Saturday once a month at the Boston Athenaeum, combined with an interspersed holy hour at local sanctuaries, help to patch me along.

Several weeks ago, I had the time and space to fulfill a thwarted sojourn from a year ago. Last Christmas, I exhaustedly stole away to Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey only to arrive during the approach of weather so severe it forced all retreatants to evacuate. I’d been only a day as guest in their wonderful community, and they encouraged me to come back. And recently I did just that. My return to Wrentham Massachusetts was in clear weather, and the only storm was a manageable half-a-foot which added photogenic spice to the already peaceful landscape. With a spacious room complete with study table and a soft bed, my only real effort was to try slowing down to a restful pace. Disentangling from the compounded intensity of constant toil, housing crises, and vigilant caregiving, is no simple matter. Rest has to materialize in bits and pieces. Having a few days in beautiful environs with healthful helpings of contemplative silence and soothing sung liturgies made for a salubrious step in the right direction. Bringing both writing and reading material for the sojourn, reflectively studying philosophy seemed to be my natural course, in rotation with community prayers- and journaling. I had just taught my class before taking to the road, and was eager to complete reading material that needed undivided attention. Through experience I’ve learned that spiritual development mustn’t be forced, unstructured time is something to cherish, and thus both aspects counteract contemporary culture. As I had written in the previous essay, Pope Francis’ fortuitous theme for 2025 as a year to be undaunted pilgrims of hope immediately drew my attention. My nineteen years of published essays attest to how this theme superimposes with my own path. Indeed, it was all in mind during this recent pilgrimage, as well as during November’s sojourn to Weston Priory.

As I’ve noticed how my trail’s ingredients are constructed from my own steps combined with unwitting patterns of grace, I’ve also grown to recognize time as increments of significance. And the increments can be as long as seasons, years, and eras. I’ve held this perspective for a long time- dating back to measuring life in summers, grade school levels, semesters, jobs, and projects. Single-day holidays always seemed too short, and mostly about their buildups. Chronicling time with journal-writing provides a natural setting for marking various anniversaries- and of course describing their importance. For example, the Labor Day weekend during which I moved to Maine became known as Arrival Weekend (and I've numbered them since). Others are the closing weeks of my different graduation years- still commemorated. I’ve always much preferred Advent more than a stand-alone Christmas Day, and I grew to love the Lenten season. The latter provides plenty of time to inhabit, explore, and reflect upon during a forty-day period. Pilgrimage is as much about the coverage of physical distance as about spans of time. I regard my lunch-break novenas as spiritual journeys. Journaling provides personal space for incremental reflections. Among many things I learned during years of experience in the Taizé monastery and on the road with some of the Brothers, is to view all of life as a pilgrimage of trust on earth. On one occasion, after a week of supporting a large gathering as a liturgical musician (playing classical guitar), Frère Emile thanked me- hands on my shoulders- wished me peaceful travels, and said, “Now go make your life a pilgrimage of trust on earth.” Those unforgettable words have never, ever left me. That represents the grand view of a lifetime. The briefer and equally vital stages, such as several weeks ago in Wrentham, are to recalibrate and hold course.

Lest we romanticize pilgrimage, appropriating the stuff of novels and misty imagery, pilgrimage might occasionally be quite majestic, alas it’s more often than not pedestrian and gritty. Pilgrimage waits in traffic, rides lurching and odoriferous buses, and holds doors for strangers. It’s carefully shoveling snow. Pilgrimage is also noticing the queues of walking feet ahead, patiently pacing en route to the sacraments; it’s noticing my own. Commuting on public transit requires a lot of waiting and standing. There are also opportunities to read and to reflect; that’s surely more interesting than phone-fiddling. While taking in the sub-zero raw scenery at a bus stop, manipulating book pages with gloved fingers, I thought of how the dilapidated roads and sidewalks are not pristine or groomed, but they are all sunlit during the day. The voyage is not new, though it can be renewed. The dry docks of my start are far out of view, there is no better choice than to forge ahead.

