iubilaeum peregrinationis

“He who would valiant be
'gainst all disaster,
let him in constancy
follow the Master.
There's no discouragement
shall make him once relent
his first avowed intent
to be a pilgrim.”

~ John Bunyan, from The Pilgrim’s Progress.

When I read reviews in late-2024 about two books written by the late Pope Francis (Light in the Night, and Faith is a Journey), both on the topic of life as pilgrimage, I immediately recognized my long-familar personal theme. Right away, I purchased both books, reading them carefully during my daily work commutes and coffee breaks. Consoling, inspiring, and relatable words are especially rare these days. Commemorating a quarter-century, a presiding Pope dedicates a year of jubilee to a motif, and for 2025 it was for individuals and communities to live their many-faceted lives as pilgrims of hope. The metaphor of pilgrimage centers around the intertwined voyage of spiritual and physical living, a one-way travel toward eternity. The grand journey happens with tangible and often small measures. Being so profoundly interior, each person determines how they signify progress in their journey. A way to do that is to write in a journal, and I view mine as a combination of itinerary, narrative, and means to look ahead. We each have our vital landmarks- geographic and spiritual. Our prayers and hopes generate our motions.

Pilgrimage as a practice is not new to me, as many readers of my years of essays know, but each experience is entirely new. Discovering ways to creatively apply the pilgrimage theme to a year of intense commitments and constant work is itself something new to me. Multiple “manifestations” blending into the broader theme, made for a year’s book of chapters. Journeying to destinations of significance, I honored every request for prayers from each person that asked. As well, I wholeheartedly brought my own- for the wellbeing of loved ones, for myself, and for better employment. When asked about wanderlust, my response is the journeying spirit is as much about change-of-scenery as it is for soul-wellness. There is a general overwhelming psychological sickness which has permeated this world. Considering current events, every workaday sunrise witnesses a threshold drop, prompting major sectors of the world’s population to submerge into various escapisms. By contrast, I’ve found periodic, reflective retreats to be healthful and replete with aesthetic inspiration. And learning. Places of pilgrimage draw people from many regions and of many ages; quite spontaneously, listening to one another, there are conversations about reading, artistic expression, and spiritual growth. The stuff of conscientious life. Alas, the job market is abysmal, most career professions unstable, and the world of employers is bewilderingly fickle. Millennia ago, an exasperated crowd asked John the Baptist, “What are we to do?” His reply, having also known places of desperation, was essentially to broaden one’s view of life: Give away your extra provisions; look after each other. It’s not a stretch to add: Help each other find peaceful housing and appropriate work. Hold the door for the person behind you, yield to the right-of-way, don’t forget to say please and thanks. Pilgrimage reminds us that on the one-way voyage to consummation, we see that we live this life but once. To sanctify the everyday is to recognize pilgrimage in the commonplace.

from Taizé, France


Weston Priory

My year of pilgrimage appropriately began at my beloved Weston Priory, in Vermont’s Green Mountains. My first-ever retreat was there among these brilliant and down-to-earth Benedictine monks, in 1994. I lived there for nearly two months in 1999, and I owe to them the highlights of my spiritual formation. As nurturing friendships lead to more kindred spirits, in 2001 the Weston monks introduced me to their brethren of the Taizé monastery in France. On this recent string of days, shortly before Advent, the Vermont landscape was snowcapped and russet. My room, named for Saint Joseph, had a view of Mount Okemo. “The Brothers’ services are hearteningly beautiful,” I wrote in my journal, referring to their homegrown sung liturgies. Comprehension demands patience. Brother Michael said, “Our future is open, and we create our future together though humility.” He added, “Scripture is living, and not a ‘dead letter.” Brother Elias added, “When we are giving, we find there is more; blessing is for us to pass along.” My drive back from the mountains was accompanied by gratitude for all I saw and heard.

_______________________________________________

Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey

As Advent submerged into winter darkness, I strung together a week of paid-time-off, and drove to Mount Saint Mary’s, which is in southeastern Massachusetts. This was my second sojourn with the Cistercian community in Wrentham. Very thankfully, the weather’s snowy calmness matched the peacefulness of the countryside. Much as with Weston Priory, the community composes its own music, and lives ancient practices in vernacular and inclusive modernity, with barely any symbolism. Nature, silence, and chant are in themselves representative of contemplative life. I had brought the book, In Conversation With God along for the retreat, within which Carvajal wrote: “Our own personal history is full of signs, so that we do not mistake the way.” It took until the midpoint of the week for me to begin to slow down and rest. Getting outdoors with camera in hand allowed me to appreciate and perceive my surroundings. Plenty of walking always helps with the winding-down. I noticed how my attention was drawn by the paths I saw. With the community and various fellow pilgrims, I enjoyed reinforcing conversations about the jubilee year of being peaceful presences to those in our midsts.

