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.”

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.

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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.

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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
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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.

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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

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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.”

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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.