Looking forward and staying the course are infinitely more appealing than giving up the ship. Stagnation is reversal. Maintaining awareness of the imperative to continue is enough of a challenge, particularly amidst setbacks, but what to do when the grinding trail threatens a loss of critical savour? Maintaining the furrow, because it’s what I know and it solves the immediate, fills my days. But is this progress? Not knowing how close at hand fulfillment might be, tests the fibers of hope. The saints of old are always teaching us and none of them ask us to drop the torch. It’s consistently about looking ahead, even if it means discarding all that is past- especially when it takes the form of a millstone. Perhaps beating the winter is no more effective than to check off the chores as they are accomplished. But there are no plans to cease walking forward. Yet another aspect exemplified in pilgrimage life is to affirmatively aspire when hoping looks absurdly irrational. Pope Francis recently said, “faith is a road to be traveled, without ever losing the goal.” Forging ahead, one next-right-thing at a time, is all this pilgrim of trust can do, for now.

spes non confundit

“In the heart of each person,
hope dwells as the desire and expectation
of good things to come, despite our not knowing
what the future will bring.”

~ Pope Francis, Spes Non Confundit

1

A practice I created, patterned after Time magazine’s “Year in Review,” was to write my own version in my journal. Though I began writing in the late ‘90s, at the turn of the millennium, I recapped my experience of the entirety of the 1990s. I’ve since journal-written my years in review, along with parallel decades, always setting time aside close to New Year’s Eve to do this. Indeed and true to the concept of tradition, my Year in the Review is always to be handwritten. Suffice it to say, using this medium, 2024 has been a year that ran on fumes. But it was also the year of finding a vital measure of high ground in this region’s unrelenting housing crisis. Truly, “how precious did that grace appear,” albeit after twenty months of desperate, tireless searching and traipsing. Living in a safe and civilized apartment building is a blessing counted daily; “'tis grace has brought me safe thus far and,” inevitably I believe, “grace will lead me home.” This was a major development during a very, very hardworked year. And now the first quarter of the 21st century begins to give way to the second. In 2025 I’ll mark the 19th year of La Vie Graphite with pencilled gratitude. Being able to continue writing is itself cause for gratitude, along with loving to write, and I look forward to more ideas and adventures. I’m also thankful for the readership, while at the same time aware that my years of essays and imagery have yet to find their most receptive audience. But I carry on. Appropriate to these points, I’ve just serendipitously learned that Pope Francis has authored a year of observances and community action based upon the virtue of hope.

2

The quarter-century observances will revolve around being Pilgrims of Hope, both as individuals and more broadly as communities. The basic idea can become constructive practices for anyone of any denomination,”looking to the future with an open spirit, a trusting heart, and far-sighted vision.” Pope Francis titled his document Spes Non Confundit (Hope Does Not Despair), applying words of the Apostle Paul (Romans 5:5). I prefer something closer to the Latin, the more persistent: Hope That Will Not Be Confounded. That’s a challenge to be taken head-on, as there are more than enough reasons to be dissuaded. That’s central to the point; hope is the way to holiness, but the way is rough, often ungratifying, and surely not passive. While steeply pitching my whole self forward into the torrents, I’m convinced the efforts are worthwhile.

Aligning personal renewal and outward generosity with the Resurrection, Pope Francis joined steadfast faith with expectant hope for healing and reconciliation. Not treated superficially, the profoundest expression of hope looks beyond things of this world: When wholeheartedly lived, this buoyancy can transform our vision of the future and produce a foundation upon which our lives can transcend the ephemeral. As you’ve been raised with Christ, wrote Paul, strive toward things above. Lifestaking confidence stands out from fingercrossing tentativeness. Aspiration is a very serious matter that demands all the strength of character I’ve got. Confident faith drives us to rise above our trials and difficulties, inspiring us to continue pressing forward in our vocations. Inward direction and a sense of purpose are benefits in a life that exemplifies hope- all of which bring to mind the vital attribute of mercy. Sincere, entrusting hope not only embraces divine mercy, it also seeks to be outwardly merciful. Rather than being an impossible idealism, the life of faith is entirely practicable. And expandable. Contemplation and action need one another; in fact they want one another.


3

“Let us be strongly encouraged to seize the hope that is set before us,” Pope Francis wrote, referencing the Epistle to the Hebrews; “We have this hope, a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters the inner sanctuary...” Holding fast to hope, actively keeping faith, is essential- all the more amidst the instability of troubled times. Pope Francis observed, “The image of the anchor is eloquent... The storms that buffet us will never prevail, for we are firmly anchored in the hope born of grace, which enables us to live in Christ and to overcome.” When we lose hope, our dignity is impaired. Confident trust inspires me to continue pressing forward and persevering. Profound hope is stronger than disappointments and setbacks- and this needs to be the case, speaking for my humbled self. And thus hope and aspiration barrel through hardships and exhaustion, because they must.