_______________________________________________

Boston

Saint Clement Eucharistic Shrine

This time, I extended my customary writing and study residency at Beacon Hill Friends House and at the Boston Athenaeum, by also making this sojourn a pilgrimage to sacred locations in the city. The month of April exemplifies renewal, and even in neighborhoods away from the Boston Public Garden the city is replete with budding branches, magnolia trees, and windowboxed daffodils. Visits on Beacon Hill regularly include sanctified destinations such as the National Shrine of Saint Anthony, the Church of the Advent, and the Quaker sanctuary at the Friends House, I threaded in two pilgrimage landmarks in the Back Bay: the Franciscan Chapel, and the Saint Clement Eucharistic Shrine. The latter was the city’s official Jubilee Year pilgrimage site, and this was my first visit to the large and ornate church. Upon exiting outdoors amidst a number of attendees, a man holding a phone picturing a map asked me if this was Saint Clement’s. After assuring him that he found the place, we had a great conversation on the steps; he was visiting from the west coast and wanted to see pilgrimage sites around Boston. Knowing the city as I do- and the topic- I gave him recommendations that included the precise subway and trolley stops for each sanctuary. We wished one another well, as he entered the lofty silence of the church, and I stepped down to the midday congested bustle of Boylston Street, my own pilgrimage winding alongside exuberant street musicians outside the Berklee College of Music. Quite a wondrous sum-total for my written reflections later that day, which still had plenty of time for more adventures.

Franciscan Chapel
_______________________________________________

National Shrine of the Divine Mercy

Through the months back at work following the Boston sojourn, I was able to respond to the opportunity for a week’s pilgrimage in mid-July at the Divine Mercy Shrine, which is in the heart of the Berkshires. The unusually hot summer displayed some extremes in the mountainous region, with sweltering days, late sunsets, and dramatic rainstorms. Aware that I’d be navigating roads through summer tourism season, I gave myself plenty of time to reach Stockbridge. Indeed there were plenty of traffic stoppages along way, but I had music for the road trip, and a small Divine Mercy icon in my car’s console. As things worked out, I set forth fifteen minutes earlier than planned, and shut off the engine- over four hours later- at my destination, fifteen minutes before Mass. This was the monthly special service for Jubilee Year pilgrims, and I was doubly grateful to have made it- and to have arrived. I know the place very well, though for this pilgrimage I could see how the entire community responded to the Vatican’s designation of the shrine as a world destination for the extraordinary year. Contrasting all the activity in the town center in Stockbridge, the shrine itself was quiet enough to hear the wind in the trees. Staying within the community, I enjoyed encouraging conversations with various members of the Marian order. One of the Brothers noticed my typewriting, and that led to a visit of kindred spirits. I had timed my retreat to parallel the observance of the commemoration of Saint Bonaventure; it was great to be able to speak with members of the community about him. I had brought my studies with me, reading the Breviloquium. The Marian community added my prayers to theirs, and I appreciate their sincerity and seriousness. As I was packing my car to return to Maine, an elderly priest walked over to me and gave me his blessing. The perfect sendoff for the road.

_______________________________________________

Maine

Kennebunkport, Maine

True to belief and practice, one’s pilgrimage of trust on earth is paced throughout life. It’s the daily trudge to and from bus stops; it’s also carefully advancing- in those same work shoes- toward receiving sacraments. Lent and Passover are pilgrimages through geography, time, and spirit. All forward motion, and chronologically at the very least. Waystations along the physical pilgrimage includes sanctuaries and memorials, and my steps connect them. The words of the Divine Hours that accompany my thirty-minute lunch breaks have been with me overseas and back, on the road, and when I can manage some unstructured time on weekends. Punctuating the year of intentional pilgrimages include sanctuaries that are close to where I live and work. Good Shepherd Parish, in Saco, provides an Adoration chapel which is a peaceful oasis for contemplative prayer. Less than twenty miles from Portland, I can easily get there when I have an afternoon off. And I make this a pilgrimage, bringing breviary and chaplet (in French and English)- always sensing the strong pull of the Spirit. The parish church itself displayed imagery and texts about the Jubilee Year of Pilgrimage, encouraging all who visit. Another place of nearby pilgrimage is the Saint Anthony Franciscan Monastery, in Kennebunkport. In milder weather, walking the wooded and coastal paths is as contemplative as absorbing the outdoor grotto. The Franciscans’ tradition of honoring nature is clearly evident throughout. Having such close destinations shifts attention away from physical distance, and more toward sanctified time.

Saco, Maine

_______________________________________________

Mount Saint Mary’s

Although I hadn’t planned how the year would comprise these locations and their sequencing, my year of pilgrimage rather organically fell into place. I really noticed this, when I glanced back at the first half of the year and received a heartwarming invitation to return to Wrentham for a week during Advent. The Cistercian community welcomed me early in the year, and this recent sojourn took place at the close of the Jubilee year. My third time of travelling to their corner of Massachusetts, and being immersed in their antiphonal sung liturgies suddenly had the ring of familiarity. We now recognize each other, and good conversations follow- including the topic of being bearers of persevering hope. As well, now I know the highways and winding roads from memory, and can better comprehend the flow of the services. The year of pilgrimage took me hither-and-yon, all in New England- yet at once familiar and otherworldly, rotating the temporal of logistics with the ex temporé of response to the moment. I recall hearing an elder Quaker say that, “the Christian life is rough on the feet, but good on the soul.”

