part of the furniture

“Consider yourself at home.
Consider yourself one of the family.
We've taken to you so strong.
It's clear we're going to get along.

Consider yourself well in
Consider yourself part of the furniture.
There isn't a lot to spare.
Who cares?..What ever we've got we share!”

~ Lionel Bart, Consider Yourself (from the musical, Oliver!)

Portland, Maine has never been a large city. It’s really more a town with neighborhoods around a diminishing center, than a metropolis. Portland has been enduring an eviscerating past several decades. What postwar “urban renewal” and shopping centers did not dislodge, the covid pandemic era and hypergentrification scattered to the winds. The longer any resident has been here, the more they’ve witnessed departures of cultural fixture businesses and community hubs. A few successors have cropped up, but most of the spaces gave way to elite housing and hotels. One of the most heartening recent stories of its kind was the purchase of Portland’s 61-year-old doughnut and pastry bakery by its principal baker who has joyfully kept it the same lovable place. Public elation around the continuity of Tony’s Donuts has been palpable. Last month, downtown Portland lost its longest-running store: the 94-year-old Joe Wigon Office Supplies, and there was no successor to lead the business. Perhaps stationery and office materials may not have the present-day demand that doughnuts and crullers have. Indeed, the latter cannot be easily bought online. Economics and retail trends notwithstanding, a beloved downtown fixture is now gone and already missed by many. The business started by Joe Wigon in 1932 was owned and managed by his daughter Sally Wigon from 1951 until this month. At age 106, Sally decided to retire, and on a high note: she perceptively and generously gave her remaining inventory to teachers for their classrooms. All they had to do was show up, and they did. I walked to the store to express my thanks and best wishes- as many others did- alongside teachers with canvas totes and carts for their acquisitions.

Sally was really one of the furniture in this small city, cherished by her customers and neighbors. Her business outlasted the much larger and competing nearby Loring, Short, and Harmon store on Monument Square. The latter was dethroned by suburban big-box suppliers, while Sally held her own. A customer could walk into her shop and buy one pencil, or one folder, not to mention a dozen office chairs- if that’s what was needed. Cases and reams were also fine. An errand to Wigon Office Supplies was an occasion for a conversational visit. The shop was cash-only; no credit cards and no electronics. Sally did all the math with pencil on the paper bag, and handwrote the receipt. Instead of a cash register, the store had a large antique console with a large button on the countertop that released a heavy drawer for the transactions. As old-fashioned general stores did, Sally or an assistant asked you for what you needed, and they would weave the aisles to find the material, after which all would be settled up at that bulky counter that resembled a safe. Requests and searches frequently turned into chats about stationery. A rarity today. And the more you’d shop there, the more Sally got to know you and what you do. Trading grateful Sally Wigon stories with fellow customers, I realized I had a few of my own. Sally was my source for typewriter ribbons. On one occasion, realizing I was short on cash, Sally assured me with “Just take it with you, and you can pay me later, dear.” I most certainly did. A frequent suggestion of hers was “Save your spools!” -reminding me that I needed to move the new ribbon that was on a generic spool onto the two that fit my Olivetti. Two doors away from her shop is the very hip Arabica Café, and they love Sally. I only recently heard that the Maine College of Art Library insisted on buying from Sally. Lots of people did, and I knew that.

Above, left: My production board, from Sally Wigon.
I used tape to make the grid.

Sally knew her regulars, and was a great listener, eventually knowing a lot about a lot of us. When I began my graduate school odyssey, which lasted nearly four years of working multiple jobs while shuttling between Portland and Boston, I knew enough to keep very careful notes about all my projects. During a workday in Portland, I noticed my all-important notebook was missing. Anxiously retracing all the steps and stops I could recall, I needed to get back to work to finish my day’s obligations- in panicked and frustrated defeat. Returning to the workplace, there was a message to Call Sally Wigon. I didn't know she knew where I worked! Maybe I had ordered something? When I returned her message, she sweetly said, “Your notebook is here; I bet you’re looking for this. Come on over before five.” I excused myself from work for one more errand, sprinting up from York Street to Free Street on my bicycle. To my elation there was my notebook, worth its weight in gold, on the counter at Wigon’s. Sally handed the well-used treasure to me, along with the gift of a brand new dry-erase whiteboard with accompanying markers she taped to the shrink wrap. “I think you can use this,” Sally said, “to help keep things organized. You can hang this on the wall.” I used that board as an assignment scheduler all through my Masters projects, including a book I wrote amidst those years. After I graduated, I gave the board to another student. I have a good idea that Sally helped numerous people in that same spirit.