From reflection to application, hope is tied to intention, as pilgrimage is a form of motion through this world, with grace in mind. For many years, I’ve treated the entirety of life as a pilgrimage that comprises countless eras, scenarios, days, and steps. For the jubilee year, Pope Francis recommends the compelling balance of earnestly internalizing hope, along with the physical effort of moving forward. In the example of pilgrimage sojourning, the purpose is to rediscover simplicity, silence, and physical intention in the context of visiting sacred sites. Places of significance take many forms, and there is no set duration for a pilgrimage. My suggestion for those among us who must tirelessly work full-time is to make “working jubilee steps,” such as walking to an available sanctuary. Simplest is best, such as turning off the lit screens and finding a secluded perch. To sanctify (sanctus) is by definition to intentionally set apart something for the pursuit of holiness. On occasional research days in Boston, I’ll set down my projects, and navigate the congested sidewalks to any of numerous shrines and churches I know that are open. The immediate silence always strikes a beautiful contrast away from the city streets. Even the most pedestrian of pilgrimages are responses to the grandest of callings from eternal sources.

flourish in the desert

“At times, it is only possible to hold oneself in God’s presence in silence.
It can happen, too, that in arid places,
the deserts of prayer predominate...
When, in the desert of your heart,
there is nothing but the silence of God,
question yourself:
Is this the beginning of a turning-point to go forward again?”

~ frère Roger de Taizé, Fleurissant les déserts du coeur.

Though largely beyond the pandemic era, a depleted societal aftermath lingers. Always looking for clarity of thought, I try figuring out whether just about all of humanity is recognizably battle-weary, or if I’m merely projecting my experience. Recently, a colleague and I were talking about how we find ways to prevent from burning out. I suggested the few of us that were at our workplace five years ago- and are still there now, should receive a special survival medal. We’ve weathered a compounded crucible, and reaching some sort of high ground only to unceremoniously soldier on. But indeed we’ve lived to see another day; that is something of a reward in itself. A great many were not able to rebuild. The covid years not only saw compromised workplaces and institutions of every kind, but also severely affected economics and housing crises in ways that continue being felt. I’ve had first-hand experiences of these. Even my hometown has been reduced to a diluted version of what it was before the curtain dropped on the world. Indeed, these scenarios are everywhere, not just in New England.

Personally insistent upon progress and holding out hope, I’m continuing as a productive worker and thinker, digging a furrow through deserted times. For me, persevering through adversities must have purpose. Why ambitiously persevere, with contradictions at all hands? Because I remain convinced of being meant for better things, and that cultivated skills and knowledge must not amount to lights buried beneath bushels, but be applied to benefit others. That’s the point. Again, I know there are numerous others who ache in their undercapacities- and that returns this resourceful soul to flourishing where I’m planted. When taking stock of the present, my thoughts turn to gratitude for the caring souls who remind me about self-care. Exchanging our stories, we remind one another that we are not alone in this tumultuous era of unknown duration. Musing in his written thoughts, Pascal wondered why we put much more emphasis upon past and future- both of which we cannot control- and neglect the dynamism of the present which we can influence.

A few weeks ago, thanks to the two substitutes I recruited and trained, along with an extraordinarily supportive associate, I was able to take a string of days off for the first time in nearly a year. Another set of logistics providentially materializing was being able to be at the Weston Priory- my longtime favorite place of retreat. As with everything, the pandemic forced the Benedictine brothers to indefinitely suspend their usual accessibility to retreatants. I hadn’t been able to make a pilgrimage there in five years. We kept in touch via e-mail, but surely it’s nothing qualitatively close to the community experience. The welcome I received was all the more heartwarming, adding new strata to all that is familiar and endearing. Weston was the best place I could have gone, to try resuscitating and regrounding in a profoundly familiar environment. Naturally, everyone I spoke with had perspectives to share about the past five years. I heard about how the State of Vermont practically closed down during quarantining, and how damaging this was for their tourism seasons. I described how Maine had this, too, though not as devastating as in Vermont. Visually, the impact is apparent, seeing many empty commercial spaces, on top of aftermath evidence from last year’s major flooding in the Weston region. I heard about and saw setbacks countered by resourceful perseverance.