_______________________________________________

Above: National Shrine of the Divine Mercy- Stockbridge, Massachusetts

Below: Kennebunkport, Maine

from here

“A great thing is the soul:
in the soul, the whole world can be delineated.
The human soul is a microcosm of reality,
a microcosm of the macrocosm, an image of the world.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Hexaemeron 22,24

The proverbial barrier raises yet another notch, as we all step onto the new year’s playing field. In these times, consolation and refuge become more difficult for too many to find. We’re hard put to conjure up our basic needs. Somehow able to hold ground and persevere, I’ve witnessed losses of stability at all hands. And yet- as I hear myself say- I’m here. The daily choice persists, to live compassionately, and to pursue this with every transaction and endeavor. Occasionally, exhaustion can punctuate all the constant hard work, and I stave it off with slices of downtime and a periodical retreat. Scruples and strength must operate in even strength. Last year, having the good fortune of finding and studying two of the final published works by Pope Francis, I was naturally inspired by the idea of a year of intentional pilgrimages. I’ve made these, anyway, over the years, but this time my emphases came from his suggestion to shape my life as an ongoing pilgrim of hope. Being a fulltime worker, I found ways to fit these travels into weekends- some extended with my earned-time-off. All the while, as usual, my studies stitch the days together: during bus commutes, with my thirty-minute lunches (still referred to as “scribbles and nibbles”), and at night. Through the past half-dozen years, I’ve reviewed all the published works of Josemaría Escrivá- indexing and annotating them. These “digests” make for great on-the-go reading, especially while commuting, and for redirecting my thoughts away from detriments that threaten and persist.

At the start of the Advent season last year, I travelled to Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey, in southeast Massachusetts, for a week of healthful respite and reflection. I returned there last month- now a friend of the community- concluding the year which encompassed another half-dozen locations of sacred pilgrimage. In another essay, I’ll enumerate them. For the moment, it suffices to mention the balance that became vital for me to strike between general cultural and employment tensions- countered with prayer in peaceful settings. We all need to survive and progress, persevering intact. In the pursuit of spiritual health and intellectual increase, all for the cause of fulfilling service, in the midst of turmoil I noticed a whiplash effect making it daunting to relax and refocus. Indeed, this isn’t a self-inflicted hardship at all. Much as with my conscious practice of re-directing pre-occupations, I’m better able to identify ideas and ruminations that are best left in roadside trash bins. I’ll even veer away from thinking about what it took to get away from the grind. With the simple gratitude of here I am, subsequent thoughts are returned to the immediate: Look at the view! or- It smells so nice here! Arrivals are made of curiosities and the childlike hopes of open ends. My many years of retreats have all been unstructured, without rigidity or agenda. I always bring reading, writing, and photo materials- along with a small radio. The purpose is unstructured respite. That biblical still, small voice is too often diverted by the shrill and incessant. If there’s one thing (and there are many things) pop culture cannot handle, it’s silence. Even gas station pumps blare audio and sound systems. And thus, there’s some unlearning to do, when arriving at a place of retreat. And that should be the extent of the do-ing.

Naturally, some form of routine can assist long-overdue decompression. Most of us are so ingrained with time that gets scheduled away from ourselves, that finding a way amidst minimal restriction poses its own peculiar conundrum. As it can happen, after plenty of first-day journal entries, by day 3 of my recent sojourn, I noticed myself looking for things to do. But I reminded myself that retreats are essentially in a different “time zone,” including liturgical days in monastic communities- surely dissimilar from the typical day-to-day. Something that deeply impressed me during my early and lengthy stretches at the Weston Priory is how days are as much wrapped around prayer as prayer is wrapped around the days. The adjustment from feeling there is “nothing to do,” becomes the “plenty” of easing into walks, writing, photographing, reading- all at slower paces- enjoying the company of those present, and devotions. Prayers manifest patiently focused and in silence. As well, there is the music of the community’s collective chant.

Before I took to the road, an older and wiser soul told me that “we are not what we think we are,“ but rather, “we are what we think.” This was said in the context of self-awareness and humility. I responded with, “we’re not even our own best judges!” Many of my thoughts en route to my week in Wrentham and since returning included making healthful realignments of obsolete notions- as I find them- in favor of calming and constructive thinking. Thoughts actually do matter. Journal-writing is as much personal documentation as it provides a forum for something of a “dialogue” between thinker and thought. For us writers, journaling is a lot of other things, especially when handwritten. When students ask about the “best way to write,” I always encourage them with, “just write true,” honesty always being the best policy. In doing so, and reading back what I write, there are surely learning processes.