Above: Fellowes folding study stand.
Below: Papermates, and the pen is still running with a Papermate refill.

More recently, and right up to this year, Wigon Office Supplies was my source for folding study-stands. I'd give them as gifts to my student representatives in my Philosophy classes, and used those book stands for my own research sojourns. Sally typically had these in her window displays. Wigon's was also my go-to for things called "thimblettes," which I'd buy for my archives volunteers, who would use these rubberized finger caps for counting and sorting index cards. I even gave some of these to a supermarket cashier I often saw struggling with tightly-layered paper money. And true to form, customers could buy as many or few as they wished. Sally kept many things in stock that few others had anymore. Her shop was also my source for Parker "Quink" fountain pen ink, and Papermate pens and refills. At work, I'm still using those high-mileage metal refills in those rugged, American-made Papermates. The mechanical pencils use 0.9 graphite. These sorts of things still need to be made, as the tools themselves are as durable as their proliferation. During her final week of business, along many other well-wishers, a few journalists, and teachers who were gratefully stocking up, I stopped in a few times for my greetings and gratitudes. And lingering from this little city will be memories of Wigon's to parallel New Yorkers' memories of places such as Kroll's, Pinsky's, and Bostonians' memories of Pad&Pen, Black Ink, and Bromfield's. I’ve surely saved my typewriter ribbon spools, following Sally’s wise advice.

basic and grounded

“We should never lose a certain nostalgia
for the desert. If we have nostalgia for the desert,
we’ll be safe in the market place.”

~ Basil Hume, “To Be a Pilgrim : a Spiritual Notebook.”

Just the other day, I made a routine purchase of a grocery item at a nearby convenience store. Because the business is in my neighborhood, the cashier and I recognized each other. This time, beyond the usual pleasantries, I received the sales pitch for a corporate affinity program, requiring my phone number to set me on a track of unknown purchases en route to an unknown amount of additional purchase benefits. Many of you surely know the routine. “All we need is your number, and you won’t get any calls; it just takes a second.” Not wanting to discourage a neighbor, through my hesitation I dutifully responded. While heading for the exit, hearing the next customer get the same sales pitch, and also hearing my phone buzzing with multiple texts from the convenience store’s corporation for some sort of confirmation, I resistantly deleted the texts and blocked their number. So there. Too many exploiters enrolling too many sets of statistics into their schemes. Neither would I have gone looking for this, nor would I have rung up enough purchases to earn a pittance.

While running my errands, trying to support local businesses, I’m noticing more cash purchases and occasional incentives- such as eateries that offer discounts for those paying with actual currency. Apparently, there are others who like to keep things simple and immediate. Indeed, being a person of words and observations, my thoughts turned to representing simpler forms of dealing with this world. At every hand, including the devices in our hands, there’s much more than enough to convolute time. And attention. The more perceptive among us determine our own boundaries, and even our own “detection systems.” I’ve visited a few places of worship that pipe in streamed music, lest anyone experience a scintilla of silence. In response, I’ve tactfully walked out, getting away from distrust, and preferring the openness of the outdoors. Imagine having to decompress from what purports to be contemplative! Subtle, profound “pushback” is to cultivate simple faith. Keep things uncomplicated and unfettered; along with that, continue observing and noticing.

Catching up with a colleague, I got us a table, and while waiting for him I very naturally pencilled some thoughts in my journal. By the time he arrived, I was already sketching out this essay’s theme. Pencil still in hand, I asked my friend for his definition of simplicity, to which he replied: calm, low-anxiety, and without pressure. Such fascinating responses! He works with people all day, at a position resembling social work. How would an artist define simplicity? Or a tech engineer? Or a housebuilder? How about a summer camp director? Those of us that have read Thoreau’s Walden can recall his theme of simplifying his life was essential to his purpose of better understanding his world. His experiment of living in the woods permitted him to pare away complications, writing his thoughts for later reference- including ours. A key to remaining grounded, albeit on shifting sands, is to appreciate and articulate what is good- insisting upon this and things that are consoling. If possible, savour the tasks and interactions.

