tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74446248992163634722024-03-15T21:09:31.683-04:00La Vie Graphitespeculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.comBlogger454125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-60682232790917765522024-02-11T11:19:00.005-05:002024-02-11T11:19:28.865-05:00imagination<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgflLIrq21sFqyO3BZAsA6nBO55s5Cg1mwVX2uLeYlNIUqguXaBmBoL0ztzP81o7bBTNUEcrDXz51gOqqgeYO93JfU-pravZxSTtBodfxSIYc5qZRXzr11c-WYhqpLkV0-wJUiQ3NpNGq_isYtixnXarwUqTSuUDhP8pssnDOKfnWMV9GLxirwVubP5Fzw/s1600/imagination_001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="611" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgflLIrq21sFqyO3BZAsA6nBO55s5Cg1mwVX2uLeYlNIUqguXaBmBoL0ztzP81o7bBTNUEcrDXz51gOqqgeYO93JfU-pravZxSTtBodfxSIYc5qZRXzr11c-WYhqpLkV0-wJUiQ3NpNGq_isYtixnXarwUqTSuUDhP8pssnDOKfnWMV9GLxirwVubP5Fzw/s1600/imagination_001.JPG"/></a></div>
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“For me, reason is the natural organ of truth; <br>
but imagination is the organ of meaning. <br>
Imagination, producing new metaphors or revivifying old, <br>
is not the cause of truth, but its condition. <br>
It is, I confess, undeniable that such a view indirectly <br>
implies a kind of truth or rightness in the imagination itself.” </i><br><br>
~ C.S. Lewis, <i>Bluspels and Flalansferes</i> <br><br><br>
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Giving lectures and reading to audiences have evolved into very comfortable and pleasant experiences. My teaching background certainly helps, but knowing my topics frees me from excessive rigidity. Obviously, it all depends upon the audience, and no two groups are ever alike. A recent presentation about archives lent itself especially well to some storytelling. On that particular afternoon, during a dreary winter day, I had brought out examples of treasures such as rare books, maps, prints, and city directories. These types of artifacts are especially conducive to time-traveling musings. I’m surely with the patrons, students, and all the curious- as we all marvel at photographs of specific places then-and-now, noticing the changes.
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To do justice to my occupation, I taught myself about when certain various prominent buildings were built, extended, or demolished. Such facts continue to be invaluable for identifying undated imagery and supporting researchers. Years ago while sleuthing out the sites of extinct streets, writing narrative essays with an expression I coined: “<a href="https://strangemaine.blogspot.com/search/label/ghost%20streets" target="_blank">ghost streets</a>.” This is to say buried thoroughfares that are gone without a trace. These have been very popular. In a juxtaposition of past and present, cheering an audience on an especially damp day, I made reference to how the local art college is currently in a former department store building constructed in 1904. The store was called <i>Porteous, Mitchell, and Braun</i> (that first name is pronounced “<i>POHR-tchuss</i>”).
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<center><i>now that's a proper pen department</i></center>
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“Now imagine,” I offered to the group, pointing to my left, “walking up Congress Street, stepping inside that big building at number 522, and suddenly noticing bright chandeliers, colorful merchandise, the din of chatting salespeople and customers above the muffled piano music, and the aromas of cosmetics and perfumes.” There followed memories of people among my audience, chiming in with their own recollections. I held up a Porteous ad for Esterbrook fountain pens, printed from a 1952 Christmas season issue of the <i>Portland Evening Express</i> (which gave me a chance to explain the microfilmed newspaper collection). I am often in the role of informing patrons about what was, en route to explaining what is.
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<center><i>somehow, all I needed was the advertisement, and look what I brought back from my time travel errand.</i></center>
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Early 20th century archival theorist Sir Hilary Jenkinson taught that archivists do best to read the documents in their care, and to be acquainted with the contents. I’ve personally seen this to be an extremely useful idea, especially when it comes to the level of service I can provide, and how I draw together sources and researchers. It’s really about recognition and making connections. Like compassion, these are uniquely human abilities. I’ve been studying the materials, making notes, and committing many things to practical memory. Indeed, this has become the less-traveled road, but the relational touch is surely the most meaningful. Just as people are souls, archives are recorded activities that attest. Through the years of preserving and providing public access to archival material, by default I’ve also had innumerable occasions to be acquainted with many of the people who inquire and use these artifacts. Often, there are patrons who will show up daily for a stretch of time, feverishly nibbling away pursuing evidence of parts of their personal histories. I witness all ages seeking the past, looking for understanding and purpose. I’m no different. Each request is respected, never derided. So many among us simply want to know, then let the witnessing archivist be an eloquent accompanist. With the philosopher Blaise Pascal who pondered in writing: <i>“I am astonished at being here rather than there; for there is no reason why here rather than there, why now rather than then.”</i> Inevitably, archives are facts that can enchant the imagination. Once again, and along with my students and patrons, I’m affected, too. Frankly, I could never figure out why other archivists don’t write about their metaphysical experiences. Manuscripts, images, maps, ships’ logs, and even ledgers present much more than what superficially meets the eye. And then there are the interactive discoveries for researchers interpreting the records.
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The preservation of the documental record is meant to inform the panoramas between planning ahead, as well as the fleshing out of historiography. Narratives abound in manuscripts, revealing human activities and communications. Indeed, we can understand the popularity of historic novels! And then there is reverie. Serving the public for many years, once in a while I’m asked by patrons marveling over century-old photographs of streets crowded with pedestrians and trolley cars, “Why can’t things go back to the way they were?” Many, many more people wish this without admitting so much. We imagine with our hopes; speaking as a New Englander in the local parlance: <i>“So don’t I.”</i>
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From pinched and barricaded confines, imagination insistently pries at the horizons. Ambition is vital. Don’t expect anyone to remind you to flex your hopeful imaginings; we must know to exhort ourselves. Speaking for myself, I write my wishes and prayers as journal entries, often scribing them amidst woeful environments. Remember to dream forward: observe and read between the lines. What we see is not all there is. Our conditioned and compromised cultures reduce our palates to bland, surface bluntness. It is for us to challenge ourselves to think beyond what is “at face,” and cultivate our intellects. We navigate societies of documented hard numbers and literal databases, but the human-voiced manuscripts invite us into the poetry of metaphor. When I managed and facilitated the reference library in a Catholic college, I read the memoir of St. John XXIII in which he wrote of himself, <i>“I am a songbird perched in thorns.”</i> Such a powerful metaphor has never left my thoughts, and I’ve invoked it numerous times since.
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The spheres of metaphor and allegory have always provided places of habitation for me, though perceiving through these lexicons can be a two-edged sword when I have to creatively translate for those who cannot interpret subtlety. Fulton Sheen once said, <i>“Introspection requires a lot of humility;”</i> helpful words for speaker and listener alike. I’ll occasionally use archives as metaphor with my philosophy students. Wonderfully diverse as they’ve always been, they refreshingly think and speak at multiple levels. Archival work is entwined with axiological applications- as principles of origin, function, and value are integral to stewardship. Examples help provide crossroads for abstraction and practicality to meet. These also provide runways for metaphysical flights of fancy. Pointing to historic maps and photographs, I’ll ask, <i>“Do places have intrinsic memories?”</i> We’d like to think so. In my helpless insomnia, I imagine being cradled on the waves, aboard a peaceful vessel. In my curatorial adventures, I found documentation from 1948 about a <i>Friend Ship</i> that was sponsored by the Maine Rotary, which brought 107 cargo tons of food and clothing to France. The ship, built in Maine, was called the <i>Saint Patrick</i>, and it crossed the Atlantic in eleven days. Pleasant thoughts of calm seas and noble ambitions. Keep on visualizing better times. As confining situations constrict, my imaginings of comforts, vastness, and possibilities intensify as antidotes. I’d like to think there is still time for improvement.
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<center><i>the Saint Patrick sailing from Portland, Maine to Nantes, France</i></center>
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-5538405946164467002024-01-01T11:20:00.004-05:002024-01-05T17:43:40.410-05:00looking forward<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZxB35ISR7sFhfLAXQQdU4YfhvnDou4nItA-pfgOWcFEWblfTXKzV26_4uxAm1gaejMU9FmtC3FZbSw4f4OidfD0U69Fx1AN7DvA3CmYTERaOfdPYkjFRdY8N0xRMBGN18UtfyseAQ6xEzHiQGxoylP0E_mouygDUBnP4ungD4rMxLlYZYDaPpiBATSA0/s1600/lookfor_001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZxB35ISR7sFhfLAXQQdU4YfhvnDou4nItA-pfgOWcFEWblfTXKzV26_4uxAm1gaejMU9FmtC3FZbSw4f4OidfD0U69Fx1AN7DvA3CmYTERaOfdPYkjFRdY8N0xRMBGN18UtfyseAQ6xEzHiQGxoylP0E_mouygDUBnP4ungD4rMxLlYZYDaPpiBATSA0/s1600/lookfor_001.JPG"/></a></div>
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<i>"The kingdom of heaven only costs as much as you have."</i> <br>
~ Saint Gregory<br><br>
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Between the completion of various projects, commitments, and the subsequent holiday weekends, I was able to take a few days away for a quiet retreat in December. Respite time has been extremely rare in the past four years, now generally known as the “covid era” (albeit with the first year being under quarantining orders). Laborers on pared-down staffs often became the surviving hands-on-deck in their respective places of work. I wrote about being among “the working wounded;” yet truly thankfully employed and bill-paying, but holding course while staving off the burnout in my midst. This pandemic era may be tailing off now, but economic and societal conditions have been permanently altered. Suffice it to say, many practical matters are simply too dissimilar to those of four years ago to be as reliable as they were. Try finding an actual hardcopy newspaper now (and when you do, notice how the price is exponentially higher). Notice how social interaction is much more electronic than in-person, how commerce is relegated to impersonal self-checkout, and how a “wallet” is now stored financial data. A “menu option” left the context of restaurant dining, and became a term of robotic telecommunication. As recently as four years ago, taking earned time off meant physically turning to a colleague and comparing calendars; it has since become cajoling and electronic wrangling. Much more than the rigors of earning the time, there are added equations in being <i>able</i> to use the time. The bar having been raised, it is necessary to jump higher with the changed rules of the game. Of course I can do this, and I must.
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As the will makes for the way, I recently managed to negotiate for a very modest amount of respite and backup coverage. Eight months in the waiting, the worthwhile carrot at the end of the proverbial stick was a stretch of days for slivers of spiritual health, silence, and writing. Having very little time to plan, as well as to find coverage, I searched for a place that would make space for a pilgrim during this time of the year. An Advent intermission from the beaten track and the routines was what I needed, and a very kind invitation came from a Cistercian community in Massachusetts. Getting through the subsequent complexities related to springing forth for a short time, the more pleasant parts of preparation ensued.
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As I’ve known for years, most any sojourn can be a pilgrimage; it needn’t involve great distance. Intention is basically all that is needed. For a pilgrim of trust, the purpose is to sanctify time and place for immersion in the sacred. In anticipation, I began to assemble trip necessities such as writing and reading material, clothing, camera, and some groceries to add to the guesthouse provisions. This was my first time both at Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey, and in southwestern Norfolk County, though I know the general region. My drive to Wrentham took about three hours on roads that traverse familiar New England terrain that comprises cities with repurposed mill buildings, farms, forests, and villages. The winding country road leading to the abbey slices through tall pines, and must be navigated slowly. Arriving to gentle greetings, I proceeded to the guesthouse and found an envelope on a lit end-table which welcomed me in cursive flourishes resembling the tones I’d heard moments before. Setting my satchel and duffel bag in my dormered room, I immediately and gratefully felt the quiet of the place, along with like the country air. Two of the community’s guest sisters and I spoke about the vitality of contemplative silence. We talked about how burnout endangers the souls of this culture’s understaffed overworked. We also made reference to weather alerts pertaining to an approaching storm. From there, we all prepared for vespers. Above all, being in late-December I was among kindred spirits in anticipation of the Advent.