In the spirit of neuroplasticity, I’ve become increasingly attuned to identifying and reckoning with negative and fatalistic thoughts. Adjusting to my circumstances does not mean imitating the toxicities that pervade nearly every sphere within reach. When I write about this in my journal, the idea is to try making sense of what I’m intuiting, witnessing, and absorbing- negotiating with the world and the workplace- all the while persevering in my pursuits of progress. At the heart of the adjusting is my insistence upon aspiration and improvement. Knowing and calibrating to self, situation, and vocation is to keep a balance of both limitations and ambitions in mind. Not compromising high standards, and in words from my profession- best practices, but instead resisting the mediocrity syndrome that too often prevails. Having studied, among other things, the notoriously astonishing Peter Principle in postgrad management theory sensitized me to recognize it in action all too frequently. Why perpetuate avoidable brands of passableness that we ourselves dislike from the barrel-end? How does that serve to inspire stewardship and the souls in our midst? Seeing the brevity of life and its very precariousness, it pains me to squander energy and time. Life is short. On that redirected thought, my navigational choice is to cultivate the mind, along with strengthening and guarding the soul. In his book called Furrow, Escrivá, provides some affirming words in his inimitable style:

We must not remain at the level of the mediocre, refusing to come to terms with mediocrity. We must enter all kinds of environments with a sure step. We’re called to be fully human in our actions, and at the same time reflecting the renewal of eternal things. That is why the apostle has to be a soul who has undergone a long, patient, and heroic process of formation.

A few days after the New Year’s holiday, washing dishes and listening to the radio, I heard the talk show host shift the discussion topic away from the interchangeable subjects known as societal miseries and politics. The affable Dan Rea, of Boston’s WBZ, asked listeners to ponder the prospect of the new year. He invited his audience to divert from editorializing, and to call in with their personal hopes for the coming year. It was easy to imagine Dan leaning into the microphone with his query, “Do you have any plans?” The large listening audience- made exponentially larger by virtue of being a nighttime AM broadcast- got to hear about travels, family reunions, going to ball games, graduating, and about the Tall Ships event in July. Now that’s some forward-looking. Hearing such a diversity of voices chiming in with their positive and lively aspirations was essentially what everyone needed. For all of you, my wish from here is for our hopes to exceed the movements of time.

visible invisible

“I have turned around.
I’m walking back to join the choir.
Leaves are flying through the sky.

There’s a hidden life,
there’s a life that no one knows,
there are things that can’t be told.”

~ The Innocence Mission, I Left the Grounds.

Consider the meaning and significance around the idea of the non-monetary kind of credit. Getting the credit, taking the credit, denying the credit. If our memories serve us accurately, we can all remember how this thread plays through all the contexts of our days. It may have begun in the vicinity of a broken vase in a long-ago parental living room, if not in a grade-school classroom. There is credit that we want, and credit we don’t want. We want to be noticed at our best by team captains, teachers, and bosses- and by those we find attractive. But then we wish to be unnoticed by bullies, would-be muggers, and those casting blame- even if it’s justifiable. The attribution of credit, of notice, of credibility, is a great power that looms over our evolving years. Those whom we think own that power begin to look like interchangeable versions of the same few people. The quest for validation is something to be outgrown, despite ways our institutions tend to perpetuate their own versions of reward and blame. This meditation is not about the rights and wrongs of law, ethics, or decorum. Rather, it is about the human mystery that views survival as something between visibility and invisibility.

From childhood, we hunger to be noticed, but we also want to hide. Wishing for glory and credit fuels many a drive in the direction of self-preservation at any cost. Self-distinction may be a primal impulse, and thus one for which an individual must come to terms. But then, when notice comes upon us, we are often unprepared.

In my habit of closing a book or shutting off a media source when the loss of a vital thought seems imminent, one night while driving the roads, I turned off the car radio to save an idea. A radio preacher, whose delivery resembled that of a country auctioneer, asked the rhetorical question; “what would you do if you suddenly got everything you’ve wished for?” I cut him off then and there, because the thought was worth saving. I could predict he was leading up to something about ingratitude or our insatiable material appetites. Aloud in the car, I thought about payed-off student loans, perfect health, and a really good job. Afterwards I imagined walking through such idyllic settings, pinching my own arm in outright incredulity. Then I thought about being noticed. What do we expect- and when we are acknowledged, will we shrink back in disbelief? We long to be known, as much as we long to know. At the same time, wishing is more familiar than seeing a wish come to pass. If this is true, what is really expected? Perhaps the vital acknowledgment has already been made, and if this is so, there is no time to back away.

In the conflict between desiring recognition and anonymity, possessing the one, the other becomes more appealing. Thirsting to capture everything merges with the also very human trait of overwhelm. Imaginations are drawn by mystery and elusiveness, yet discovery can throw us off. Either we are diverted by expectation, or overwhelmed at the challenges of our findings. A nature accustomed to striving wants what it used to have, as well as what it cannot reach- yet rarely what is already accessible. Emergence and disappearance long for one another. Even the ancient Psalmist knew the exuberance of overt rejoicing, as much as the Divine presence as sheltering hiding place. Often, I hope for significance to my days and recognition- at about as many times as solitude, my steps drawn to concealing places that permit me to banish my troubles.

We do need our times of invisibility. An old friend for whom I once worked refers to the the jobs I have as my “tent-making” work. He reminds me of how the Apostle Paul made his living. Our paychecks help provide what we need so we can pursue our passions. I still believe in the juxtaposition of vocation and avocation. Indeed it was Paul of Tarsus who described with astonishing detachment how he observed another disposition in his baser self which waged war against the disposition of his conscience. Coming to terms with the inner conflict of striving with ignominy- while athirst for concealed space- begins by admitting too much of either is damaging. Means and ends mustn’t be confused.