In his book, To be a Pilgrim, the Benedictine prelate Basil Hume wrote about the vitality of maintaining a “nostalgia for the desert.” A great metaphor penned by a monastic thinker. “The desert” is not limited to imagery of arid expanses of sands in hot climates. A desert symbolizes a crucible, a void, a circumstance of severe trial. It can manifest as displacement, as absence, There may be a planned and brief duration, or the desert may be indefinite. I think the latter evades the concept of nostalgia. I’d say that an awareness of deserted places and situations can give an individual a first-hand sense of what desolation is like, so as not to be full-of-oneself to the point of selfishness. Calling to memory the more pleasant times of solitude, such as reflective retreats, carry the connotation of nostalgia, positively diverting thought patterns. Strategies to thrive respectfully amidst difficulties, such as in oppressive places of work, put survival skills to the test. What did we all learn from deserted places, and what carries us through deserted places? There are surely individuals we’ve known that continue motivating us, even in their absence. Some of them can still make us laugh. I remember an inspiring neighbor, a Jesuit pastor, who taught me about the word “sincere.” The Latin sincerus has as its root sine cera, which is to say “unwaxed,” or “unvarnished.” Indeed, sincerity is parallel to honesty and being truthful, simply unvarnished, and without any false veneer. The search for meaningful and sustaining opportunities navigates a cruel and undefined desert. Many give up along the trudge, and still more chafe, out of position and underutilized. Perseverance demands a nostalgia for the better aspects of the desert, ever in readiness for what has been impossible to provoke.

spirited words

“This luminous and excellent Power
operates upon the humble and thankful Acceptor,
so as to open an Understanding of what he reads,
both in Scripture and other experimental Writings,
often giving him to feel that concerning which he reads,
and rendering it of improving Effect to him.
But he who rejects the Means, can never attain the End.”

~ Joseph Phipps [Quaker],
The Original and Present State of Man, Briefly Considered... (p.51)

civilization

“We’re all mystics. That’s no observation.
It’s a demand placed on life.
No human being ought merely to spend the day...
For everyone, there ought to be places of free intentionality
where vision can happen...
The sentence, ‘we’re all mystics,’ contains in itself
the right of every human being to have beauty and vision.”

~ Dorothee Sölle, The Silent Cry: Mysticism and Resistance.

Unless you’ve been living an extremely uncommon worklife, you’ve surely come to know the perfunctory dysfunction that wafts through typical company meetings. Stiff and rarely efficiently or engagingly led, such experiences bring back indelible memories of school lunchrooms during adolescence. In some foundational ways, the sights, sounds, smells, and basic dynamics of the cavernous cafeteria in New York City’s Intermediate School Number 61 introduced me to what I’ve frequently encountered throughout professional life so far. Obviously, the cast of characters changes, but the patterns and archetypes became identifiable among cliques, rival gangs, bullies ringleaders, quiet followers, fighters, quitters, smirkers, comedians, caring personalities, rebels, competitors, self-destructives, arbiters of cool, and dreamers. Where I grew up, within the city, my friends and I would band together for safety- both physical and psychological. And we all either graduated or somehow transitioned out of these institutions. I saw all these types in summer camp, too, and surely thereafter in workplaces. Having been viciously bullied (always the youngest and easiest target), I’ve mused over the years about what those relentlessly malicious kids became in their adult lives. Age doesn’t automatically cure bullying. I know this. Did they wind up criminals? Politicians? Corporate executives? Maybe some repented of their cruelties? I guess it’s not for me to know. Inevitably, we all have to live with ourselves.

For the bulk of his career, my father worked as a principal in a major accounting firm with offices around the world. He was very well-liked and respected. As a kid, I couldn’t distinguish between his colleagues and his staff, seeing how collegial he was with everyone. I was deeply impressed by his egalitarianism, and I try to apply that as I’m able. Another trait I’ve inherited is Dad’s distaste for purposeless and protracted meetings. He used to tell me that “meetings are the most unproductive thing you can inflict on others.” I remember he had a wide ballpoint pen that had a digital clock built into the barrel- kind of a novelty. He called it his “meeting pen.” When he absolutely had to call a meeting, he kept them short, and would begin by apologizing to all present, while pointing to that pen-clock he’d perch on the conference table with, “Don’t worry; I’m watching the time.” He told me all of this, when I was about 16. Everyone, including me, found him inspiring and inevitably a leader worth following.