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Gradually settling into the old, familiar monastic rhythm, I immediately noticed how tightly-wound I’d been for too long. Equally old and familiar is the sense of reverse-inertia: slowing down to a halt needs quite a long runway. The soothing tones of sung liturgies harmonize with the natural landscape, helping to transit from stressful vigilance to receptivity. Even as the rainstorm arrived, the patter on the abbey church roof pronouncedly audible, the peaceful ambience of the place simply absorbed all sounds. During an evening service, the rain intensified into a backdrop for the readings, chanted psalms, and silent adoration. I later heard the continuum of pelting rain on the skylight immediately overhead in my little room.
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The storm amounted to something similar to a hurricane, with torrential rain and 90mph winds persisting throughout the following day. I cannot remember ever seeing such hard rain. Looking from the guesthouse windows reminded me of driving through a carwash, but this went on for more than a day, eventually causing felled trees and a regional power outage. Along with the loss of electricity was the loss of heat, hot water, and backup generators. The abbey had to cancel services. We used plenty of candles in the guesthouse, dining on leftovers, still savouring the spirit of the community. Even considering the cold, dark night ahead, I did not try to make an early trip back to Maine; the storm was moving north, and I would’ve been contending with hazardous conditions all the way up. The best thing to do was to patiently wait out the weather. Inevitably the storm passed, yet the outage was predicted to last another day. Washing with cold water the following morning, and downing day-old tepid coffee from my thermos, I packed my car for the return in daylight. Before taking to the roads, I made sure to thank my hosts and to bask in the healthful silence of the unlit abbey church. While the retreat had to be shortened, there was plenty to cherish, such as an open-ended welcome to come back, some new friends, and the acquaintance with an oasis new to me. Driving between large branches and fallen trees, en route to highways and hot coffee, was that among other things I have hope itself.
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<center><i>the storm past; writing by candlelight</i></center>
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<i>“Still will we trust, though earth seem dark and dreary,”</i> William Burleigh composed more than a century ago; <i>“Though rough and steep our pathway, worn and weary.”</i> Indeed, I returned from a shortened sojourn, back to work and the search for better, holding fast to Advent light as night falls in the afternoons. A new year approaches. Perhaps a suitable excuse, as the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve may not automatically regenerate much more than a calendar. As the <i>Battle for the Better</i> continues, albeit via <i>Advancement by Small Measures</i>, I’m looking to the upcoming year with the usual ache for a good future. Fully aware of being in the thick of significant work, there’s every good reason to keep at it. Looking forward is the best thing I can possibly do. I needed at least a year and a half to write the <a href="https://laviegraphite.blogspot.com/2022/09/necessary-sadness.html" target="_blank">housing-loss grief</a> out of myself. Now it’s the forward gaze that indicates preparation for the granting of my most vigorous wishes. It isn’t really difficult to insist upon looking forward, with essentially so little left for which to look back. If anything at all, I’m looking forward to returning to the abbey in Wrentham during better weather. Grand things manifest because of humble things. While commenting about Psalms 13 and 14, Saint Augustine remarked that <i>“Interior and unceasing prayer is the desire of the heart.”</i> Essentially, one’s profoundest hopes are distilled into intentions of the spirit. He added,<i> “The desire of your heart is itself your prayer.”</i>
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Reminiscent of my original profession and my most fluent language: photography, I find my reminders for the present. Practitioners of the craft like me can recall or point to studios, portfolios (effectively our resumés), projects, exhibitions, and tools of the trade. Far and away, the most important aspect is a cultivated sense of vision. This transcendent ingredient is also known as “the photographer’s eye.” Artistic vision, as I’ve found, can be applied to numerous types of work and facets of life- even the human imagination. As a working archivist and conservator for nearly 26 years, I’ve often envisioned completed results (and their remedies) ahead of time. But that doesn’t mean I can predict the events of the new year, as these involve much greater complexities than those of my sole efforts. Once again, and at the very least, I can put up my end of things, and I know enough to <i>"forget those things which are behind, and reach forward to those things which are ahead, pressing toward the goal for the prize of the upward call*"</i>. Everything is in need of improvement; bring on the new year. <br><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgel7ZvpYPLoRogMSDY5i2laacjZduvbHExtfEL6zfnCIWJ69BpPv9BRTbe6kLugKK266IjCvdgI3ZC7or1bsUoED0S2pUNtk0H0RLDN7WtjNHJc1_oZ_zje2tkEHxQgvj0VxFK8hAMGUUTudxNm3-TdimmInNYJmRlr6kXC3ycMOGu76pPfOx7d1WkWg/s1600/lookfor_0010.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgel7ZvpYPLoRogMSDY5i2laacjZduvbHExtfEL6zfnCIWJ69BpPv9BRTbe6kLugKK266IjCvdgI3ZC7or1bsUoED0S2pUNtk0H0RLDN7WtjNHJc1_oZ_zje2tkEHxQgvj0VxFK8hAMGUUTudxNm3-TdimmInNYJmRlr6kXC3ycMOGu76pPfOx7d1WkWg/s1600/lookfor_0010.JPG"/></a></div>
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<center><i>views from Saint Mary's Abbey, by ambient light only</center></i>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfn5-k8XaNbbBfsx0S5NdwD0xXh_FJNYbGchGZSPxE-Z5rBAAwfcvNQWR1An-TLn8IE3o1S0iMdoe_2tBoAJlSv3HS6XXQ-l45NzZBXY4DgGMjXI6AqSAvcmsSC2pgmsuX6TgmKhFwOUNdWwU0GO_s2cwJ3xNFTAj16ZqtQMczCKOgH8tP3YXnQvTzxmo/s1600/lookfor_0012.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfn5-k8XaNbbBfsx0S5NdwD0xXh_FJNYbGchGZSPxE-Z5rBAAwfcvNQWR1An-TLn8IE3o1S0iMdoe_2tBoAJlSv3HS6XXQ-l45NzZBXY4DgGMjXI6AqSAvcmsSC2pgmsuX6TgmKhFwOUNdWwU0GO_s2cwJ3xNFTAj16ZqtQMczCKOgH8tP3YXnQvTzxmo/s1600/lookfor_0012.JPG"/></a></div>
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<i>*Philippians, chapter 3</i>
speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-70725727968289879932023-12-14T16:23:00.002-05:002023-12-14T16:23:25.934-05:00domine, ut videam<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-IZwGRwnihVN5s2_M-ci5xc-a8UtgdAXZL9fQc9D_L7SyvB7j4hI8haQ2Wt0GpZC8Ir559K8JEsD89mhVML1W1_98gaq5YEPd1OoNqQWXd74jJJdZNRuQ7UDfQG1hx5plz_UAHQ2tG6w27WObWKVa-B16biEzcDzFIEKXqh67zbCIfWDJJUt1OMilKQ/s1600/DUV_001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="577" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-IZwGRwnihVN5s2_M-ci5xc-a8UtgdAXZL9fQc9D_L7SyvB7j4hI8haQ2Wt0GpZC8Ir559K8JEsD89mhVML1W1_98gaq5YEPd1OoNqQWXd74jJJdZNRuQ7UDfQG1hx5plz_UAHQ2tG6w27WObWKVa-B16biEzcDzFIEKXqh67zbCIfWDJJUt1OMilKQ/s1600/DUV_001.JPG"/></a></div>
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“When darkness falls; when nighttime is at its deepest, <br>
and day seems far away; whenever we seem caught and blinded <br>
by the powers and principalities of this present darkness, <br>
there’s only one thing to do. <br>
Turn on the light.<br><br>
Many have said it across the years, in philosophy and stories, <br>
in words of wisdom and song, and yet we are so quick to forget. <br>
But there is a simple solution to the darkness of a room <br>
in the middle of the night, of mind and heart, <br>
of civilization and society. Reach for the flashlight, <br>
for the word of hope, for the prayer. <br>
Open the door to light, to grace, and to glory; <br>
invite in the Light of the World, and allow that light <br>
to chase away the shadows of nighttime fears. <br>
Turn on the light.” </i> <br><br>
~ Carrie Gress, <i>A Litany of Light</i> <br><br><br>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
The paragraphs quoted above are reproduced with Dr. Gress’ permission; her text was given to me <a href="https://laviegraphite.blogspot.com/2023/05/misericordias-domini.html" target="_blank">last April</a> at the National Shrine of the Divine Mercy, when I spent a week there. That was my last significant time off from work. Such respite has not been possible since. Stresses and excessive fatigue have intensified my already longstanding insomnia. Not an easy topic, and I’ve been resisting any sort of permanency for a condition that must not last; just like a miserable housing situation. Let hardship generate needed motivation to transcend. Typical insomniac nights are restless. Imagine being at the conclusion of full and arduous workdays, yet unable to fall asleep- or remain asleep. None of the usual tactics help- from shutting down the lit screen early in the evening, to routines for bringing the day in for a landing, to reflective reading. I’ve always been told to walk around and have a glass of water, instead of tossing-and-turning in place. That doesn’t work, either. Listening to the radio is another repeatedly bad measure. The cast of culprits includes employment, housing, worries, regrets, frustrations, and other various obstacles. In this context, the <i>Litany of Light</i> I’ve quoted here offers a discipline to stem these daunting tides. “Turn on the light” is occasionally literal- so that I can write something down- and is more often metaphorical. As well, the discipline is not rigorous, but in forms of gentle reminders. <i>Gentleness</i> is surely not something experienced in daily life, not even in the boorishly cacophonous apartment building. Forms of gentleness worth my practicing include chaplets, prayers, and turning the light on- either by redirecting thoughts or by flashlight. This is to survive to see better days, and ahead of that to being open to seeing better. The biblical Bartimaeus miraculously received his sight by praying, <i>Domine, ut videam</i>, which means <i>O God, help me to see!</i>
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The present state of my self-discipline is to refrain from fixating my sights far beyond the immediate. There is nothing easy about this, especially after pulling my own weight- and then some- for many, many vigilant years. But in rescinding my grasp, in modest increments, it becomes easier to sense the guiding consolations of saints and angels. It is essential for me to stay the course of good conscience, smart work, and responsibility- even though I’ve yet to see favorable results. I know enough not to expect favors, and I remember very well how my father would encourage me to keep at it: he’d say “Keep on stepping up and swinging the bat for the fences!” My wakeful and repeatedly fractured nights are riddled with reminders of how badly all my efforts are going, and I understand enough to consider my circumstances as an engulfing trial of as-yet-unknown duration. What I <i><b>do</b></i> know is the immediate, and <i>the next right thing</i> is what needs my attention; there’s nothing nebulous about that. Continuing to productively work is paralleled by continuing to network and search for better. Anguish serves to generate ambition.
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Finding light in the darkness is a constant pursuit, yet paradoxically thinking about that very pursuit itself winds up helping me get back to sleep. I recently remembered something I’d do while on cherished travels such as pilgrimages: at the close of the day, I’d fall asleep while recalling the good things I experienced. With eyes closed, lying back, my thoughts would effortlessly return to the day’s scenery, people, sounds, tastes, and ideas. A grateful review of the day. Now under twin yokes of work duress and miserable housing, I try closing the day and gratefully asking, “what did I like today? What went well?” The temporary apartment is cramped, oppressive, and often invasively loud. When I’m wakefully clambering to look out from the windows, using a small flashlight to help me squeeze my way to pouring a glass of water during the midnight hours, I always notice the rare quiet. Working two careers that required the sharpest, clearest photo images, I marvel at the dusky, grainy, grey light of the hours long before dawn. My ache for better days and situations keeps me ambitiously working, and also keeps me awake at night.