In an understanding of the spectrum of living, knowing to be both abased and abound, the equilibrium of holiness is discovered. The realm of God manifests silently and discretely as grains of ferment that cause the leavening of bread. The Advent is gradual, at times difficult. Invisibility comes into being. But as with the magi, the Divine is perceptible to those who are sensitive to the signs. Yet still, there is little that we mortals can actually hasten.

Perhaps the elusiveness- even the hiddenness- of the sublime attests to the eternal as incorruptible and boundless. The Unseen Companion who briefly appeared to the Emmaus pilgrims, known to Paul as “the image of the invisible God,” taught his listeners to express their prayers in shuttered solitude to the One who knows the innermost heart. In this, invisibility is a necessary precursor to visibility. The tent-maker toiling in a deserted place, as all hard-workers enduring anguished isolation, must see such labors as preparatory ground from which to capably bear the gospel of compassion. Blessed are the overlooked, for they are lovingly recognized by their Creator.

Invisible though apparent, God’s presence is treasured deep within. Earthbound as we are, the cravings remain for the visible and for visibility. While scribing some notes the other day, the newspaper under my journal revealed one of the society pages. Those celebrities of fathomless abundance cannot blend into subways and restaurants as I can. Perhaps they wish they could. Many non-celebrities among us make efforts to be “seen.” A local paper used to poll readers about the “best places to be seen” in this small city with a “scene” of its own. A school friend used to say, “maintaining façades is too much work.” Many of us do wind up deciding what’s necessary and what’s worth our energies and time. And that brings us to consider what is of greatest value to the inherent, invisible self. And in that consideration, reinforcement is found.

Do we ever really know our strengths? It is easy to forget the powers and potential we have. That intrinsic fortitude is often threatened by what a lot of us have had to endure en route to and through adulthood. We brave through exclusions, judgments, and threats long before we can ascribe clear and forceful words to our attempted refutations. But indeed those who survive must never forget their voiceless crucible times. Today is for potentials to unfold, even if portions will remain invisible.

Now a reckoning. Conflicts may be identified and explored, but without some resolve, the terms remain barely more than if they stayed unspoken. Recording a life as it develops, my thoughts begin by taking stock in the learning experiences, being able to apply some retrospect while looking ahead. Come to think of it, the idea of blogging a personal journal is in itself a paradox of seen and unseen. Definitions of “visibility” evolve away from preoccupations with crowds and myself. I see the extremes a bit more reconciled, more content to stand apart from self. Part of that unification is in reckoning with the value of both recognition and retreat, along with a realization that reward is less and less a driving force. Outdated self-views become stale and burdensome. Possessions I no longer use are only good to give away or throw out, resembling old, recurrent, and outgrown frustrations. As with perspectives, tastes evolve. Back in high school, my father once told me that tastes change as we get older, “you’ll see,” he said; we start craving more salted and bitter things than sugary sweets. It’s a great metaphor, but he was comparing an adult’s beer with a child’s strawberry soda. Indeed, I see, as I often relish obscurity. But I innately know that I’ve also been very gradually called forth out of that obscurity. Venturing to predict the future’s details would not be worth the trouble. There are things that can’t be told. It seems wiser to temper the striving against prohibitive currents, and gratefully engage the settings I’ve got to work with- however modest the results. The hidden life takes root, and living roots are rarely visible at the surface.

time and a half

“Encourage one another daily,
as long as it is called ‘To-Day,’
keep each other on your toes
so that evil doesn’t slow down your reflexes.”

~ Hebrews 3:13


1

Something that has never been far from my thoughts, since it was said to me years ago: a wise colleague once told me that “hardships are inevitable, but misery is optional.” This fellow was a Capuchin Franciscan friar with a great deal of lived experience, insight, and a raucous sense of humor. His cultivated traits are now extremely rare, to the point of disturbing unpopularity. I like to think about those of us who are remembering cultivators, circulating throughout this desert of a world, persevering and providing encouragement. I hope you are practicing your own versions of similar attributes. From my furrow which has barely enough breadth for its requisite vigilance, the day-to-day is replete with anxious tentativeness. Thanks to journal-writing, there’s at least one place to deposit apprehensions about what may- or may not- be impending, as well as attempts at hopeful stabilization. Fortunately there are always other stories and observations to write about. Pursuits and projects provide many musings. I try parsing the hardships and miseries by taking metaphorical steps back to observe bigger pictures. Daily situations and their populating characters amount to plenty of material, particularly in workplaces. While I cannot predict the doings and misdoings with full prescience, I can surely predict that I will write about them. In the half-empty glass of instability, the glass is half-filled with potential improvement. Tenuousness has a dynamism.