But that’s an exception to the usual. I’m among the too-many that know the ritual all too well: obsolete, aimless, self-congratulatory (reminiscent of the plights of Reginald Perrin of BBC fame), and anything memorable would be due to its egregiousness. In my supervisory roles, I copied something I’d picked up from a manager I had in a fast-paced photo lab. With a thick Boston accent, he’d say, “Keep talking with each othah, and do good work.” My version of that has been, “If we keep lines of communication open, we won’t need meetings.” This really works. I refer to how we innately wish to accomplish. And paths of least annoyance comprise brevity, purpose, the absence of jargon, and not forcing others to provide their “fun facts.” In my teaching capacity, I’ve developed the expression, “invited, but not obliged.” If there must be guiding attributes, let them be mutuality and informativeness. We do, after all, have work to do.

Workplaces that are also places of public service have to balance two general spheres: one is insular among staff, and the other is outward-facing toward recipients (customers). Distinct communities, with their respective, complex dynamics. Then there’s an off-duty life that occasionally sees the social circles converge. Admittedly, I’m hardly an exemplar, neither do I have any formulae, yet I attempt at consistency in all efforts. Among proving-grounds is the small city of the majority of my adult life, which includes a number of denizens that studied a variety of subjects with me, along with receiving research help from me, attended religious services I’ve led, and dined on pastries I’ve baked. And all have heard me cite “do unto others,” and the rest of the Golden Rule.

This G.E. Superadio has been with me since I was 19, pulling in broadcasts through concrete walls and steel structures.

In this world that encompasses the brutish culture through which many of us must navigate, I think a lot about civility and the disappearance of decorum. In my public-facing department at work, my portable radio is tuned to the region’s classical music station- at a subtly low volume. It keeps me company, and patrons tell me they like what they hear. There are even comments about the object itself: “Is that a real radio?” Collectors acknowledge that it’s a G.E. Superadio. I’ve mentioned how I’ve owned the radio since college, that it’s been with me, as accompaniment, in numerous art studios, archives, and apartments. Among my several, smaller radios is one that regularly travels with me. Even the nice hotels have ceased adorning rooms with anything other than large shrill flatscreen advertisement-players. And thus I bring my own version of civilization along with me. There are always public radio affiliates and soothing music for my listening. And I always bring my own coffee mug.

Productivity for the ages; careful and fast.
Radio in background; coffee thermos at lower right corner.

Maybe you have your own practices, determining your acceptable and portable civility, as you move through this world. As well, you might also carry various elements of your civilization with you. There are, indeed, the essentials of a workday, a schoolday, or an excursion: keys, phone (within which there may be some of your digital civilization), wallet, journal, laptop, et cetera. Don’t forget that elusive charging cable. It gets more complex with longer sojourns. In my example, the ubiquitous satchel includes extra writing materials, hand wipes, camera, granola bar, peppermints, rosary, and something to read on buses and trains. If a suitcase is involved, there’s a radio in it. And what about those aforementioned meetings? A memo pad and a pencil; ideas are hatching all the time, and I need to hold those thoughts for later elaboration. Time, precious as it is, needs to accommodate productive musing.

holding fast

“Refuse to let the world corrupt you.”

~ James 1:27

1

“How in the world are you?” Dr. Robert A. Cook would say at the start of each one of his radio observations. Well, it takes an increasingly concerted effort to healthfully persevere, while remaining unfettered by ubiquitous and shrill newsmedia. One thing within my control is a proverbial off switch. It’s not easy, but it’s possible to be fairly informed while staying unfettered by the world. As “influencing” replaces reporting, so editorialists comment with declaratives about one another, instead of treating the topics of the times. For those that engage the challenge of stepping back or looking up from news feeds, how do we perceive the issues of the day manifesting albeit without social media infiltrating our thoughts? What is perceptible when our invasive devices are shut off? What remains for us to read in a reputable newspaper (assuming you can find one) that publishes multiple viewpoints, or hear from individuals in our municipalities, workplaces, on public transit? There’s inflation and intolerance; conflict and the narrowing of opportunities- all to be seen and heard, without overdramatized chat-shows to fuel anxieties and tell us what we apparently need. Alas, such things are one-way streets, preventing us from informing the tanned and toned actors about what they need. No doubt, there’s plenty to bring all of us down, but staying down doesn’t look advisable.