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During a recent sojourn at the Boston Athenaeum, I studied the 17th century text, <i>Tender Counsel and Advice by way of Epistle</i>, by pioneering Quaker William Penn. As always during my prized study days in the manuscripts room, I made numerous notes for my later reading. Providing his tender counsel, applying the Quaker emphasis to <i>mind the Light</i>, Penn bids the reader to <i>walk in the holy Light of Christ</i>, and thereby be preserved through all trials and difficulties on earthly life’s pilgrimage:
<blockquote><i>“For even Jesus was tempted and tried, and is therefore become our Captain, because he overcame. Neither be ye cast down, because the Lord sometimes seemeth to hide his Face from you, that you feel not always that Joy and Refreshment, that you sometimes enjoy. I know what work the Enemy maketh of these Withdrawings of the Lord. Perhaps he will insinuate, that</i> God hath deserted you in his displeasure, that you must never expect to see him, that he will never come again: <i>And by these and the like strategems, he will endeavour to shake your faith and hope, and distract you with fear, and to beget great jealousies and doubts in you; and by impatience and infidelity, frustrate your good beginnings.”</i></blockquote>
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Reaching for light, along with recollecting positive experiences, help to uphold a sense of wonder to be able to look forward. As much as it runs against the grain of desolation, it is all the more essential to force the effort to stay hopeful. Trading consolations one morning with a colleague that is also a good friend, we compared how we wryly express our perseverance. In a comedic gruffness, looking up from a computer, my friend said, “I’m <i>happy</i>, dammit!” I replied with my sarcastic equalizer, “I’m being <i>positive</i> ‘til it kills me!” Even amidst austerity, there’s room for some kind of humor. Sarcasm, however, can detrimentally ingrain itself into one’s every perspective. I described catching and adjusting my own propensities as being similar to a car with misaligned wheels. With some focused consideration, I’ll steer my thoughts forward, preventing myself from swerving off the road. Balance and luminosity need one another, and all the more in dark and unmarked valleys. “For with you is the fountain of life,” wrote King David in the 36th Psalm; “In Your light we shall see light.” Philosophizing about the verse in the 5th century, Saint Augustine observed, “we are, and understand, because of divine illumination.” Have I got enough of this light of understanding, and do I obstruct the headlamps of guidance? As the matter of the heart is the heart of the matter, I try holding up my end of things with all I can provide. Sure, there’s grace, but typically it’s been costlier for me than it’s <i>seemed</i> to be for most everyone I know. Whether or not that’s true, with contrast being the mother of clarity, it honestly looks that way to me. Leaving such notions aside, and now insistently swerving away from them, the road ahead must include surrendering the failings and the incorrigibles. Living an ascended, resurrected life is needed for new beginnings. Let the way upward be lit by aspiration and gratitude.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-23951474548233927652023-11-12T14:55:00.003-05:002023-11-13T07:49:09.296-05:00within<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyoZEb6g6Dy_o6arQX_GacjLRIjGsmYRezBSV6pmHQuUUJfR98M08mk1-mI8_LEFraDsDghZBaJpqZw40X7bTvIh1IEqi77esD-qfIVA4i1ZnInp-4XTG6_r2ObIjS_hR4whDXyF8t_OpCmUXHXa7Yr6TRJ3tFNdqH7VDqfu7xVOWoaIIEx54mvsqwaqg/s1600/within_001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyoZEb6g6Dy_o6arQX_GacjLRIjGsmYRezBSV6pmHQuUUJfR98M08mk1-mI8_LEFraDsDghZBaJpqZw40X7bTvIh1IEqi77esD-qfIVA4i1ZnInp-4XTG6_r2ObIjS_hR4whDXyF8t_OpCmUXHXa7Yr6TRJ3tFNdqH7VDqfu7xVOWoaIIEx54mvsqwaqg/s1600/within_001.JPG"/></a></div>
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<i>“The Spirit moves the faithful to plead <br>
with sighs too deep for words by inspiring in them <br>
a desire for the great and as yet unknown reality <br>
that we look forward to with patience. <br>
How can words express what we desire when it remains unknown? <br>
If we were entirely ignorant of it we would not desire it; <br>
again, we would not desire it or seek it with sighs, <br>
if we were able to see it.”</i> <br><br>
~ Saint Augustine, <i>The Spirit Pleads for Us</i>. <br><br><br>
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Maybe you’re a bit like me, and your morning routines include tuning into the news of current events. If you know better than to do this, you’re much smarter than me. An old habit of mine for many years has been to wake-wash-dress-caffeinate with the radio tuned to the news. Added to the ensemble is online news and checking for messages. In recent years, the “ensemble” is more like a <i>barrage</i> to me. Invariably, I’ll glean just enough to know what’s happening and something about weather prognostication, increasingly choosing to begin the day with writing and reading. Indeed, <i>lit screens</i> are integral to each day- especially at work- and can be very useful, if not essential for <i>connectivity</i>, communication, and construction of resources. After all, I’ve been a blogger for 17 years, gratefully authoring essays, and the results have opened doors to extraordinary writing opportunities and fellowships. Simultaneously, considering the internet’s persistent abundance, controlling even a limited stream is equally essential for clarity of thought. Especially at the start of the demanding day. The pandemic era revealed to the isolated many that it is left to the individual to manage their own mental and spiritual health. And develop an intellectual, artistic life. Without such pursuits, it becomes even easier to be lulled into digital complacency. Days flow into months and years. “We have only so much time,” said a pastor friend of mine, “to gladden the hearts of those who make the journey with us.”
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As I try experimenting with apportioning my sparse, unsold slivers of time, I’m minimizing media to make space for unfettered constructive thoughts. Making a few written notes in my journal, the words are re-read and built upon later in the day. Thoughts at daybreak seem as unimpeded as any I’ll have. Extending to my uttermost reaches to improve a desperate situation, I’m repeatedly writing about <i>hope</i>. A soul that hopes is one that aspires to see and inhabit better days. And <i>persistent</i> hope does not cease to seek ways to succeed. A living hope somehow generates its own adrenaline supply: a saturated strength, especially as it’s captivated by the unseen. Ideals may seem abstract, but conceptually striving efforts toward better work and housing are tangible motivations. Hope’s objects may be out of view, but these intentions are solid. Many individuals want to talk about their hopes, sharing them, even assisting others with theirs. Unfulfilled hopes drive many to the extremities of their abilities, becoming pleas for assistance, and further as outpourings of prayers.
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A conscientious, focused suppliant <i>turns the mind and thoughts to God</i>. Contemplation essentially entails immersing the mind into the heart. Ancient wisdom as recorded in the <i>Philokalia</i> refers to prayer as “conversing with God, in reverent respect and hope.” Saint Dimitri wrote, “Collect all your thoughts: laying aside all worldly cares, direct your mind towards God.” As worries reflect fears, prayer reflects a driven hope. An aspiration that is anything but passive demands a paradoxical combination of persistence and surrender. And it must be lived, much more than observed. To be thwarted for many years at every turn is exhausting, yet still I counteract the weariness with increased striving. Navigating a careful balance between coasting and full-throttle intensity is a discipline in itself. A mystery, indeed, that is neither vague wishing nor obsessive grasping. Intent upon improvement, what lesson is there to be gleaned? Hope is essential, but perhaps one mustn’t hope too intensely? Wishing and hoarding are sentiments than run in opposite directions. We’re all susceptible to overthinking, particularly when straining to overcome deficiencies <i>en route</i> to goals. I surely know the dangers of the paralysis-of-analysis, yet I fall under them nonetheless. It’s a long, long haul and if improvements are merely incremental, they’re still positive factors.
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Outside of such things as archival documentation (speaking from many years as a professional archivist), all that is past has ceased to pulsate: At best, it informs, whether we choose to look back a day or a decade. Trying to steer away from anxious wakefulness, my efforts are to channel thoughts to the immediate. Aware of juggling several unsustainable <i>continua</i>, I warn myself against pondering this. Just pursue and tack toward calmer waters. Endure and trust. I’ve witnessed countless friends burn out, and notwithstanding how much I’ve had in common with most of these fine souls, thus far I’ve avoided such straits and fates. Navigating as such by my wits doesn’t mean I’m better; it means I’m intent upon surviving to see and to live improvement. Competition is at all hands, and the last thing I’d ever want to do is damage my chances. Inevitably, the finest of hopes grow amidst discouraging, fruitless, and inhospitable thickets. And thus, the words <i><b>hope</b></i> and <i><b>must</b></i> are twinned by necessity.
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Admittedly, treacherous shoals are far from limited to those offered by such outlets as those announcing what’s wrong and what’s deficient about us. There are parallel dangers in perfectionism, trend-chasing, and lack of compassion. “We’re human, all likewise God’s children,” wrote Josemaría Escrivá, “and we cannot think that life consists in building up a brilliant <i>curriculum vitæ</i> or an outstanding career. Ties of solidarity should bind us all and, besides, in the order of grace we are united by the supernatural bond of the Communion of Saints.” I read Escrivá’s remark while shivering at a deserted bus stop, admiring his big-picture view that inspires individuals to look beyond themselves. Has my manicured résumé really helped to pave a road for me? That’s the desired result, but so much of this entire odyssey reveals the limited control one person has over the critical complexities of living. Roadblocks attest to what cannot happen, but as with swerving away from dangers, these denials can become prompts toward magnanimity. One recent pared-down early morning, my gratitude came to mind that I’ve arrived at the impulse to ceaselessly look to God, and for the grace of perseverance. Manifestations of this type of grace, wrote Theophan the Recluse, “show itself on a person’s side in a yearning and aspiration towards God, and on God’s side in good intention, help, and protection.” At the very least, I am certain that God is. Perhaps there is more to that conviction than I’m able to comprehend now. In his work, <i>Collations on the Hexaëmeron</i>, Saint Bonaventure beautifully observed:
<blockquote><i>“The soul has to learn how to be willing and consistent. Grace lifts the soul above its own nature and effort, when grace elevates it to receive direct illuminations from God, which then become the subject of spiritual reflection and theological speculation.”</i></blockquote>
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Considering the sanctity of the soul, and trying to remove as much that is deleterious as possible, mental and spiritual refuge must be carefully and judiciously replenished. Winnowing chaff and pursuing advancement, I’m reminded of the first Johannine epistle. To me, John is the archivist’s apostle, peppering his letters and his evangel with terms such as <i>the record</i>, that which he <i>witnessed</i>, and that which was <i>written</i>, as one connecting historicity, his younger audience, and his personal experience. “Test the spirits, beloved,” he wrote in chapter four, so that we can discern what is authentic and confirming of the gospel. He encouraged his faithful students with, <i>you’ve overcome cruel spirits, because greater is the Holy Spirit within you, than that which circulates through the culture in our midst</i>. A popular American financial institution advertises its credit card by asking, “what’s in your wallet?” Over two millennia ago, John asked his listeners and readers, <i>“what’s within?”</i> What’s enshrined in your sanctuary? Applying some language from the archival profession, “what’s your collection development policy?” and “what are your appraisal criteria?” Like stewarding multifaceted archives, being the curator of one’s soul implies confrontation of deciding what warrants preservation. At the same time, I’m maintaining room for growth on the shelves, leaving space for worthwhile acquisitions.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-13876593567593864082023-10-26T11:14:00.006-04:002023-10-26T19:26:59.652-04:00standpoint
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<i>“In the words of the psalm, <br>
‘For with You is the fountain of life; <br>
it is only in Your light that we see light.’ <br><br>
Human beings have no other secure standpoint <br>
for being certain about anything at all.” </i><br><br>
~ Douglas Dales, referencing Psalm 36 and Saint Bonaventure, <br>
in <i>Truth and Reality : The Wisdom of Saint Bonaventure</i>. <br><br><br>
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My ongoing philosophical studies have continued to serve as healthful oases amidst chaos and setbacks. Such pursuits into contemplation also produce learning and constructive thoughts for me, as well as teaching material which I gladly share. With material needs as vital as housing and work in protracted fluidity, survival requires waystations in welcoming forms. As the Word is a lamp to my steps, so it is that in Divine light that I can discern light. Aspirations live in ethereal mists, and thus hopes are not always solid enough for my mortal self. A comfortable place to live and a really good job would do wonders to the morale, with all searches continuing as fibers in the general cord of the pursuit for improvement. This is not to say there aren’t present-moments to savour, because there are- both modest and grand. I’ve surely learned to constructively make do, under pared-down circumstances, throughout my working life. Yet I’ve never stopped hoping large and working ambitiously. It’s equal parts survival, fulfillment, and acknowledgment of the great teachers and mentors I’ve had.