Since stress is in abundant supply, why not make productive use of it? Conventional wisdom has come to positively embrace methods of recycling usable material that was typically discarded into unwieldy waste dumps. Buildings are now increasingly constructed with repurposed amalgams of “mass timber.” Why not find ways to mentally reconstitute negative millstones into constructive and spirited energy? My efforts at this are sharply put to the test. Awaiting a late bus on a frozen morning had me thinking about the stagnation of tension. This looks parallel to attempts at controlling factors that are frustratingly out-of-reach. This sort of tension makes for a counterproductive grip. That bus will show up, when it shows up. I reached the bus stop early, as usual, with sufficient funds on my transit card. I’ve heard from career counselors that my résumé is excellent and appealing- thus I’ll need the faith of a Metrobus passenger when it comes to all my networking and applications. One can do only so much, especially amidst these recessed times.

Overspreading the personal tensions is the tangible zeitgeist of economic fears. And so the pragmatism continues: stocktaking about what is good and wholesome, carrying on with gratitude, while keeping up the search. A critical byproduct of recycled tension is the maintaining of courage for pursuing dreams, insisting there is still time. Racing against the sands of time to finally find success often reminds me of overtime in competitive sports. True to existential angst, the term sudden death is applied to the extra time needed to settle a tie score- also known as a deadlock. Overtime is often brief, frenetic, and an intensified version of the general game. Ponder how an extra inning has the potential of a last lick or a walk-off. Real or perceived,, sports metaphors and social media notwithstanding, it’s detrimentally easy to strongly feel the shortage of time for hard-earned fulfillment. My hopes insist upon being set high.


2

During and immediately following my college years, I had a variety of jobs- some involving warehouse and conveyor-line work. When it came to situations demanding compounded productivity, or moving the merchandise along against abrupt deadlines, supervisors would single out the more diligent workers- I was always one of them- and would ask for needed overtime. “You’ll get time-and-a-half,” meaning that for those working beyond a shift’s obligations, the extra time would remunerate at 50% more than regular wage. Consequently, as operations extended into overtime, the selected crew would churn into whatever was needed to complete the work. During my first few years after undergrad, while beginning to repay my student loans, I held down a second job- working various graveyard shifts. A few of us hardy souls that desperately needed money would consent to the overtime temptation. We’d exchange glances and tell each other, Time-and-a-half!

An unsung great many of us are working intensely beyond the basics, sticking our necks out most of our waking hours, for many tightly-held and justifiable reasons. We hunger for success, for better days in better situations, to be respectfully recognized, and to arrive at stability. I believe everyone desires to be valued. But in this present era, are we only as worthwhile as we’re marketable? And how much of one’s humanness and productive compatibility can transmit for recruiters without a personal conversation, but merely through metadata? I’d like to think we’re each more than boxes checked, and that a good hire is a wise, transcendent investment. Many say that nobody finds jobs through uploaded applications anymore. As with the housing market, there have to be exceptions somewhere. Otherwise, it’s all through connections and grapevines- or inside networks. Application-tracking and various systems of analytics essentially shortchange all parties, closing gates still tighter and higher. Ironically, such barriers are prevalent in professions that prosper best with creative and eclectic professionals. AI and ML notwithstanding, still more barricades come in varying forms of prejudices which have nothing to do with skills, achievements, or integrity of character. An especially absurd obstacle for a willing applicant, albeit in these economic times, is the disregard of versatility. Being accomplished at many applicable skills is value-added; it’s useful, and potentially fulfilling for both employers and workers. Referring back to the sports world, players and their coaches extol exemplary team players that are “great to have in the clubhouse.” A positive culture cannot be built without this kind of spirit.


3

Some remember the expression: The pursuit of perfection is the enemy of goodness. In life-and-death situations, perfection has its place. Inevitably, most of us are serving, instructing, and answering to human beings- stewarding and even sanctifying the ordinary. Efficiency and conscientiousness may not need to be perfect. Perhaps attempts at being perfectly attentive and alacritous can scare others away. More appropriate would be a kind of perfect moderation, though- alas- such soft skills evade those counterproductive parsing upload utilities. Along with inconsistencies around versatility and perfection is how many refer to permanence. As our definitions for perfection are theoretical and subject to context, so might our interpretations of permanence. Expectation and reality rarely juxtapose. How do you define permanence? Something between the life of a product, and forever?

Perhaps as a grade-school pupil, you too were told by some pedagogical disciplinarian or other about a permanent record- some transcendent tally-sheet potentially preventing you from realizing your life’s dreams (or at least graduating from high school). It turned out the closest thing to permanent was the duration of the few years of threat to us adolescents. I remember a teen standup comedian at one of our school talent shows who made up a routine about being barred from disembarking from a transatlantic flight because the flight crew had been told he failed tenth grade French. “It was on my permanent record,” he comically wailed- and we all laughed. Years later and well into my intrepid career as an archivist, permanence hinges upon factors such as humidity, physical stability, and alkalinity. We use terms like enduring value, and digital preservation. Still, the duration of permanence remains a challenge to predict. It also remains wise to keep fit and prepared for inevitable hardships, not just as a good steward of resources, but also as an always-aspiring worker seeking better, each day an extra inning.

autumn spring

“Let no one think that it is enough for them to read if they lack devotion,
or to engage in speculation without spiritual joy,
or to be active if they have no piety,
or to have knowledge without charity,
or intelligence without humility, or study without the grace of God,
or to expect to know whether they are lacking the infused wisdom of the Divine.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Itinerarium

Journaling, more often than not, is narrative in real time. The stream of writing occurs as things develop, much more than in retrospect, and thus progress is difficult to notice during the documentation. Without the successions of work projects I’m accomplishing, what is evident is regress. At the same time, I’ll admit to being too close to the struggle to be able to assess from a broader view. Years ago, I worked with a more experienced colleague who would say, “it’s all in how you frame it,” referring to initiating a convincing point to a committee. As critical as it is to perceive into distances, present times seem best handled in proximate increments. Perhaps the transcendence that never happens soon enough will be visible, later.