2

Pausing to think and write, the reminder arises that I mustn’t let the cultures of my living and working to reduce my universe into something small-minded. It is imperative to keep finding ways to spiritually push back. Thus, my questioning turns to my typically quixotic nature, wondering whether I still have a future worth my struggles. As a prompt for a recent journaling workshop I taught, my question to the class was to make a list of questions that burn holes through your thoughts- even waking you up at night. I dare say that most of us have at least a few. The list you make can join your own growing stock of self-made journaling prompts. What kind of future may I dare to expect? I’ve thought about this since childhood. But today we’re all forced to confront a hypersensitive and perfectionist world asserting that anyone exceeding thirty-five years of age is too irrelevant to be a valuable worker. Eventually, everyone will have to lean into that howling headwind and persevere while being extraordinarily productive and, would you believe it, relevant. Is there still a chance for life to improve?

The other day, while writing at a café on Boston’s Newbury Street, I saw many burgeoning graduates carrying their commencement caps and gowns- calling to mind how we all get some version of a ceremonial graduation speech to the effect of having a bright future ahead. Does that have an expiry date? What about the conflicting ratio of increasing accomplishments versus decreasing callbacks on applications? And that’s not to mention other discriminatory factors over which qualified and alacritous applicants have no control. Yet there is no giving up; why on earth would I ever do that, thus consenting to a status quo? Inevitably, my belief remains that I really do have a future that is worthwhile, appealing, and more open than the present (and surely the past). More accomplished is more to offer to benefit others. Perhaps seeing metaphor in too many ordinary things, the day-in-year-out commutes on broken walkways and odoriferous buses symbolize warnings against viewing and wearing life into toxic trenches instead of preferring beautiful aesthetics and fresh air. No doubt, my eagerness and drive remain for the redemption of my genuine and hardworked efforts. It’s an ache to see forbearance, muscle, and wit find fruition. Aspiration and endurance! Let us ask ourselves about what is fair to wish for, and let’s also see how brilliantly we can be unreasonable. It’s the juxtaposition of long-haul prayer and ambition.

3

Holding fast to a cultivated sense of vision demands sharp navigation through gauntlets, both broadly societal and narrowly corporate. But there are no matters too large or small for neither philosophical ethics nor for what my field calls professional best practices. Living often has the aspect of being an extemporaneous “laboratory” for the merging of theoretical and practical. Comprehending the virtue of hope- a confidence in limitless, Divine goodness- is cultivated, more felt than seen. Now the incremental arrival of spring, notably in a climate such as in New England, appears in rotations of senses amounting to hopes launching forward. Signs of the nascent season are arriving very late.

Recently from the courtyard at Beacon Hill Friends House, I heard the ecstatic full-throated sounds of birds. As with Chaucer’s pilgrims in the early seasonal rains of April, the physical indicators of nature are pulling everyone forward. Or perhaps pushing us all ahead. This is indeed the season exemplified by onward motion. Birds’ voices and green reaches of trees repudiate the naysayers of growth. The most poignant of the post-Easter liturgical readings are the paragraphs that chronicle the very human travellers in the depths of their misery while en route to Emmaus. It’s not one, but both companions (one corroborating the other) that had seen everything of their wishes destroyed. The essence of their shocking intervention was the vividly tangible demonstration (and both witnessed this) compelling them to not lose hope. There really was a persuasive return to life, and there were numerous additional eyewitnesses whose perspectives were worth a listen. On top of that, both these convinced sojourners told each other about how their hearts burned within them. They encountered enough to keep going. In my own instances, I’ve experienced enough resonance to not stop trying- to pray without ceasing, as the great Apostle emphasized. If anything, endeavor itself is fuel for the fire. Astonishingly, the flame within somehow endures. As sustenance, that knowledge is going to have to suffice for the most part, especially in the face of unrelentingly fickle employment markets. I’ll simply proceed as my own Dr. Cook of Briarcliff Manor, and tell myself to not give up. With scant few things as demoralizing as persistently foraging for professional opportunities, many of us have to dust ourselves off and keep working, always refining the pitch. That virtual inner Dr. Cook says to disregard the cynicisms and hold to the higher road of faith. Let the lengthened days of a renewing season present new promise.