It was great to have been able to step back and to be among longtime friends, with the common threads of spiritual nourishment. Mutual recognition is especially something to cherish, having seen dozens upon dozens of my local friends leave southern Maine due to economics and gentrification. In varying manifestations, we’re all survivors. Indeed, notwithstanding the remoteness of central Vermont, the recent national election’s intensity was obvious. We all seemed to want to talk through our trepidations. Walking along the County Road with the brothers, while beginning to catch up with each other, I asked Brother Elias: “What are we going to do now?” Not surprisingly, he gave me the best and most monastic reply, “We remain faithful.” As I’ve been doing since my first pilgrimage to Weston Priory, in 1994, I still take notes during homilies. In fact, it was at Weston that I really began journaling, intent upon preserving the astonishingly lifegiving reflections I was hearing. It is all the more essential to exemplify being lights in the darkness, thus flourishing in the desert. Good words and reminders of promising horizons continue to be kept close to heart. My studies in philosophy, along with writing and creative expression, are examples of cultivating inspiration for application in the wilderness of this era. Dark times especially need torchbearers, those who nurture and convey light for the present and future.

fragments

“Truth comes from things, and our senses uncover it there...
There is no body, however small that cannot be broken up into countless parts.
But to know that any given body is multiple,
I must already have the notion of unity before I perceive it.
Neither bodies nor the senses can give me such an idea.
We cannot expect to find beneath reason
the source of the truths apprehended by reason.”

~ Etienne Gilson, The Christian Philosophy of Saint Augustine, p.16

1

Evidently, we’re informed by commentators that on the average, each of us processes about 55 gigabytes of data on a daily basis. Some reports refer to 74 gigabytes, others mention 8200 words, per day. We can barely imagine the equivalent in photo images. Ironically, the information is conveyed to us via digital media platforms. And those informational morsels are among hundreds of millions of terrabytes which are generated every day. That’s a daunting amount of rapid-fire fragments through which to navigate. Our days do not grow in their duration. When it comes to academic research, I’ve observed how the additive aspects of manual source-gathering gave way to the subtractive aspects of sharding away digital abundance- all to hopefully arrive at the substantial. Focus has become a disciplined effort in itself- nearly impossible for many.

But there can surely be fascination in a nurturing wholeness made of intricate fragments. Complex ideas and projects incorporate mosaics of modules. Getting away from the artifice that dominates our world of lit screens, I’m making sure to savour the season’s faceted colors. The chilled air is much more to my liking, and the autumn foliage strikes great contrasts against greying skies and ground. With enough wind gusts, leaves take flight as airborne confetti, serving as three-dimensional distractions from shrill newsfeeds. Spectra, from pale yellow to velvet red, change within the day in their intensities and textures. These fragments serve as time increments.

2

Shuffling through both newly-fallen and dry leaves up the street to the bus stop, all the more, fragments are the stuff of my work days. The driest and most embrittled foliage crackle as crumpled papers under pedestrians’ feet, and the sounds remain in mind while reading en route to the job. Archival collections are sums-of-parts, structured hierarchically into groupings and subgroupings- referred to as series. I’ve occasionally organized highly complex collections into sub-sub-subseries- as the substance, formats, and sources of the records warrant. The basis for arrangement may be how the documents and manuscripts were initially made and configured. Otherwise, this must be ascertained through analysis, understanding both sources and uses of the materials. Inevitably, the fragments are to be sensibly and consistently laid out and listed so each “branch” and “leaf” can be easily found for future uses. During early stages of configuration- especially with large and disparate documentation- critical sifting, research, and “boiling-down” must be done (archivists call this appraisal) to advance what emerges from the heaps into cohesive series and subseries. When it comes to making sense of thousands (sometimes exponentially more) of fragmented components, and interpreting them as needed, we use terms such as establishing order over the archives.

My discoveries occasionally reveal how documents were inventively brought together by their creators.

Applying such principles and their many practical derivatives, my thoughts turn to how Scholastic philosophers considered “order” as an indication for understanding divinity. Comprehending creation and knowledge may not be the same as arranging and describing archives, but the spirit is not far away. Generating compendia and indices for the sharing of information do connect philosophy and curation. In the analyses, I get to see how people value what they’ve produced, and how institutions structure (or don’t structure) themselves.