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Because my studies are self-directed, I’ll stay with a topic until I’ve covered enough ground to my satisfaction. This practice dates back to my beginnings with philosophy-teaching, in 2015, and intensified during the austerity of pandemic-era quarantining. Lifelines of learning and writing still stand as reliable constants and sources of mental strength. I chose to revisit Saint Bonaventure’s <i>Itinerarium</i>, which I had first studied as the severities of early 2020 set in. Now, following deep dives into the works and lives of Wyclif, Erasmus, Colet, and the <i>Devotio Moderna</i>, the 13th century Bonaventure appears to me as a proto-Renaissance thinker. He was also a university professor and a Franciscan, blending charism and pedagogy with “No one comes to wisdom except through grace... One does not come to contemplation except through perspicacious meditation, holy comportment, and devout prayer.” Bonaventure has some aspects of the scholasticism in his midst, balanced by his mysticism, with metaphysical statements such as, “We are led to re-enter ourselves, that is our mind... one cannot enter within, unless by means of Christ, who says <i>I am the door...</i> but we do not approach this door unless we believe...” Navigating thus far- from Bonaventure’s <i>Itinerary</i>, to some of his commentaries, to the <i>Collations on the Hexaëmeron</i> I continue finding more to nourish me, and will simply keep on reading. It’s as though I’m standing near The Seraphic Doctor himself, with reverent devotion.
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Beginning in the middle of last year, I’ve had to function without a comforting home base- or as Dales observed (and quoted above), “a secure standpoint.” Between both work and housing instabilities, the vantage point is at once being between two dead-ends while also admitting that everything is up in the air. Thoughts of this reality at night are threatening. Thoughts of this at noon the next day almost seem exciting. But all thinking and activity take place amidst the din of instability and uncertainty; as much above it, as under it. Missing a physical, welcoming “home base,” that proverbial <i><b>secure standpoint</b></i> takes shape as a state of being during which I sense assurance. While frustratingly searching for a comfortable perch, I’ve thus far noticed ephemeral slivers of rest during times of study and writing: reading at bus stops, or sometimes late at night in the crunched hovel after the loud neighbors shut down, and writing during my thirty-minute lunch breaks, or outdoors any chance I get. Not terrible, making room for gratitude, but always too brief and just under the tension radar.
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<i><center>The Archives, 2023</center></i>
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For many years, I’ve called momentary intermissions <i>tagging up</i> which is a baseball expression describing a baserunner’s <i>safely advancing</i> amidst a play. During my 14 years of fulltime work in the pressured commercial photography field, I’d start days and find breathers “tagging up” at the counter of my studio darkroom. It was my base of operations, with two slick, imported Durst enlargers bolted to the surface, and filled with the tools of the custom photographic trade. To help me feel at ease during sickeningly stressful times, I decorated the place and had a small stereo system. Just about everyone I knew in the profession listened to music to keep up the pace of production; for me, it was new wave and opera. And I always had a thermos of coffee with me, as I do now. My memories of closing the darkroom door and gathering my wits for the next project come back to me when I do something similar- albeit in much shorter snippets, resetting during breaks in the archives. The building that housed my studio was torn down in 2016. Indeed, I photographed the demolition.
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<i><center>The Studio Darkroom, 1998</center></i>
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With the business and all the people who passed through the place as workers (many of whom I photographed), customers, friends, and vendors gone, I saw the large piles of debris frontloaded away in dump trucks. Six years later, I lost my home of nearly four decades, the building being converted into elite condos. These are now simply locations, their respective histories and lives syphoned out. They are past and gone, but here I am now and straining to look forward. Places such as cities or neighborhoods or buildings, I’ve learned, are stages. It’s about souls, more than about streets. Solid places to regroup thoughts and broaden perspectives are essentially replaced by <i>points of reflection</i>. My writing and reading are always with me, providing ready clefts of stability- lulls in the battle. Journaling affords the ability to write through trials and get them out of my system. Movements of conscience take time. In my journals, the term <i>point de repère</i>- which actually means a reference-point or a landmark- parallels how I’ve come to see moments as respite. And such metaphorical landmarks can be anywhere.
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A better side of remembrance is to recollect what we’ve learned. An individual as vast and inspired as the Apostle Paul wrote of his occasional rearward glances coinciding with reminders to himself of graces along his arduous path. I call this <i>stocktaking</i>. What’s good? Even between two dead ends, a burgeoning life reaches heavenward. Managing to schedule my first weekday off in three months, I made it a reflective day. “What’s good” included appreciating the outdoors at midday, chatting with friends, putting something away in my savings account, getting a very long-overdue haircut. Simple and understated, yet somehow luxurious. Profoundly missing those twice-yearly retreats I’d make- before 2020- something I can do is to find bits of time on weekends to recollect and accentuate graces learned. Among numerous turns-of-phrases I’ve learned from the monks of Taizé (and I’ve written down many, as well as words from the monks of Weston Priory), is the expression <i>almost nothing</i>. In context, this is to say there is always something one can do, <i>“even with very limited means, with almost nothing,”</i> to progress on the voyage to sanctification, and to help others. “See what you can accomplish with almost nothing,” Brother Emile once said to me. I use this at work, always aware of the spiritual/material ambiguity. "With <i>almost nothing</i>, with very little,” Brother Roger taught, “we can live something beyond all our hopes, something that will never come to an end." A beautifully hopeful thought.
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Another savoured expression I learned in Taizé is to <i>“live in the dynamic of the provisional.”</i> Consistent with the positive practicality of seeing what one can do with a lively spirit and almost nothing. Consider the fluidity of the present as the <i>provisional</i> challenges individuals to exercise the dynamism inherent amidst our temporal situations- which can be improved as we find ways to improve our perspectives and abilities. Perhaps our most enduring landmarks are within, away from heavy demolition vehicles and exploitive developers. When our points of reference tend from the physical to the spiritual, their properties do have a dynamic in our provisional reality. Hardly the seclusion of a studio, or the coziness of a Victorian livingroom, I await the daily workbound bus in the East End while looking to the skies. It rains a lot here, and I deal with the uncanopied bus stops by wrapping my books in plastic and using a lined water-resistant satchel. Looking up, I’ve taken to musing about how landmarks live in our spirits. If they’re real and important enough, I’ll write about them. The cutting-edge is whether to be constructive or to eat my heart out; that’s quite a choice. “I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound,” Paul observed as he addressed the Philippians. This comes to mind as I’ve watched many colleagues over the years burn out, while I try sensing the boundaries and do all I can to avoid becoming damaged goods. Keeping in good energies is essential in the reach for better days. “Pray without ceasing, and in all things give thanks,” wrote Paul to the Thessalonians. What supports our hopes? Causes can find me unwittingly, even at weatherbeaten bus stops, wielding my umbrella and a book with this grounding paragraph by Francisco Fernandez-Carvajal:
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<blockquote>“We mustn’t forget that our greatest happiness and our most authentic good are not always those which we dream of and long for. It is difficult for us to see things in their true perspective: we can only take in a very small part of complete reality. We only see a tiny piece of reality that is here, in front of us. We are inclined to feel that earthly existence is the only real one and often consider our time on earth to be the period in which all our longings for perfect happiness ought to be fulfilled.” </blockquote>
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Commenting about the determination of the humbled Zacchaeus (<i>Luke 19</i>), Bonaventure wrote, “it is the nature of genuine eagerness, which draws the soul to Christ, that even if obstacles are thrown in the way, its desire is not broken, but is the more enkindled.” Referring to my current studies as the <i>Bonaventure Adventure</i>, complete with a monthly day at the Boston Athenaeum library for replenishment, I’ve also made various side studies of his fellow Franciscans Saint Anthony and Saint Francis of Assisi. Comparing notes with a correspondent, I now know of the Franciscan Fr. Dolindo Ruotolo, whose extraordinary life gave the world a very simple devotional practice of openness to completely trusting the Holy Spirit within, called the <i>Surrender Novena</i>. The latter word means nine, as in nine consecutive days of focused meditation upon surrendering one’s will to God’s will. For example, in day eight’s reading, Ruotolo wrote in reflection of the Divine voice, “Repose in me, believing in my goodness, and I promise you by my love that if you say, <i>You take care of it</i>, I will take care of it all; I will console you, liberate you, and guide you.” I’ve been journeying through the past month with this compelling discipline. An elder friend of mine says it best: “Surrendering is so inviting; It sounds so easy until you try. Almost immediately after surrendering, you take up the problem and start dragging it around with you.” I couldn’t have expressed it better.
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Surrendering one’s personal will and mortal navigational abilities to the very force of Creation is a formidable discipline that requires its own vigilance. In the throes of intense searching and applying, there must be surrender of all the subsequent worries. And there are many. What will happen? Why can’t this or that be so? What wrongs must I correct? To add to my counterbalance exemplified in Ruotolo’s prayer are those of Brother Roger in his essay, <i>From Doubt to Humble Trusting</i>:“Let your anxiety be transformed into the trust of faith.” And there are thick, embedded layers of anxiety. Consciously implementing this spiritual practice is the adjustment of a way of thinking and being, trying to <i>surrender</i> my attempts to control what is out of my influence, and <i>not to fret</i>. That is a major challenge. I can just hold up my end of things, searching and presenting as well as my experiences inform, always looking to improve my pitch. A devotional practice emphasizing humility and surrender causes- even <i>forces</i>- me to <i>entrust</i> my efforts to God. All at once, struggles expose limits, and defeats ignite more rallying to transcend. To cease is to fall backwards. Yet here again, <i>surrender</i> exhorts that I release all the worries that tend to follow my best attempts. Submit those carefully-phrased credentials at uploaded attachments, and then detach. The same trusting confidence in attaching files must go with detaching from the appealing ads. The prayers of surrender are about confiding, entrusting, and releasing fears and worries. Plenty still for me to learn, as I attentively correct my missteps and continue seeking a secure standpoint.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-40439141907740365432023-09-29T21:15:00.007-04:002023-09-30T11:05:32.955-04:00more than this
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<i>“I'm hearing right and wrong so clearly <br>
There must be more than this. <br>
It's only in uncertainty <br>
That we're naked and alive. <br>
I hear it through the rattle of a streetcar; <br>
Hear it through the things you said. <br>
I can get so scared. <br>
Listen to the wind.” </i><br><br>
~ Peter Gabriel, <i>That Voice Again</i> <br><br><br>
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Major efforts are composed of small measures. This often occurs to me, when in the throes of processing large archival aggregates out of many thousands of single components. Years are made of days which comprise hours. A friend talked about their job search, comparing it to throwing big rocks at a wall until it crumbles. That’s the desired outcome. Thinking of the present as an indefinite trial, linking unresolved days, generates its own brand of exhaustion that only loads more upon existing burdens. I try to avoid doing this, but like any forward-moving driver, I must check all gauges and mirrors. Patience in tribulation is essential in these staggering times.