march

“Set out on your way again now. I like the word ‘way’ very much,
because in God’s sight we are all wayfarers. We are viatores, travellers,
heading towards our Creator from the day we enter the world.
A person who sets out on a journey has a clear goal, an objective:
they want to get from one place to another.
Consequently, they do all they should to reach their goal safely.”

~ Josemaria Escrivá, In Dialogue with the Lord (112)

1

As serendipity would have it, I taught with historic material I’ve been preserving to junior high school classes, and presented to a conference group of archivists about preserving historic material- all within a week. All wonderful groups, and I treat all ages with the same careful respect. As always, a joy to be integral to learning processes. I’m assured enough with my topics to adjust how I deliver them, no two classes ever taught in the exact same way, and there’s always room for banter. Anything not to lose anyone. With all the groups I talked about documentation and narrative, then extended the practical by unabashedly asking each of the groups whether anyone wrote in a journal. I saw an impressively high percentage among the teen students, and not enough raised hands from the adult professionals. That’s fine; it means I have work to do, promoting the value of reflective writing. As well, I’m reminded that as our schooling dissolves from view, dissipated by complex pursuits, writing must become more intentional. Writing by hand has multiple benefits- even physiological. When journaling was new to me, I’d describe the action as parallel to doing the “long division” in mathematics, comparing the punching-up of using a calculator versus mapping out the why of an interior conundrum. Trying to encourage others via applied experience, I refer to reading back through my own journals as historic manuscripts. “While you’re keeping a journal,” I heard myself say, “it’s keeping you.”

For a long time, I’ve focused my thinking by journaling, writing down what I hear myself say, and this serves to inform my present, past, and future. Exploring the creation of writing prompts, I discovered“ I heard myself say” was peppered amidst my written pages, later deciding to make that phrase a frequent journaling starter. Though not exactly a prompt, I’ve noticed my recent and frequent use of, "Well, here I am” as a peculiar verbal re-set. It’s a bit like the apostrophe-like symbol in wind-instrument sheet music that indicates when to take a deep breath. I think my utterances and notations were going on for a long time, before “Well, here I am” rose above the surface at dark bus stops in subzero temperatures. The bus is late, and meaningful progress in the rest of life is nowhere in sight. Well, here I am; showing up as ever. Like a pawn on a game board, there appears no wiser choice than to advance along the paces en route to a weekend. Here I am, showing up, lest I miss my chances for a breakthrough. While the doldrums drudge on, it’s critical to be chin-up and forward-marching. As I try keeping things interesting at work, with successions of productive projects, I do something similar outside the workplace with studies, writing, and visits threaded between and around chores and sundry obligations. Indicators of low levels of intellectual fulfillment and strength tell me when replenishment is needed. Years ago, a wise friend taught me that “sometimes your guts take over, and that tells you to pay attention.”


2

Guts notwithstanding, and three months since my last string of days off, I managed to navigate the requisite steps and clearance so I could make a week’s retreat from the grind. I was especially grateful to find the time (and get it approved), just as winter had begun to give way to increased daylight. Quiet, contemplative time is surely the appropriate medicine. Getting on the road and away from such annoyances as persistent setbacks amidst the surrounding miseries of politics, economics, and widespread violence- gave me a hopeful distraction. Stupor and inertia have amounted to a dangerous combination adding up to societal paralysis. Setting positive examples and putting related ethics to practice compels each of us to take the lead as we’re able. All the more reason to seek out a rejuvenating place of peaceful silence and communion.