These items may not look alike, but they are part of a unified subseries.

3

“Everything is in everything, and partitions are only possible by abstractions,” wrote the French Dominican philosopher Antonin-Gilbert Sertillanges in The Intellectual Life. Vaster and more complex than archival groupings are the pieces and thoughts of our days and years. Woven among physical formats that comprise pictures, words, and artifacts- are those of sense and recollection. Wafting leaves and their propelling air currents amount to a unity of form and counterform. Life fragments are in our midst, and buoyant. Like curators and readers, we can choose to comprehend our findings. Our accessions, random and scattered as they are, require our reckoning and processing, in our pursuits of understanding. Persevering intact through turbulent times demands more than continuity. One must have the metaphorical “ears to hear,” to prevent from becoming insensitive. Our unique individual contexts join together our experiential fragments. As we cultivate instincts and perspectives, our contexts become more discernible to us. Pondering these things on a day off, attending a church service, the liturgical sequence brought to mind collated fragments reverently brought together as commemoration and observance. Each portion held holy, but all in cohesive union. And my walked paces amidst the hues of autumn fragments continued through narthex, nave, and sanctuary- returning again albeit transformed to the outdoors.

forbearance

“The soul generates, nourishes, and increases:
generates as regards essence, nourishes as regards quality,
and increases as regards quantity.
By the sensitive power it apprehends sensible things,
retains what it has apprehended, combines and divides
what it has retained.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, The Breviloquium, ch. 9

Despite countless task-saving conveniences, we’re all navigating increasingly demanding paths. And it seems the manual projects and chores are made easier than before; the ramped-up, harder efforts involve the mind. Logistics and time-management require constantly adaptive abilities to rearrange priorities, even sharding away excesses. When it comes to intellectual and spiritual matters, the challenges of self-discipline only intensify.

The recent decade attests to a continuous barrage of violence, conflict, pandemic, recession, displacement, disaster, and fractiousness. That short list encompasses the daily experience for too many, enough to overwhelm. Much as the horrific school shootings of 25 years ago prompted sociologists and officials to finally regard bullying as something to take seriously (and as a badly-bullied adolescent, I remember the commonplace dismissiveness too well), current studies are informing us about how anxious and worried we are. As if we needed to be reminded. A new study ties rampant anxiety with equally rampant obsessions with smartphones- particularly among teens. I interpret this, in a broader generational sense, as being swept into ubiquitous, sensationalized, and constant newsmedia feeds tapped into by all our networked devices. Evidently, we need to know, during all our waking moments. I’ve had to create my own version of the proverbial ten-foot-pole, tempering my connectivity, reminding myself to get outdoors and experience life first-hand. Despite the cautious vigilance, I’m also amidst the pressure to be confident in hopeless surroundings. Trust and worry stand in opposition to each other. Many among the faithful commonly profess that we should not worry, as most of us do what we can to restrain ourselves. But is faith enough, and is that all I’ve got? Apparently, a mustard seed’s worth suffices.

I heard a preacher say that life is 10% what happens to you, and 90% what you do about it. We may propose, but very few of us can even begin to dispose. With my granule of gumption, there are learned instincts to help me contend with obstacles. If anything, there is the cultivated skill of noting the limits- whether they are related to economics, practical logistics, or the behaviors of others. The discretionary tacks between forcing back the constrictions and steering around the incorrigibles. Unraveling the implications emanating from trust, my thoughts bring me to the healthful version of surrender. Parallel to persistently believing in finding better situations to fulfill what I’ve been built to accomplish, I’m also aware of immovable barriers. Thus I return to the vitality of trust- albeit in clouds of unknowing- all of which amounts to perseverance.

Perseverance needs a purpose. For what, or whose sake, do we persist with our efforts? Perhaps it’s to gain respect, or peace of mind, or to make an impression; perhaps it’s the fight-or-flight impulse to survive. Many among us are naturally competitive, driven to exceed, hoping to improve our situations. As with that “ninety percent” of the preacher’s comment, hardship can pry forth our ambitions. Beyond motivations to survive with strength, work, and housing- is to be convinced there is tangible cause for hope. Josemaría Escrivá, whose books have been mainstays in my daily bus commutes for two years, helps right my ship with his exhortations about living for the causes of service to others and devotion to God. “Think of nothing but of divine compassion,” he advised in The Forge, instructing preference for the pursuit of a life of generosity, over and above fear. “The immediate future is full of worries, if we stop seeing things in a supernatural way,” Escrivá added. Worry and anxiety can be motivators as much as detriments, though both are inevitably exhausting.