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Now 13 months into housing displacement and its accompanying instability, there remains no rest for the weary. As my friend with the wall metaphor, there isn’t a day without searching and inquiring. And constant, earnest prayers. It’s how I push back against oppression and thwarted hopes. Other vital tactics are to persevere in my studies and writing; these are solid sources of inspiration and means to higher goals. Such things are extremely hard to find; if you find literary sources, forms of creative expression, and devotions that uplift (instead of “dumb down”), hold fast to these things and grow with them. Keeping vigil for better situations parallels my interests in learning and trying to understand the broader world. For many years, I’ve started each day with radio-accompanied ablutions and coffee. During my graduate school years, that routine would typically begin at about 5am. In high school, it was New York City’s Newsradio88; life in Boston and its orbit got me into 1030-WBZ. Invariably, the repetition of basics and ads sends me to the checkerboard realm of religious radio. At the tops of hours, I bounce back to WBZ for much less-stilted news. Within that minefield, however, are a few edifying and useful homilists. Most of the preachers are terrible orators, sounding to my New Englander’s ears like something between auctioneers and Huckleberry Hound. But this professional archivist can separate wheat from chaff. Radios can always be switched off, too, as much as I’m intrigued to hear what’s out there.
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Among the more scholarly and nonsectarian Christian resources are the broadcasts from Chicago’s Moody Institute. Recordings of the late Rev.Weirsbe’s brilliance, delivered with his gentle Midwestern lilt, continue to outshine almost all of what proliferates. The successor to Weirsbe is Moody’s Rev. Lutzer, also with an academic and folksy yarnspinning style, though much more stoic than his predecessors. Well, on a recent workday morning with hot water running and coffee on the bathtub’s edge, I caught one of Lutzer’s installments on his theme, <i>Making the Best of a Bad Decision</i>. I’ll add that many of us must <i>make the best of other people’s bad decisions</i>. Can I get an Amen? Back to Lutzer. Through the noise of first-thing scrubbing, I heard the radio voice beckon, <i>“If you’re still alive, God isn’t through with you.”</i> Surely he wants to encourage his listeners, but considering my state of affairs of recent years, I can easily look at those words ambiguously and through my snowballed sarcasm. Sometimes I do, yet the resultant bad feeling makes me take it back. Reverting to a bleary-eyed positive, my leanings reach inward and upward, through my imagination. That’s my <i>supplicatosphere</i>, which is the stratum immediately beneath clouds of unknowing. <i>“Through with me,”</i> in the wrong context, sounds threatening; but in a healthier frame of reference, my wish <b><i>really is</i></b> for Divine intervention. Why is grace deferred? Did I misstep? How am I supposed to know, if nobody tells me? Have I overstayed my welcome? Perhaps I’m inhabiting the very attempt to comprehend the meaning of <i>hope</i>.
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While trying to glean insights about things eternal, I’m also constantly reckoning with the ways of mortals. Recently with my philosophy students, I taught about the <i>Golden Rule</i>, framing this in the context of ethics. Our group discussion, probing the time-honored “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” went right into dilemmas about what happens when there isn’t any reciprocity for our respectful acts. Do we keep on being honorable and forbearing, or do we conform to the hardball tactics that confront us? You can imagine our very lively Socratic forum discourse. Whatever we do, we need to choose our reactions and responses. Generally, there’s the trigger end, and there’s the barrel end. Are you the issuer, or are you the inflicted? When so many critical factors are out of our control, what is within a person’s reach? With each day, questions arise in my thoughts as to whether landlords, employers, and community leaders should care about their inhabitants and “stakeholders;” in a word, <i>neighbors</i>. Perhaps it’s unrealistic to expect such people of influence to care, as I care. Ever the cockeyed idealist, I believe everyone should care. That’s how things stand a chance of changing for the better. A genuine sense of respect, even in simple transactions, runs against the currents of pessimism.
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Just the other day, I helped a researcher with a query so complex we needed to go back and forth rather extensively in order to unearth the actual question. Having some specifics that mutually made sense, I set about producing what I could find to help this fellow. In the midst of my retrievals, the man frustratedly stormed out of the research room. While I began putting the materials away, he returned and apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I think this world of instant gratification has gotten to me.” He pointed disdainfully at his smartphone. After expressing my understanding, he sat down to read through what I had found, and we talked about his projects. His initial and abrupt impatience was disappointing, but his later presence of mind was impressive. In a handful of minutes, I witnessed <i>metanoia</i>- on both our accounts. Reflecting upon this, later in the day, I was reminded about a barely-known spiritual exercise called <i>examination of conscience</i>. I use parts of my daily journal writing for this purpose, considering such writing as the safest space for articulating thoughts. “Make an appraisal of the entire situation,” wrote Francisco Fernandez Carvajal, adding that we must know what means are available to us, and how to be faithful and thorough. In addition, we must also contemplate how we can remove obstructions in our intentions, as <i>“knowledge of self is the first step the soul must take in order to arrive at the knowledge of God.” </i>
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Collecting and digesting knowledge comes very naturally to me, always taking notes. My notebooks become reference sources themselves and they’re great for me to reread when distractions throw my studies off course. These many pages of annotated gleanings remind me of the philosophical texts I’ve been so carefully reading, while struggling to prosper above the fray. As it is with examining my conscience, there must be focused intention to transform head-knowledge into heart-knowledge. What is there for me to learn, from my experiences? “When a person accepts a great undertaking,” as Carvajal recommended, “they must consider various possibilities and look for the opportune means for bringing the work to successful completion,” adding that “we have to be aware of what is lacking so that we can ask God confidently.” In my repeated recoveries from rejected applications, trying to figure out my deficiencies (because reasons are never specified), while left to figure things out I remind myself that more attempts will be accompanied by more failures. More at-bats increase the odds of striking out. Yet still, and even now as the setbacks persist unabated, my efforts continue and amplify. It’s imperative. The here-and-now is at once stifling, uninviting, and tentative; it’s more than enough to keep the search coals stoked. As an extension of my certainty that all we see is not all there is, during the present drudgery I’m convinced <i>there is more than this</i>, and the accumulation of my being is meant for better and more conducive circumstances.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-29180671495535145342023-09-05T19:42:00.004-04:002023-09-07T11:57:00.640-04:00furrow
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeeGnpzgky26ts-mcGbZ-ZpDYl45sHxlnmPMaJRkJdTJsDF5p0znI8YfTLD5TRkmU3_ii23dytqA1KpQBG7rlVoQgpdDI9YRlWvnO-0zuVLUz8xPitg826DQgD4yF4CNluaw1cuv-3eWCsxHFGbpn8woKhq7tkm45Devxdsg2IQiebbgDvbaC6QNJCLc/s1600/furrow_001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="632" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeeGnpzgky26ts-mcGbZ-ZpDYl45sHxlnmPMaJRkJdTJsDF5p0znI8YfTLD5TRkmU3_ii23dytqA1KpQBG7rlVoQgpdDI9YRlWvnO-0zuVLUz8xPitg826DQgD4yF4CNluaw1cuv-3eWCsxHFGbpn8woKhq7tkm45Devxdsg2IQiebbgDvbaC6QNJCLc/s1600/furrow_001.JPG"/></a></div>
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<i>“An apostle must not remain at the level of the mediocre. <br>
God calls that person to be fully human in their actions, <br>
and at the same time to reflect the freshness of eternal things. <br>
That is why the apostle has to be a soul who has undergone <br>
a long, patient, and heroic process of formation.” </i><br><br>
~ Josemaria Escrivá, <i>Furrow</i> <br><br><br>
<b><font size="2">crossroads</font></b> <br><br>
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Journaling steadily for a number of years invariably leads to something of a personal encyclopedia. I’ve also found the notebooks themselves amount to forms of portable refuge, with my written words constructing a unique, personal lexicon. It’s been as vital as ever to continue exercising my imagination, against such scarcities of opportunities. Envisioning and aspiring are both outworkings of faith, pushing against narrow confines in employment and lodging situations. These are also vantage-points from which I’ve incidentally developed expressions and ambitions. Alongside all hoping and criticizing are streams of nicknames and inventions. Deep-seated creativity simply cannot be held down. Speaking as a lifelong visual artist, <i>imagery</i> is essentially my first language which subsequently gets translated into words. And then there’s <i>metaphor</i>: that expandable world of allegory and multidimensional definitions. Inhabiting this present-day spartan culture of “smart” technology, <i>subtlety</i> is nearly extinct. As we’re lured away from lives of untethered thought, our abilities to understand become dulled. Blunt literalism thwarts the adventurousness of synthesis and musing.
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<center><i><font size="-1">the entirety of Woodfords Corner: Portland, Maine</font></i></center>
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Take, for example, the word <i>crossroads</i> as a concept. By definition an intersection of two roadways. Or maybe even paths. Perhaps more than two trails. Now we’ve already begun playing with words. In my region of New England, there are five-way and six-way intersections, often known as <i>corners</i>. That doesn’t really make sense, but those names- as we say here- are <i>older than dirt</i>. For me, a <i>crossroads</i> has as its primary definition a merging precipice of life direction. This past year since having lost my housing, due to the abrupt change in the building’s ownership, only intensified already-existing career and income tenuousness. At widened crossroads, the present finds itself in a watertreading context. Determined to rise above dead ends, I’m daily pondering and posing questions such as <i>What don’t I know?</i> and <i>What should I recognize?</i> Crossroads attest to limitations, but may also point to throughways. Rather than to regard <i>crossroads</i> as destinations, I’m considering them as points of decision to be followed by action. One may choose in favor of a direction, or <i>choose away</i> from other furrows. Carvajal described the path to holiness as passing through the way of the Passion, and that it is the basis of the Christian’s vocation. “If we want to rise up with Christ,” he wrote, “we have to accompany him on his journey to the cross.” If one is brought to a crossroads, vulnerable as that is, it has the potential strength of any starting-place. San Juan de la Cruz, in 16th century Spain, wrote of the soul choosing to join in the Divine work of creation, albeit <i>“not yet fully as in the life to come, but nonetheless even now in a real and perceptible way.”</i> Pleading with his very being in the <i>Spiritual Canticle</i>, Fray Juan asked:
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<blockquote><i>“O my soul, created to enjoy such exquisite gifts, what are you doing, where is your life going? How wretched is the blindness of Adam’s children, if indeed we are blind to such a brilliant light and deaf to as insistent a voice.”</i></blockquote>
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The text reminds me that perhaps something <i>within</i> my control is my willingness to see and hear beyond what is at the surface. Time is of the essence, and I’d be wise not to think much about what has already been lost.
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<font size="2"><b>resisting mediocrity</b></font> <br><br>
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When I began teaching photography in a local art college, I was 22 and a fairly recent graduate myself. Having previously done some mentoring, I thought it would be a good idea to study the principles of art education. Learning plenty about preparation, lesson-plan creation, and outcomes, I got right into creating my own curricula. In response, my instructor told me that my lesson plans were too challenging. “Dumb it down,” went the criticism. I had never heard that expression before. What? People come to learn and go forth with new skills. <i>I’m teaching for excellence</i>. From semester one, I only designed lesson plans to train, edify, and inspire self-sufficiency for all students of all levels. It’s gone very well over many years, for legions of students; I’ve received service awards and recognition from multiple academic institutions. Instead of dumb down, I prefer smarten up, having too much respect for those I teach to cheapen the experience. And they have all responded with accomplishment and gratitude. There’s more than enough to water down our intellects; I’ve never wanted that for my own self.