With an invitation to return to the Cistercian abbey in Wrentham, I took to the highways and trails on a grey morning. The drive is within New England; almost close enough to seem local. A friend from my workplace is from Wrentham, and he directed me to his favorite diner in the region- in the neighboring town of Franklin. After my few hours’ driving, I felt a little provincial with a few queries about Maine from people that saw my license plates- but all genial. When I walked into the diner and was asked where I was from, I mentioned my friend, and a waitress cheerfully recognized his name. The customers dining next to my table were also jovial, knew the abbey that was my destination, and added a convivial atmosphere to our lunches. Indeed, I had the parmigiana from heaven, and hearing that made the wait staff very happy. They wished me a good retreat, and with that heartening aftertaste, I continued my pilgrimage. We all commented about what a long winter it’s been, and how we hope for good things ahead.

The parmigiana from heaven, Franklin Massachusetts.


3

To be sure, winter remains with us enough that New England still sees more snow than rain, but spring is assured of the winning side. The liminal season’s upper hand is evidenced in lengthening evenings and visible horizon lines at night. The pull of pilgrimage includes a thirst for sanctuaries, along with an interior seeking for lifegiving words. The going-forth is a turning within, from a wilderness of barrenness, to a wilderness of wise silence. The human spirit longs for growth, for purpose, for depth- and such intensity responds to desolation through momentary breaths of solitude.

During one of my workday intermissions, too brief to leave the building, I looked out from the Archives window, cup of coffee in hand. I wrote something on a notecard about hacking away at a miracle. Working productively, reaching out, staying the course; that’s the tireless, restless, hacking-away. In the search for inspiring words, my note-taking is always at the ready. Open to helpful influences, I’m reading and listening. I heard an exceptional homilist read from the Letter to the Philippians, and speak about dealing with difficulty. He referred to Joseph and Job, then Paul, respectively in the Old and New Testaments- all having grappled with extremely difficult situations that thwarted their lives. Paul’s life and work were completely restricted by his imprisonment- yet, like Joseph, he found ingenious ways to inspire his jailers. The preacher I heard was saying that we can’t fully know the impressions we make upon those around us, that we mustn’t lose sight of our purposes, and that we each need the self-awareness to avoid self-imposed difficulties. What stayed with me was the statement that expectations relate directly to depression. Indeed, that’s a vulnerability to living, but what about ambition?

Life as a thwarted messenger that upholds purpose is something very familiar to me. And among my foremost literary and philosophical heroes is San Juan de la Cruz, of 16th century Spain. I’ve written often about him, and quote his works regularly. Like the aforementioned, Fray Juan had to endure an unjust, brutal, and torturous imprisonment. Though jailed by enemies who intended for him to die in his cell, a prison guard who knew that Juan was a priest asked for his prayers and brought him writing materials. Night after night, for an unknown duration, Juan picked away at the prison cell’s lock with his fingernails until one night- the eve of the Feast Day of the Assumption- the lock fell off the door. Amazingly, the noise did not awaken either guards or other prisoners. Fray Juan persistently chipped away at a miracle. He quietly hoisted himself out of the tower with blankets tied together, then traversed the surrounding river in the dark. A piece of paper he took with him was a sketch for The Dark Night of the Soul. On the following morning, the guards found the cell’s open door and the knotted blankets tied to a nearby window ledge. By that time, Juan was already safely sheltered in a nearby Discalced Carmelite convent in Toledo. His works to this day are published and read around the world. The Ascent of Mount Carmel is one of the world’s great books of the contemplative life.

Reflecting about the 2025 Jubilaeum proclaimed by Pope Francis, with the focus upon living and fostering the virtue of Hope, “And what happens after the year of Hope?” asks Soeur Marie-Espérance, a Dominican Sister, in a recent article published in the French periodical l’Étoile Notre-Dame. Applying metaphor to being an embodiment of vibrant hope, she writes that as the human heart represents compassion, our eyes represent the virtue of faith, so our feet represent hope; she refers to the latter as “the virtue of the road: “Oui, l’espérance est la vertu de la route.” As a viator- a wayfarer- Saint Augustine wrote that our paths exist for the purposes of our paces and intentions. As hope is exemplified by our continuing steps, this is also the virtue that awakens us daily to our aspirations. While navigating the motions of commuting, work, chores, and- when I can- writing, I don’t really have any choice other than to continue. I would surely regret missing any opportunities, convinced the adventure remains unfulfilled and unresolved. For the moment, I’ll savour how I set down my backpack in my monastic room in Wrentham and without thinking, I changed my weary“Well, here I am,” with: “I’m here.”