While responding to audience questions after a recent lecture, someone asked me “where do you get all that energy?” Not entirely a technical or theoretical question, I heard myself say something like, “There’s a lot that still needs to be done!” Creating archives often borrows the metaphor of bringing out sculptures that are within large stone blocks. Preservation and access resemble the nurture and promotion of a botanical garden. Very simply put, the energy comes from caring, and my forbearance incorporates stewardship and vision. Commitment to the profession’s many aspects is supremely important, wherever I’m working- and my hope is to continue improving. Many thoughts- perhaps too many- while working and seeking better work, have to do with the concept of “success.” How have definitions of success changed in the past decade (or two)? For whom is success necessary? Impressing my elders- whether parents, grandparents, or teachers- always meant a great deal; impressing friends was less of a priority, but impressing managers and prospective employers has been a longstanding matter of anxiety. Is sufficient the same as success? Having endured two layoffs in my working life, along with forbearance-testing threats and economic conditions, anxiety has long been tied to fears of the impending. Or perhaps not impending! That sort of tension can be formidable, as though a solid barrier. Years and years of trying, and very rarely succeeding, lend too easily to discouragement which must not obstruct a good future. Remembering what I heard myself say to that audience a couple of weeks ago, essentially in light of things and in spite of things, I have to just keep productively working. One who surely knew a rough life of fits-and-starts, Paul taught those in his midst- as well as his later readers- to insist upon gratitude and graciousness, and to “ let your forbearing spirit be known among all.” Fully agreeing with St. Bonaventure as quoted above, the soul must be nourished in order to be renewed and encouraging to others. Carefully-selected studies fuel my forbearance abilities, amounting to the most critical of life skills.

tranquility

“St. Augustine’s language is rich and colorful,
but often lacking in precision. His was not a didactic mind,
and preoccupations of scientific methodology
were foreign to his outlook.
He wrote giving free reign to his thought.”

~ Maurice de Wulf, History of Medieval Philosophy, vol. 1, ch. 38

Maybe we have it in common that for a long time people have been telling you not to work too hard. Perhaps you’ve also regularly shrugged it off, when those around you tell you to get rest, slow down, and- perish the thought- “don’t worry so much.” And my habitual dismissiveness is automatic and reflexive, similar to waving off a gnat. But suddenly, between strings of tasks and obligations, fatigue brings all those friendly observations to mind. During those pauses, it becomes evident how slowing-down can be daunting. Striving and reaching for a day off, the result is a kind of reverse-inertia: instead of efforts to get moving, it takes focused intention to be able to stop. Within the pausing are detectable elements of fear, especially as the distractions are insistently pared away. Perhaps “don’t work too hard” can be recast as “make sure you listen to your thoughts.”

Even as we cordon off our privacies- and especially so- there remains a universal need for healthful silence. This is to say settling those thoughts, and doing so without things purporting to be “smart” devices. It can be disarming, but I’ve found it to be worthwhile. The observation of contrasts serves as a good teacher, and in this case the classroom is aboard public transit. I saw the positive side of things during subway rides on the day of a downtown festival. Boarding an early Red Line, as usual with a book, the size of the crowd was noticeable. What was even more striking to me were the sounds of jovial chatting and laughter on the trains. Instead of siloed phone-fiddling, most of the riders were animatedly facing one another, many using their phones to take pictures. I really enjoyed seeing this. At my own destination, atop the Boston Athenaeum, I savoured both the celebratory commotion I witnessed earlier, along with the quiet of wafting treetops at terrace level. Reading and writing material in front of me, I still know to look around and just listen to my thoughts.

Nobody will dare us to be idle; we have to be self-aware enough to find opportunities around the busyness for tranquility. Finding opportunities means somehow finding parcels of time and making space. All too rare! But, essentially, the proliferation of resorts and spas demonstrates how so many crave some sort of therapeutic downtime- albeit at high costs. Valuable as stillness is, there needn’t be great expense to pause and reflect.