Compensating for treadmill sameness, the natural elements manifest in an always-changing canvas. Spans of daylight, air, and colors make for a calendrical unfolding. As I note these words, New England is steeped in what we call “foliage season.” Pines and firs are upstaged by vivid combinations of reds, yellows, and russets. Within this visual event is the measure of time. In swirls of storms and cold winds, the bright confetti is flying off baring branches. The passage of time is tangibly on display. During daily commutes, and when aperch on my front stoop, I’m observing vignettes of local colors. As the environment compels, and as time permits, I’ll venture out for the purpose of admiration

___________________________________________________

Recently taking an afternoon off, with camera and journal, I drove to the Franciscan community in Kennebunkport. From Portland, the route requires a southeasterly direction. Trimming curved and cresting roads, I saw bouquets of orange and red emanating from stout trees. Temperatures in the low-forties are too good for closed car windows. My left elbow on the sill especially enhanced the aromatic airflow for my driving. “K-port,” as many of us call it, is now in quieter, post-tourist season, thus ambling through to the Saint Anthony Franciscan Monastery was very easy. The church, refectory, and dormitories are closer to the road, with their vast and wooded space extending to the ocean’s edge. The monastery’s grounds comprise trails, a grotto, and a Lithuanian memorial. The Stations of the Cross are discreetly attached to trees along a path that leads to the water. On this recent visit, with a headful of stress and anxious thoughts, I walked some of the paths, sure to the admire the landscape and fresh air, saving a stretch of time at the grotto for last. The entire place is a sanctuary, a place of prayer and contemplation- always the intention of my visits. Settling in front of the grotto, the peacefulness I experienced cleared away what the road breezes had begun cleansing. Indeed, such rarified environments are not mandatory, knowing that prayer and contemplation are always and everywhere available.

___________________________________________________

Contrasts are often catalysts for understanding. Colors are crisply comprehended, juxtaposed with their complements. Warmth is cherished in the cold. Light is best appreciated in darkness. Along similar lines, walking over fallen, dried leaves causes me to think about spring. As foliage season is in progress, intermittent and remaining greens continue persisting, reminding me to embody spring amidst autumn and winter. In these times that are steeped in grimness, recession, and despair, my thoughts reach for hopefulness- for spring. I’m seeing and hearing too much of what runs contrary to constructiveness- from world-scale events and social behaviors, right down to business meetings. These things contrast the desire to encourage and to grow well; to be spring, and to refuse bitterness. While watching gardeners store vegetables and bulbs in root cellars, the reminder came to me, to be a bearer of spring through the winter. Resisting bitterness takes shape as eagerness for positive growth, for advancement, and in my choice of framing perspectives. From there, intent is followed by action. As Bonaventure pointed out how such contrasts as intelligence and humility are best appreciated together, so I’ll add that juxtaposed brightness and bleakness stand out as reminders.

love- hope- strength

“I'm just gonna sing about the things that I need:
A little bit of love, a little bit of hope
A little bit of strength, some fuel for the fire.

To build the ships to set the sails
To cross the sea of fools
To be dealt the cards
To play our hand
To win or else to lose
In this cruel world that kicks a man when he's down.”

~ The Alarm, Deeside.


fearful times

Without venturing into making sociopolitical statements, many agree that we live in upsettingly violent and fearful times. And that is excessively our context. An ordinary person, of dauntingly modest influence, can at least try encouraging others. Being a grain of inspiring leaven must persist with every passing day. Straight through the doldrums, no matter the ignominy. The stewarding of responsibilities is a trail that rarely juxtaposes with pursuits of success. Indeed, I’ve always tenaciously worked for both, but my high-minded idealism remains along a castle courtyard in the sky.

