above and beyond

“Raise yourself above yourself.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Meditationes Vitae Christi.

In order to win a week’s worth of liberty for some healthful retreat time, I needed months of perseverance, patience, and tolerance. Somehow, productively staying the course and my unending chain of purposeful novenas helped me reach my day to get out on the road. The workplace honored my request. Indeed, I was especially prepared- and grateful. I had plenty of lead-time for correspondence with my welcoming hosts, the Marian community at the National Shrine of the Divine Mercy, which is in the Berkshires. I have a long history of going up to the mountains for contemplative respite and solace. During the weeks prior to the pilgrimage, I was reading Thomas Merton’s New Seeds of Contemplation, even beginning a novena timed to conclude on the day following my return to Maine. I was so ready that my car was completely packed and provisioned two days before making the southwestern drive to westernmost Massachusetts. That’s where I wanted to be. And more than that, a place of pilgrimage is a place that calls you. Yes, you want to make the sanctified sojourn, but you also need to travel there and attentively be there. I brought writing, reading, and photo material with me, as well as deep-seated prayers including those of friends that asked me for remembrance- intrinsic to pilgrimage. Too much time had passed since my last retreat, and I must do better at flexing my constraints. Alas, there are always logistics, but at least I have the wherewithal to get to the wellsprings!

Though not quite as steep as the neighboring mountains, the Berkshires are contiguous to the Adirondacks, the Taconics, and the Green Mountains, and they are equally scenic. I’ve hiked Berkshire portions of the Appalachian Trail that wind between Sheffield and the Adams area. The Divine Mercy Shrine is located in Stockbridge, northwest of the Trail and south of Lenox. Being there in late-September, I enjoyed early-autumn colors, temperatures in the 50s, and cooled mountain air. In their constant motions, the sharp breezes gave me the impression of freshwater streams. Mountain air has a sweeter aroma than what I know from along the ocean. The swirling cool air was so remarkable that that it was impossible not to take note. The windows of my room at the Shrine, in the St. John Paul II House, faced north toward the sources of these wonderful winds.

Natural elements as those immediately at hand served to cultivate some renewed energies. I’d love a lot more of both. There cannot be enough to help counteract the stagnation that I interrupted at the workplace. And along similar lines, the adornments of a place of pilgrimage offer chances to visit and speak with extraordinary and spiritually-minded people. With the Shrine’s liturgical observances as the center-point, the sum-total made for the sort of otherworldly respite I regularly need.

As my own broader pilgrimage of trust adds still more layers of living the Divine Mercy Chaplet, the practice of the prayer and its spirit become unprompted and somehow infused. Like breathing, reaching for mercy is unceasing. It’s even integral to workplace coffee breaks and bus commuting. Navigating life and surely my as-yet-unresolved search for better employment increase in their difficulties, forcing me to strive harder at remedies. I think I am speaking for many others, too. I suppose I can take stock of cultivated abilities to call forth healthful practices amidst desperate times. Against dead weight are inward devotions. Yet still, flying with anchors shackled to ankles threatens to lower mental altitudes. Reflective times, whether as short weekday breaks, or long-distance retreats, are vital, as I hold things together amidst tenuousness. Intermissions, such as this recent sojourn, thankfully remind me there is a big world that far transcends my confines. Skies above mountain landscapes are always wondrously animated. I have at least the presence of mind to savour the privilege of being able to immerse in beautiful environments of my choosing. Hiking on trails that tunnel though thick trees, a reminder came to me that if I want a worthwhile future- which I absolutely do- I must redeem the moment.

part of the furniture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

basic and grounded

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

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

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

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

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

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

spirited words

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

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

civilization

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

holding fast

“Refuse to let the world corrupt you.”

~ James 1:27

1

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

2

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

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

3

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

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