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<center><i><font size="-1">at the Boston Athenaeum, with St. Bonaventure</font></i></center>
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Indeed, the pursuit of perfection is the enemy of what is good. That’s an axiom to always have in mind, aware of things such as purpose and practical limitations. The extreme opposite of appropriate completion is perfectionism. Between both extremes, there is elusive and subtle ground which demands patience. While not daring to consider myself exemplary, <i>slipshod</i> and <i>slapdash</i> have been anathema to me since childhood. Even in my adolescence, I was aware of how I’d bristle at the sight of neglect and sloppy work. Before my mature vocabulary, I’d call it “not caring.” At a job I had during college, a coworker used to say, “good enough for the government,” referring to the barest minimum to get something done. I had to ask him what that meant. Hearing expressions like that showed me how little I knew- and how suspicious I’d get when it came to principles that were strange to me. Though slightly less naïve now, while speaking with an old friend about job hunting, I heard myself say, “<i><b>I’m not here to be mediocre</b>.</i>” Without some explanation, this might sound presumptuous. Simply put, it means I’m not putting in a halfhearted effort. I haven’t survived for the purpose of incompetence. The oft-cited <i>Peter Principle</i> which just about everyone has seen in various strengths, throughout their work lives, asserts how employees rise to the level of the mediocrity in their midst. “Dumb it down” to the status quo, is an example. Too many managers misinterpret leadership as the management of things and tasks, instead of the pastoral coaching of people. In his book, <i>Furrow</i>, Josemaria Escrivá exhorted that his readers must “refuse to come to terms with mediocrity.” Often, ripple effects play out in the idolization of meetings and placing statistics above service. Granted, numbers have their place, though I’m very far from being a technocrat. In helping professions, human aspects are of the greatest consequence- and the most memorable.
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<font size="2"><b>vocation</b></font> <br>
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Many that struggle- including me- have seen our adversities intensify with the covid era. My working conditions remain in pandemic mode, as a department of one. The hypergentrification of southern Maine during the past four years has permanently altered the region. Dense enclaves of homeless encampments mushroom next to elite hotels and exclusive, gated housing. The ground I stand upon thins with every passing month, as city officials continue looking away. Treadmills point to crossroads.
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<center><i><font size="-1">the National Shrine of Saint Anthony: Arch Street, Boston</font></i></center>
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Over the years and to this day, I’ve been visiting the Saint Anthony Shrine during my writing and and reading days at the nearby Boston Athenaeum. The Franciscan brothers are always great to speak with, always welcoming. Coincidentally, for the past few years, I’ve been extensively studying the life and work of 13th century Franciscan philosopher Saint Bonaventure, developing a kindred devotion to him. Members of the Franciscan community invariably introduced me to Saint Anthony of Padua’s life and legacy. Anthony knew and worked with Saint Francis of Assisi; the former is nicknamed “the miracle saint.” True to form, this summer I’ve been reading biographies of Saint Anthony which I borrow from the Athenaeum, while continuing to study Bonaventure.
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<center><i><font size="-1">Saint Bonaventure medal, from the Franciscans. <br>An angel is delivering his hat.</font></i></center>
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The saints are standing with me at the crossroads. Two weeks ago, while awaiting the usual, perennially-late Metro bus en route to work, page 96 in Mary Purcell’s <i>Saint Anthony and His Times</i> beamed up to me, as I found the decisive moment in his life. The young Anthony chafed from misemployment to underemployment, yet never losing the vision of his vocation. The turning point happened as Anthony arrived at Monte Paolo to help with the community’s chores. There his path crossed with that of Friar Graziano, the monastery’s superior, who evidently listened and recognized something in Anthony’s demeanor and insight. The paragraph is pictured below:
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<center><i><font size="-1">from the book, "Saint Anthony and His Times," by Mary Purcell.</font></i></center>
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“Evidently, Graziano reasoned, God never meant this light to be hidden under a bushel.” Anthony was far from “just a dishwasher,” that his prior managers deemed “worthless.” Graziano today would’ve been called a “talent recruiter,” having identified and promoted the burgeoning future saint of Padua revered around the world. There was much more to savor than my lurching and lumbering bus ride lasted. I shared my scan of the book’s paragraph on a career social media page, suggesting it as reading for managers, recruiters, and human resources professionals. Everything depends upon connections, and the most meaningful, productive results are borne from such human aspects as perception and <i>active compassion</i>. I’d love my own version of a Graziano, and maybe you would, too. It would be as fulfilling to be a Graziano for others. I’m reminded once again of how it was said of Escrivá that he would arrive at gatherings of his community and say, “<i>I am here to listen</i>.” These studies and devotions add substance and fortitude to these harsh times. Reading and writing, always in tandem, as I navigate the day’s furrow; each day a restart from where I am.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-86003990163685247632023-08-18T20:31:00.003-04:002023-08-18T20:31:15.030-04:00o paradiso<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBAjobptzMigfD_uc8E3uPHSCzaloqP0f7bc7qeKsttPrVCjOLQm018tRenkdBiUvZ8nAVM1858TQ4I1GG4sBzcFDOOD4bxBqWco1ChLvHZ_ANIxOaMc3NK5kOKOnXUNCDkY1vQ1wnartF_cAaZZT0SGbjZNpiWbBgyBuVyuf46j0u7EkbVt1qnCCaM9g/s1600/oparad_001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBAjobptzMigfD_uc8E3uPHSCzaloqP0f7bc7qeKsttPrVCjOLQm018tRenkdBiUvZ8nAVM1858TQ4I1GG4sBzcFDOOD4bxBqWco1ChLvHZ_ANIxOaMc3NK5kOKOnXUNCDkY1vQ1wnartF_cAaZZT0SGbjZNpiWbBgyBuVyuf46j0u7EkbVt1qnCCaM9g/s1600/oparad_001.JPG"/></a></div>
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<i>“O paradiso, dal onda uscito; <br>
Fiorente suol, splendido suol. <br>
In voi rapito io son. <br>
Tu m'appartieni. <br>
O nuovo mondo.”</i> <br> <br>
<i>{“O Paradise, emerging from the sea, <br>
Flowering earth, brilliant sun, <br>
You entrance me. <br>
You belong to me. <br>
Oh new world.”}</i> <br> <br>
~ Giacomo Meyerbeer, <i>L’Africaine.</i> <br> <br>
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<font size="5">1</font><br>
It has been extraordinarily difficult to write. Indeed, there are no shortages of ideas, structured thoughts, and experiences. Arnold Toynbee famously (and infamously) observed how people in places like northern New England must consume so much energy and time grappling with protracted winters, their innovations and industriousness are severely limited. As a Mainer, I’ve typically taken exception to such underestimation. At the same time, the harshness of my surrounding culture has driven me to the brink. Housing and sustaining employment have never been as tenuous as they are presently. Globally, we’ve all become accustomed with the concept of <i>sustainability</i>; there are also surely personal implications and applications. Individually, I am making every honest effort to search for better situations, networking and offering marketable skills. Parallel to Toynbee’s observation, when I’m not fulfilling commitments, I’m tailoring credentials in response to announcements. And praying with my every ounce for welcoming developments. All of which prevents me from being as innovative and industrious as I’d like. <br>
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My father gave me a life’s worth of anecdotes and consolations for the journey. From that ethereal encyclopedia is a story he loved about how legendary operatic tenor Enrico Caruso sang for convicts in prisons to console them. The prisoners would ask Caruso to sing the poignant aria <i>O Paradiso</i> for them. It is an impassioned song of longing, of heartache for better places and times. The sense of incarceration can take a variety of forms and even places. We become aware of this, as we find ourselves driven by the longings of our hearts. The Welsh expression, <i>hiraeth</i>, represents yearning for the place of one’s home. There is surely a homesickness for the kind of welcome and belonging one has yet to see, but faith says that it exists. Or, it <i>will</i> exist. I would not be so driven from within, if I did not believe an as-yet-elusive welcome will really find me.
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Spending five-sevenths of my time working in windowless confines, I make sure to be outdoors as much as possible, even if just to read or write on the tiny steps of the cramped and rackety apartment house. Waiting twice-daily for buses always includes gazing to the skies. O Paradiso, when do things finally let up and improve? The bus commute is short in duration, and I’ve taken to reading brief essays during the rides. Through the past year, I’ve been studying the books I collected called <i>In Conversation with God</i>, by Francisco Fernandez-Carvajal. Each of his lectionary day’s reflections are divided into thirds; they are substantial and thought-provoking. Good reading always helps me stretch my mind, transcending the numbing tedium. One recent doldrummy morning, I read Carvajal’s sendup of <i>the pearl of great value</i> (Matthew 13), and immediately recognized how he, as I do- interprets this as being about <i>one’s vocational calling</i>. The realm of God, as the Gospel reads, compares to a field whose buried treasure inspires a person to sell everything they have to purchase that land- just as a merchant of pearls sold all he had to buy <i>the pearl of great value</i> he recognized. In Carvajal’s words:<br><br>
<blockquote>The discovery of the pearl presupposes a great amount of effort, a search, while the treasure buried in the field seems to have been discovered almost by accident... Many find their vocation almost without looking. Other people are restless in their hearts until they find the pearl of great value...
After the pearl has been discovered or the treasure found, one more step is required. It is the personal response- identical in both parables. The man “went and sold all that he had and bought it.” Generosity and detachment are indispensable conditions for perseverance in a vocation.</blockquote>
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A discovery so profound brings together all the disparate parts of a person’s life. It’s why I’ve never stopped hunting and applying- ever since I was still in graduate school. Walking from the bus to the workplace, I saw two colleagues, and we spoke about the biblical parables. Beyond their intrigue that I read such things on the bus, we had a great chat about what each of us considers to be <i>the pearl of great value</i> in our lives. But we all agreed that one must be “all in,” and dive headfirst toward our highest priorities. We all want to practice our best gifts.
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<font size="5">2</font><br>
Within tirelessly searching for a better situation is a staggering need for respite. I toiled at my job throughout the pandemic, even taking on extra duties to stay employed. The recent several years decimated many workplaces, including mine. At my end of things, the covid era continues- albeit with last year’s return of public interactions- yet still as a staff of one person for 43 months and counting. In late-April, after begging for a week’s coverage, I was able to make a long-awaited retreat; I used to do such things twice a year, for spiritual health and to renew creative energies. I used to travel. I used to live comfortably in an apartment I could afford. Those days are past. My accrued 230 hours of earned PTO are essentially made of Monopoly money. The unacceptability of present conditions urges me onward, intensifying my aspirations. Granted, I’m not so self-centered as to be ungrateful for any good that <i>is</i>, because there <i>are</i> blessings to count. But the need for stability and basic peacefulness continues to be urgent. Unable to find respite, or much of any quiet in an oppressively loud and cramped apartment, I find ways to try resetting through contemplation in the liminal spaces between obligations and pursuits. Again, I know enough to be grateful, and in this case it’s for things like books and writing materials. Now spending half my earnings on rent, I’ve invented ways to make toast and coffee more interesting.
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It has been requiring all my survival skills, to find that pearl of great value, being fully tilted toward better horizons. Flitting around is not a luxury available to me, or to many other workers. Recently, while answering questions about projects and describing achievements to an administrator, I was asked <i>“What are you doing here?”</i> Though a high compliment, it left me very perplexed. I used to hear that when I was in the art field, as though one can be “too good” for their milieu. It’s reminiscent of the lyric in Billy Joel’s <i>Piano Man</i>, his famous song about his former life as a lounge entertainer: <i>“they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar; And say man what are you doin' here?” </i>As it is my habit, I broke the tension of that comment by quoting the song. Along with the parable about the pearl of great value, a biblical passage that is always at the fore of my thoughts is the exhortation that a light is never meant to be stuffed under a bushel: <i>No one, when they light a candle, puts it in a secret place. It’s put on a lamp-stand so that others can see the light</i> (Luke 11:33). Vocations must be applied to real life. I’ve been living a life of investing all I’ve got into abilities meant to be shared; knowledge meant to be imparted. A powerful sense of vocation redoubles the ferocity of my search.