Being able to unplug the stimuli and simply air my thoughts allows me to perceive with a wider perspective. Before the pandemic, for many years I regularly made pilgrimage retreats, often twice a year. With the combination of compounded work commitments, being on a diminished staff, and various communities’ lodging limitations, I’ve had to be especially resourceful- sometimes succeeding to briefly get away to peaceful and contemplative surroundings. For the most part, aside from a few hours on a weekend, time to simply abide (as differentiated from the more active aspects of journaling my thoughts) happens between lines of reflective reading during my workday commutes. As philosophical historians go, de Wulf (quoted above) was much less admiring of Saint Augustine than Copleston. Well, I prefer Copleston- both as writer and historian. Admittedly, my own thinking is also much more speculative and metaphysical, and less mathematical. And I’ve never found Augustine to be “lacking in precision.” But I’ve still enjoyed de Wulf’s works nonetheless, and really relished his criticism of the great North African philosopher saint: “He wrote giving free reign to his thought.” This is indeed as the motto posted at the Maine Turnpike entrance affirms, “The Way Life Should Be.” Speaking for myself, I wouldn’t bother writing if I couldn’t give free reign to my thoughts!

I like to remind my philosophy students that we converge at the meeting-point of the ideal and the visible world, which is to say the conceptual and the physical. But in philosophy the ideal is solid in its own right. Giving free reign to our thoughts allows for understanding to accompany our perceptions. Let ideals be practical, even if simply in our musings. There’s more than enough to limit our aspirations; it’s for the individual to choose contemplative ways. Release the margins, as possible, and muse. Simply being is not so simple, as our scattered thoughts can over-occupy us, and need to be somehow directed. In his Breviloquium, Bonaventure described human capacity as “born to magnificently grasp great and numerous ideas.” With inspiration, grasp means we can calm them, too. Healthful silence serves to nourish, but we must each know to make the kind of space which is both physical and metaphorical. The Psalmist articulated the wish for a fully renewed heart and spirit. And the heart, Saint Gregory observed in the Philokalia, is the “shrine and chief intellectual organ of the body.” Not only can learning can reach our depths, in contemplative stillness, but as well our yearnings become most evident to us. “Less is more” surely has a spiritual application- if anything, as time and space fillers get cleared away in favor of unstructured attentiveness.

past and future

“How can the past and future be,
when the past no longer is,
and the future is not yet?
As for the present, if it were always present
and never moved on to become the past,
it would not be time, but eternity.”

~ Saint Augustine, Confessions, Book 11

The unrelenting marathon of professional life finds some redemption in the complexities of service and curatorial projects. Indeed, preferring productive and supportive work, I’m not in this for the palace intrigues or the ladder rungs. The prize at the unknown opening of the maze must lead to something much better. And the route has to tunnel beneath the careful consistency of relational and physical accomplishments. Holding firmly to my ethic of “bloom where you’re planted,” in addition to managing and facilitating a full-service department single-handedly, there is no shortage of projects. Just as well, the satisfaction in producing successions of positive results serves as both motivator and sanity factor. Josemaría Escrivá famously said that vocation is the greatest gift of grace, and a vocation surely has many related facets. I still strongly believe in the work I’m doing, bringing out unique archival materials that inform many- including me. In order to generate effective and accurate metadata, varying degrees of thoughtful analysis are needed- from basic verification, to skimming, to comparative reading. All the while, there’s always an eye on time-efficiency.

A project I pulled to the fore, amidst my complete overhaul of the archives I’ve most recently created (having set up archives throughout the State, over the years) is a large array of rare, local serial collections. As much as researchers love them, the service end of things is replete with indifference about newspapers and periodicals. I happen to really enjoy the writing styles and advertising graphics of eras past. To me, the materials are captivating- essentially history in real time. For each time I bring out digitized ephemera, I hear from grateful audiences who devour the contents. And with the researchers, I’m fascinated to see what was, leafing up to later dates, then back to earlier years and decades. Through all my inventorying and indexing, I’m better able to connect people with information. And it happens. About two months ago, I sought out and processed a unique run of a cultural periodical, printed on newsprint, from the 1970s. It had been locally warehoused. Shortly afterwards, a visiting researcher asked whether I knew of that exact title, as she and her mother had both published in it. Bringing out the alkaline boxes of flattened papers, my guest was elated. This sort of serendipity is not uncommon. I can merely glance heavenwards, wink, and keep up the good work (and the good instincts).