As one recession follows another, I thankfully keep on working. Whether or not it’s satisfying has had to decrease in importance. Scores of skilled workers lose their jobs, and exponentially more lose their homes. What may one dare to presume? The job market is as lifeless as this present culture is impoverished, yet personal defeat cannot be permissible. I must continue fueling my own engines. There are too many things yet to be accomplished; giving up the ship is still not an option. While life frustratingly remains in holding-pattern mode, I continue cultivating and flourishing where I’m planted. Foundering and drifting are undoubtedly worse than slowed movement and tacking. In the process, I can still be helpful to others. Most everyone I know is seeking a better situation for their livelihood. So many are struggling. On top of that, I’m listening to individuals of all ages express their cravings for community. Somewhere between pandemic quarantine life and The Great Resignation, too much of humanity turned inward to itself. The general willingness to gather pieces and create unifying bonds anew has left the popular consciousness. My own efforts continue, but indeed neighbors, colleagues, and kindredships are sum-totals comprising warm-blooded persons. Electronic personae cannot amount to reasonable facsimiles of human compassion and insight. As much as we know this, too many prefer their little pocket devices. Ironically, the bulk of human resources officers that recruit workers largely ignore the humanity exemplified in their conscientious applicants.


searching for positive signs

Grim times and thoughts intertwine to clog the mind as milfoil tangled around a ship’s propeller. Getting on the road does plenty to help my perspective, along with any intentional change-of-air. Occasionally I’ll have some music or radio accompaniment, but almost always some good threads of encapsulating monologue. And healthful silence. A good road trip- especially a scenic one- allows me to hear myself think (or not). Recently, getting outta Dodge was my very long-awaited family visit to Chicago, driving across the northeast, taking in the terrain. Making notes in my journal during a highway stop, I noticed how I had plenty of stamina for the 2200-mile round trip, but little for the sort of creative writing I’ve always loved doing. Exhaustion can be oddly asymmetrical. While listening to music and remembering the recently-departed, longtime favorite Mike Peters, I revisited the album “Strength” for the zillionth time. The Alarm is a prominent part of my life’s soundtrack. Among the songs, one of Peters’ verses, wrapped in refrains about struggling workers in a shuttering Welsh steel mill, affirms I’m just gonna sing about the things that I need, which are Love, Hope, and Strength. Essential, to be sure, and as the song proceeds, fuel for the fire. Enjoying the very short respite of being able to close my eyes while my coffee cooled in an I-90 service plaza, I penciled this in my journal: Sing about the things you need.

urban oasis

Inadvertently, my musing became an intrguing journaling prompt. “Sing about the things that I need,” looked to me like a way to cheer up my writing, and step back from the prevailing grimness. It surprised me that I found it difficult to answer the question with more than survival basics, though less poetic than “Love, Hope, Strength.” Instead, it was more of my quagmired scribbling about better work, quality of life, health of loved ones, stability, and community. Thinking through writing often carries a lot of repetition along, but re-reading thought processes can be fascinating. My ten days away from the grind began with some refreshingly unstructured time, which is always great for writing and reading- things that ordinarily require doses of stolen moments. My sister created a garden in a small space that has taken shape as an astonishing urban oasis. Perching outside was in itself salubrious, beginning with writing about gratitude for my earned-time-off to be able to make the travel, as well as for the welcomes received. Fresh air, good company, and tasty food; more gratitude. Looking up at the city’s trees, then down to my books on the patio table, gave me some Mike Peters-worthy words: Air, Light, Belonging, Writing, and Philosophy. Garden quiet combined with large-city hum, brought to mind choosing the substantial over the artificial. The following day, at a busy downtown café in the Loop, I added more answers in my journal such as “things that attest to the human spirit.”

notice what is good

The Newberry Library

Being a native born-and-bred city kid, I love a great city, and Chicago is a place that attests to the human spirit. As always, it did my soul a lot of good to immerse myself in miles of walking, intricate neighborhoods, grandiose avenues, L trains, and chatting with plenty of people along the way. On this particular sojourn, there was enough time and mild weather to see exhibits and some favorite businesses. The city’s vibrancy helped me replenish, at multiple levels.

Above: The Paper and Pencil, in the Andersonville neighborhood.
Below: Atlas Stationers, in the Loop.

savoury Chicago cheesecake, at The Pittsfield diner

It’s a long, long haul- and notching all those highway tolls, towns, and milemarkers reminded me of that reality, along with the constant need for patience in all things. After returning to Maine, a good friend said to me that “OK is fine,” which is to say that my big aspirations are a lot to expect. This was somewhat reassuring for me to hear, while my efforts continue as always. There are major projects yet to accomplish, and never enough time or influence. Survival always screams loudest and thus gets the majority of my attention. Countless others are likely in similar straits. Speaking for myself, along with my dreams, OK is momentarily fine, but I’ll keep on reaching higher. Modest measures of forward movement are better than nothing. Town-to-town gets me to the bigger destinations. En route, I’ve found it to be wisest to keep on identifying what is good, as much as possible. At work, I’m helping and teaching dozens of people daily, while conserving and offering primary source material. Every single workday attests to the extraordinary value of professional versatility, and how polished and productive I’ve been making this, contrasting how too many recruiters assume an unreality that ascribes one-skill-per-worker. Excelling at many things amounts to a full and focused life, and this should be desirable for any institution- no less in tight economic times. Identifying what is good keeps things interesting. This came to mind as my long-distance navigation wove through fields, vineyards, and along some of the Great Lakes. Despite the job market and all its barriers, like a true Alarm fan, I’m singing about the things that I need: Love, Hope, and Strength.

my favorite Chicago bookstore, The Armadillo's Pillow- in the Rogers Park neighborhood.

“...things that attest to the human spirit.”

Lake Michigan, viewed from the Rogers Park neighborhood.