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<font size="5">3</font><br>
To be professionally connected with places and people that want to use and benefit from my willing energies and abilities is akin to finding the field beneath which there is lifegiving treasure. Perhaps it’s a two-way street: could the opportunities be seeking me? The glutted Northeast has a job market that mirrors its housing market, with too few places for too many people. Here, the term <i>recruitment</i> is a misnomer. Positions dedicated to <i>talent acquisition</i> essentially manage tidal waves. Those in positions of managing applications for both employment and housing do not need to recruit; rather, they are passive recipients of overabundance. Sufficient work and respectable living space are life’s basics. Those who seek improvements are relegated to begging. For readers that are fortunately not in such straits, extreme versions of this can be seen on medians of urban thoroughfares and alongside municipal parking areas. Even applicants who have addresses must paddle in the open oceans of online resumé-parsing upload tools, engaging in games of a perfectionism that may not be statistically attainable. Recruiters and committees that want <i>perfect</i> might not like such individuals who don’t want to be taught anything. Indeed, imperfect has its qualities! Data-slurping analytics cannot account for a person’s character, which in real life, is everyone’s lasting impression.
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Indeed, a crossroads is no place to root oneself and take up residence. Since losing my housing last year, along with witnessing similarities among many people, I’ve really seen in an intensely troubling way how temporal life becomes. Living in a poorly-governed and chronically-depressed city, I’ve surely watched waves of friends and institutions respond to recessions by moving away. Immediately after art college, I went right to work locally and full-time, trading on my photographic printing and teaching skills; from that peculiar vantage point, I saw my former classmates leave. I managed to continue working straight through the post-stock-market-crash 1990s, even paying off my student loans. Graduate school followed, requiring the first 15 years of the 2000s to completely pay off my masters degree loans, also amidst more recessions and broadbased downsizes and departures around me. Wholesale gentrification is the worst scourge I’ve seen, in comparison to forty years of constant recession I’ve lived through in Maine. Smallmindedness looks quaint to visitors, but to locals it is a merciless betrayal. Indeed, it’s a big world, a short life, and I join numerous surviving neighbors on vigilant lookout for what’s next and where the welcoming fields and <i>pearls of great value</i> may be found. Today I helped a man with his research and books; he described to me how he had been living in his car for 14 years. I asked him about how he dealt with the winters, and he responded by saying he has several sleeping bags. “It’s all about hunkering down,” he said, “and praying to fall asleep.” <i>O Paradiso</i>, may God’s will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-90856222919100043192023-07-17T14:22:00.002-04:002023-07-18T09:23:38.913-04:00higher ground<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFpIduXHJ5aoDTs3oqTBTQQvm06rRdkP56mzz2ASzjdND7rD3_ZPQ5yLrfxEyYv1d4YIFV33sFrluxvzteXpoocwD2lLtZ9UTb5k6MehT7iVdz7QqP8itCdOzBmoOVSsqDDY2I5DPt4Ffxfebwp_GUlAiNujz4NSJ64nn0QBlcQIObr_heDhA9_vSQT_U/s1600/higher-ground_001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFpIduXHJ5aoDTs3oqTBTQQvm06rRdkP56mzz2ASzjdND7rD3_ZPQ5yLrfxEyYv1d4YIFV33sFrluxvzteXpoocwD2lLtZ9UTb5k6MehT7iVdz7QqP8itCdOzBmoOVSsqDDY2I5DPt4Ffxfebwp_GUlAiNujz4NSJ64nn0QBlcQIObr_heDhA9_vSQT_U/s1600/higher-ground_001.JPG"/></a></div>
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“My heart has no desire to stay <br>
Where doubts arise and fears dismay; <br>
Though some may dwell where these abound, <br>
My prayer, my aim, is higher ground. <br><br>
Lord, lift me up, and let me stand <br>
By faith, on heaven’s tableland; <br>
A higher plane than I have found, <br>
Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.” </i><br><br>
~ Johnson Oatman, Jr., <i>Higher Ground</i>. <br><br>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
My recent seven weeks since last publishing an essay have been engulfed in survival mode. Woven into tirelessly working my job and seeking better fortunes is the unending marathon of searching for a place to live that would permit liberation from the loud, cramped hovel of this past year. At least I can report to you that I’ve been writing in my journal daily, either beneath layers of “white noise”- including a fan, a mechanism that produces sounds that imitate ocean waves, and my radio tuned to classical music, to try thinking above the incessant upstairs antics of <i>Le Cirque des Eléphants</i>, or very late at night when the boors bed themselves. But I write, and on better nights and portions of weekends I study philosophy. I’ve also continued teaching. And indeed I report to work, always putting in a thorough day of productivity and service. The nightmare of miserable and overpriced housing has yet to end. I assure you, dear readers, I am doing every honest thing in my power to remedy this. Sometimes it’s an employment interview, most other times it’s an apartment viewing- the latter now resembling candidate interviews- but I’ve yet to find success. Far too much energy and time have been lost, not just in the past year of housing hell, but many of us can look back at the covid years as having destroyed more than our creative and community lives, but also the dynamics of our cities.
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I have just enough presence of mind to remember my gratitude for having gotten away for a week’s <a href="https://laviegraphite.blogspot.com/2023/05/misericordias-domini.html" target="_blank">pilgrimage</a> in spring to the Berkshires. The photographs I made during the sojourn are good reminders. It was something of a serendipitous fluke to find three people to cover my workplace shifts, and that my arrival in Stockbridge was exactly on the Feast Day of the Divine Mercy. I knew that I needed to gather up whatever energy and grace I could find, so that I could dig even harder into scouring for a place to live. <i>Safe, Spacious, and Civilized</i>, as my tireless networking tends to include. Because last summer’s desperation-searching ended in defeat, the scouring never stopped. I vowed not to endure a repeat of last year. But here it comes, with its scythe, as time runs out again. Numerous Maine residents are doing battle with a similar plight, thrown beneath the merciless wheels of hypergentrification. I’m no longer surprised at the tone-deafness of elected leaders; they all have what they need, thus they do not relate as they vote themselves pay raises. I’ve spoken with countless people about housing in the past 14 months, and listen to as many stories. There are the willing who are unable to help, but there are the able who are unwilling to help. The latter category is lulled by that ubiquitous wagon-circling prevalent in this culture; the most shocking instances of this I’ve had to wince through have been from, of all things, influential religious leaders who should know better. And it’s not that I ask for anyone to pay my expenses; what I request are leads and referrals. Networking. Are we parts of solutions, or are we parts of the problem? Who will dare to be tangibly caring? Who wants to really live the Golden Rule?
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<center><i>seen in Stockbridge, MA.</i></center>
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Trying to stretch the imaginations of the ignorant, I ask professional ministers to join me in praying- at the very least (as inspiration may follow) for the homeless and the displaced. There are many. This region’s larger parishes are in the suburbs, though they tend to use the name <i>Portland</i>, despite having nothing to do with what they perceive as the city’s benighted unwashed. Well aware of my own level of unabated trauma (noticeable when the racket from upstairs drives me outside the building in all weather), I am physically wrenched when I speak with and see people that have no place to call home. Not wanting to be exploitive, I chose not to take photos of the “tent cities,” along local roadways. It momentarily suffices to describe rows and clusters of plastic canopies in highway gullies, thick with mud, the occupants’ spare clothing draped over chainlink bordering a commuter “park-and-ride” lot, amidst piles and piles of detritus. It is a constant heartache to see. These souls could be any one of us. A handful of people try to be helpful, namely a friend and pastor who connects homeless veterans with transitional housing in a motel. A social worker and housing advocate I spoke with referred to people like me as rent-burdened, which means an excess of 30% of my income (for me, it’s more like 50%) goes to pay rent. I tell friends that the search for better, peaceful housing is the search for higher ground to be able to find some form of healing while continuing to work and aspiring for stability and comfort. I don’t dare predict anything.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-55346643479793034102023-05-28T20:59:00.007-04:002023-05-28T20:59:42.273-04:00en plein air<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjseW5PSUMwM7YPLI7Pa59bFFOKdqj3SqVjSXcFExkJ2sJocMFknP-1Rcbpc01I5gt22RQVQczmQJWhXSAr57zUvMQfF8Fc6zAlOaT5wIhwaeSmCJjGhtDJ49fF59_bLYYxrNWYMlvSg2AQI9EgAOnEcaQT5O9BfrkuJzbNofpVpLfWwiP0Q_mBl99/s1600/plein-air-001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="579" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjseW5PSUMwM7YPLI7Pa59bFFOKdqj3SqVjSXcFExkJ2sJocMFknP-1Rcbpc01I5gt22RQVQczmQJWhXSAr57zUvMQfF8Fc6zAlOaT5wIhwaeSmCJjGhtDJ49fF59_bLYYxrNWYMlvSg2AQI9EgAOnEcaQT5O9BfrkuJzbNofpVpLfWwiP0Q_mBl99/s1600/plein-air-001.JPG"/></a></div>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
<i>“Adopt the pace of nature. <br>
Her secret is patience.” </i><br><br>
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, <i>Nature</i> <br><br><br>
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With an extremely rare weekday off, I chose to stay in town and write outdoors. Not only that, I decided to write on the Eastern Promenade- a writing perch I’ve enjoyed for many years, long before having to move from my home in a suddenly-gentrified West End building. Indeed, last autumn- until it got too cold- I walked to the “Prom” as often as possible, getting away from the puny apartment, just to be able to look upward. Going outdoors to write allows me to transcend “addresses,” and their confinement. People travel to Portland from great distances, to be able to perch along Casco Bay. The scenery continues to be inspiring to me, just as it was for me last month in the Berkshires. Getting out gets me away from oppressive and bland spaces, as well as from the static recirculating air of the workplace. “Retreat” needn’t mean extensive travels; it’s really about stepping back and away from structure and demands. I could be from anywhere and come here to write, at the same time as being from here (which I am) and forget about annoying confines. The outdoors also provide an escape from alienation. Open, and accessible spaces strike a needed contrast from offices, phones, and lit screens- allowing me to listen to my thoughts and make some notes. Skies provide a taste of ceilinglessness (and how cooperative that my typewriter doesn’t redden or rewrite my made-up words).
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Writing at the Eastern Prom, which includes a busy playground, brings to mind the day camps that were lights to my adolescent summers in New York City. Asphalt jungle childhoods comprise scarce amounts of trees and clean grassy spaces for playing and perching. There was always a lot of broken glass to sidestep, along with other detritus I stopped seeing after moving here to Maine to begin college. No doubt, the air was a comparison I could immediately make, and since then has always been rolled into what I’ve come to know as “the outdoors.” But humble as it was, day camp gave me a taste of things easily taken for granted in northern New England. In the city, the change of context brought kids like me on long yellow school buses out to the lush and landscaped parks of Queens- namely Forest Park, and for a number of years Kissena Park. Hardly any of the other kids were from my neighborhood: the blighted and dangerous projects in <a href="https://laviegraphite.blogspot.com/2011/11/brave.html" target="_blank">Corona</a>; they were from just about everywhere else. But we were all together, frolicking outside, jumping through sprinklers, and fanatically playing baseball every single day. We were easy to please, once we had time and space. Perhaps some of us retain those traits. There was no structure and no technology- even for the camp counselors that watched over us, also serving as our umpires through all those raucous ball games.
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<i><p style="text-align: justify;">
From my high school years: <br>
Above: Greenway Terrace, Forest Hills, New York City <br>
Below: High School of Art & Design cafeteria, as we all wondered what was <b>really</b> in those sandwiches.