While in the throes of sifting and sorting piles of antique newspapers which had been migrated from one library building’s attic to another’s basement, I found several items that I knew would fit perfectly in another city’s archives. It so happens I had created their archives more than twenty years ago, and remember their contents very well. Eager to deliver the gems, I carefully reinforced the 19th century broadsheets in a portfolio, and made a daytrip of my errand. En route, it occurred to me that while I had maintained some contact with that particular library, I hadn’t been inside the place in a long time. A life of continuous, hard work leaves very thin margins for respite. Trying to offset exhaustion with journaling and unstructured Sundays have provided ways to continue puddle-jumping, refraining from looking too far. Indeed, I brought the historic items to grateful recipients I’d never met before, in a building I hadn’t visited in twenty-three years. The place still looked the same, and it was heartening to see the calligraphed sign still displayed which I had made for them back in 2000. The last time I’d been in the place, I had completed major projects; it was shortly after my completion of graduate school. This time, I crossed their threshold after having achieved and endured numerous professional scenarios and challenges. My impression of this brief visit wasn’t an experience I expected- at the same time both strange and familiar. After quietly leaving the building, I walked to a nearby church to reflect, knowing the doors were open.

Again, I thought of Escrivá’s words- whose books I’ve known only in recent years- and how he told his readers to ask themselves who they sought when they approached the Sacrament. He said, “Are you seeking yourself, or are you seeking God?” That hour of contemplative intention, immediately following my strange visit with a past place of employment, was just the right instinctual balance. As much as archival work serves here-and-now access, and conservation for future use, the interpreting of raw material magnetizes our compasses toward the past. This week’s projects send me back to earlier projects in earlier places quite easily. All the jobs we’ve had, with our schools, communities, our various adventures dotting our timelines- good and bad- illustrate each of our personal histories. These stages along our pilgrimages form our perspectives. An individual is essentially a living time-capsule, replete with ethereal archives. Life and art mirroring each other amidst my wakeful hours, I wonder at the human version of deaccession and preservation. Tireless work makes for tireless thinking about work, especially all the pending projects. Insomnia tangles with my strategizing of the department I manage, and that slides into when I report to work, so that I can implement the ideas. And with my cultivated and critical senses and skills, the work always gets done.

Integral to the processing of historic serials is their preparation for longterm storage, retrieval, and future digitization. I’ve been doing all of these things, including a lot of the scanning, after flattening and even very gently repairing torn newsprint. No matter how disciplined my adherence to tasks-at-hand, it’s impossible to avoid reading from my discoveries. Indeed, the more informed I am of the content, the better my analyses for researchers’ queries. And, admittedly, the narratives and illustrations of bygone eras- be it the 1990s or the 1790s- are compelling in their vocabularies. Newspapers, in particular, are frozen moments with commentary. The paper strata themselves have distinctive stories, in their very ingredients and manufacturing. Handling and reading really go together.

There are embossed textures in pre-1840 cotton rag content paper, retaining an impressive amount of strength. Latter 19th and early 20th century newspapers were largely very cheaply made, using bleached wood pulp, resulting in thin and highly acidic surfaces. Depending upon how the paper has been stored, I’ve seen darkening that has the appearance of having been burnt. Scanning this type of material saves the content. Rewrapping the deteriorated pages, with enormous care, the telltale rattling sound attests to the papers’ embrittlement. The other day, while checking my work, it occurred to me how a computer screen can give digitized, antiquated text a similar look to present-day electronic text. Past and present become easily juxtaposed this way, but the genuine article has the intrinsic aspects of authenticity. Artifacts carry memorable content, but also the physical objects also have memory. Among my regular patrons is a researcher who writes about religious communities and biographies. Having just flattened, repaired, boxed, and inventoried a run of regional newspapers beginning in 1822, I brought him several early issues as a sampling for perusal. He was clearly impressed and inspired, spontaneously reading various paragraphs to me, from the cotton-based 200 year-old newspaper, in surprisingly good condition. We took turns reading to each other, talking about what we read as archaisms. A moment worth remembering in the life of doing this work. This fellow was astonished at how close these unique papers were to being discarded. Past is pulled to present, and projected ahead to future endeavors, in the search for knowledge and context.