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I’m one of those adults that can still think very much as I did when I was ten. The ache to have time and space to muse, around those fettered and adversarial school days, resembles the ache to have time and space to muse between job tasks and inane meetings. Free time becomes increasingly costly. For most of us, liberation is rare and at best incremental. Reflecting back, childhood redemption arrived in an unwitting combination when I was 13. My year began as I completed rigorous and intense religious studies, thus declared an adult at that rather young age. In my naive determination, I survived my final year in what happened to be New York City’s most overcrowded public school, which went by the heartwarming name of I.S. 61. Its schoolyard was surrounded by housing projects and scrapyards. The city was a good 2 decades away from gentrifying, and my daily walks to school were imperiled by gangs and packs of feral dogs. Almost all the threatening and thrashing ended for me with the post-middle-school summer at a healthy summer camp in the mountains of Upstate New York, followed by my parents’ purchase of a house in a strikingly beautiful and safe neighborhood- still right in the city. And finally, still at age 13, I began my sojourn of secondary education at the High School of Art and Design, on the tony east side of Midtown Manhattan. A whole lot in a short year. My father gave me my first bicycle, enabling me to run a lot of errands, including grocery shopping. I explored all the streets of Forest Hills and contiguous neighborhoods, also toting my first camera- which had been a 13th birthday gift.
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
<i>My Rudge-Whitworth bicycle, which I purchased used for $20 to replace the new bicycle robbed from me by muggers.<br>
Above: Photo I took in 1981, in New York City. <br>
Below: Photo I took (I still have the Rudge) recently at Acadia National Park, Maine.</i><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQPCMeLbc3xqGK0vnJ38PeyZ6XG1BhtEldOzQb0zaPu_bniVVMK5k3L112DsjOEm4TcrejF6OsIvT9cB8Xq6y6AIouLq8MzmQXNlmLiO_AkXXJmFucvvDzW12B8sH-27mNE0OsMPlsc-frbh6I9c1EbsEuuDldZ-YQK8AZ_q7rcVCH1PUDPhlGF-g/s1600/plein-air-006.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="556" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQPCMeLbc3xqGK0vnJ38PeyZ6XG1BhtEldOzQb0zaPu_bniVVMK5k3L112DsjOEm4TcrejF6OsIvT9cB8Xq6y6AIouLq8MzmQXNlmLiO_AkXXJmFucvvDzW12B8sH-27mNE0OsMPlsc-frbh6I9c1EbsEuuDldZ-YQK8AZ_q7rcVCH1PUDPhlGF-g/s1600/plein-air-006.JPG"/></a></div>
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The bicycle symbolized freedom and an enduring sense of self-propulsion. I would joke about drinking a glass of milk, then bicycling the length of Queens Boulevard and over the 59th Street Bridge en route to a library I frequented on East 38th Street. All on one glass of milk, as I’d say. One afternoon, while bicycling with a neighbor through Flushing Meadow Park, I was accosted and mugged at knifepoint, forced off my shining new bicycle. I still remember this well, and can recall the sheer powerlessness of that event. At my summer job in a supermarket, I saved my earnings to buy another bicycle- a used one that I defiantly considered to be too ugly to draw any thug’s attention. I still have it today, driving it throughout the Portland area, including all the carriage roads in Acadia National Park. Self-sufficiency continues to be its own brand of liberation. Alas, and as I’ve learned, childish and childlike are really two different traits. At best, that early spirit endures by adaptation. As well, self-sufficiency shows its hard limits, particularly in the powerlessness of housing searches, employment scavenging, and economics. Recalling Saint Augustine, “I do not know what I do not know,” and thus <i>I want to know what I don’t know</i>. If there’s any way to improve things, it must begin with avoiding prior mistakes.
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<i><center>Outdoors on the 2nd floor terrace at the Boston Athenaeum.</center></i>
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How much of a factor are our interpretations that are based upon our subjective perceptions? Obviously, something entirely subjective is my taste for perching outside to write and read in 40-degree temperatures, which I find perfectly comfortable. Then there’s the fascinating aspect of how syntax plays a role in how we view and depict our discoveries. For example, traveling to a location with a variety of cameras allows me to photograph similar motifs with different formats. The images will look distinct from one another, based upon the tools I’m using. Same with writing: pencils, pens of varied construct, typewriters, and computers will each lead to results reflecting the tools’ influences. Within this is the example of journaling with a dip pen, requiring many regular pauses to re-ink the pen, while the mind continues its train of thought. Those pauses surely reflect what is written. I’ll often switch writing instruments, when I notice aridity in my words. Varying the vantage point is also as effective with writing as it is in photography. Getting outside amidst the swirl of nature permits for an appreciation of Emerson’s description about the patient paces of nature. Light, skies, and horizons will surely affect how I interpret what I see, and how I interpret my thoughts. In a similar sense, I write during my mid-day breaks inside the Archives stacks, as well as aboard lurching city buses. What I notice and the ensuing words are affected by their situations of notation.
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When I’m not on the job, and I turn away from doomscrolling online searches for apartments and employment, while the blaring and trampling from upstairs disturbs the peace, I know to go outside. Beneath the skies, there are no upstairs. Life gets to return to looking open-ended as it did when my friends and I would lie on our backs in green and sunny Kissena Park, just talking and looking up at airplanes going to and from LaGuardia. The paces of nature are surely not those of such humans as those among us who use the expression, <i>hurry-up-and-wait</i>. Coaxing the inertia out of the wheels of progress is exhausting. During the thick of childhood, time slogged like a schoolday. It felt endless. In retrospect, that was a brief period of time- its space on my timeline diminishes as the adventure continues. Looking back exclaims the necessity of looking ahead. My decades of tireless efforts have yet to pave ways to my profoundest wishes, to exercising and really seeing my best abilities coming to fruition. How close is success? Is it completely out of reach? I’m daring to believe it isn’t, notwithstanding my scarce resources and lack of influence or allies. Echoing Saint Anselm’s prayer in the <i>Proslogion</i>, “I have still to do that for which I was made.” Yet, the stuff of eternity does not include accolades or material. The moment and all subsequent time stands for me to redeem. Knowing how to redeem liminal time is a daily and constant challenge. Having little more than faith and gumption, I’m left to heeldigging trust, insisting upon finding the sacred in the ordinary. Such thin rations need the light and rain of the outdoors, for the vines of latent presence to proliferate and provide.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-68796407244551154942023-05-13T10:40:00.006-04:002023-06-12T18:54:53.930-04:00misericordias domini<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhR9bxJ8fgDw-ahRF0lZqRCX93hBt19z1QQNuN2Rfwx_M8DCDhk16_OEfThPIwE0r7XFKevpIgX7BKN5vQgLOPfLqFG6Ihiys4KmCeBv8Mi2HrB7rjL7aBJhQsYSLhidtH9bOGj-EusJEvr35VtozXoEu4j5T_hL9J-WnPQ7nkNoBL3KJaTALXdoQG/s1600/misericordias-001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhR9bxJ8fgDw-ahRF0lZqRCX93hBt19z1QQNuN2Rfwx_M8DCDhk16_OEfThPIwE0r7XFKevpIgX7BKN5vQgLOPfLqFG6Ihiys4KmCeBv8Mi2HrB7rjL7aBJhQsYSLhidtH9bOGj-EusJEvr35VtozXoEu4j5T_hL9J-WnPQ7nkNoBL3KJaTALXdoQG/s1600/misericordias-001.JPG"/></a></div>
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<i>“A soul should be faithful to prayer despite torments, <br>
dryness, and temptations; because oftentimes the realization <br>
of God’s great plans depends mainly on such prayer. <br>
If we do not persevere in such prayer, <br>
we frustrate what the Lord wanted to do through us <br>
or within us. Let every soul remember these words: <br>
‘And being in anguish, He prayed more fervently’”</i> <br><br>
~ Saint Faustina, <i>Diary</i>, 872 <br>
[with reference to <i>Luke 22:44</i>]. <br><br><br>
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During the recent three years, my hopes for returning to Stockbridge and the surrounding region in the Berkshires never left my thoughts. As it has become less of a health risk to congregate and travel in this present time of late-pandemic, there are more possibilities for roving and visiting. If we’re really out of the covid depths, how shall we consider the past several years? Writing in the first-person, I never stopped working or meeting expenses, soldiering on as what I call <i>one of the working wounded</i>. The effects of last year’s housing loss continue and things remain unresolved, having humble resources in an incurably gentrified part of the country. When I hurried out on the road two years ago to visit with my father in his final days- and then returning after his funeral- I drove through the Berkshires. There was no time to stop there, neither were there opportunities to lodge amidst all the pandemic protocols. The circumstances were anything but leisurely. My years of memories of southern Berkshire County and the <a href="https://laviegraphite.blogspot.com/2016/06/divine-mercy.html" target="_blank">National Shrine of the Divine Mercy</a>, continued to provide inspiration. Along with physical health adversities and general economic hardships, the covid era has been marked by what the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services acknowledges as a national <i>epidemic of loneliness and isolation</i>. I’ve fallen back on every useful self-care strategy I’ve cultivated, even dating back to my childhood years. It’s of critical importance not to mind one’s own company and stay constructively balanced, especially at work.
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Though I cannot claim to be an expert at self-discipline and motivation, at least I know to persevere. And I’m sure to write about it. When <i>Le Cirque des Élephants</i> upstairs starts pounding away and blaring me out of my thoughts, I grab my books, writing, and a chair- and flee outside. During rain and snow, I perch in the building’s entrance, bundled up, writing, and reading. It all merges with my devotions. When I think of Stockbridge, I always recall the Divine Mercy Chaplet, its austere eloquence and thoughtfulness of the needs of others. <i>Others</i> can also mean those who inconsiderately stomp on their neighbors. Everyone needs a prayer. The revered Chaplet as recorded by Saint Faustina in wartime Poland was taught to me by a colleague- Sister Sylvia Comer- about eighteen years ago. The devotion never left me, and it only intensified during quarantining, lockdowns, and coffee-breaks while working in isolation. Meditate upon the Passion, and pray for mercy to strengthen others and for oneself. Be mercy for others, especially when generosity and consolation are painfully elusive. San Juan de la Cruz, in 16th century Spain, famously taught “impart compassion where you do not find it, and then you will discover compassion.” Customarily, as observed by the Marian community in Stockbridge, the Chaplet is observed at 3pm, referred to as <i>the hour of Divine Mercy</i>. In recent years, my insomnia awakens me at 3am most every night, becoming my additional hour of Divine Mercy. It is included by many, and I do the same, as integral with the liturgy of the hours. About 2 ½ years ago, when the intensity of quarantining made it so I could hear a pin drop downtown, those portions of daily psalmody helped provide lifegiving structure.
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Conversely, when I think of the Divine Mercy Chaplet, the environs of Stockbridge come to mind. The westernmost area of Massachusetts is contiguous to the higher elevations of southern Vermont and eastern New York State. The waterways and woods resemble parts of my home state of Maine, though without the coast that I see every day. Nonetheless, it is New England, complete with the unmarked, winding roads and very small towns. The site of the Shrine, Eden Hill, was the destination for the emigrating Polish religious community in 1943, and continues today as the much larger congregation of the Marian order who nurture the legacy of Saint Faustina. Her diary has been preserved and kept in print by the Marians. The community welcomes one and all, daily- including pilgrims such as myself. I’ve traveled there many times, always grateful for the place, prayer, and people as a complete experience of sanctuary.
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True to pilgrimage form, some major effort was needed long before taking to the road. My usual marathon-minded durability makes it unnecessary for me to test the understaffed workplace logistics. Requesting days off however, despite my overabundance of earned time, demands resourcefulness and diplomacy. In the general emergence from winter in my midst, I saw an unclaimed week and seized upon it. Getting the time approved, seeing to auto maintenance, and exchanging messages with my destination, the pull of pilgrimage became an imminent journey. I began assembling writing and reading material for the sojourn, and in the cramped hovel those items were visible to me each day- including unpacking the hat I bring with me on all my retreats. It has a seashell sewn to it, which is the badge of pilgrimage. And true to personal form, I continued working as industriously as usual, and with a small Divine Mercy icon at the side of my desk computer.
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As road day drew closer, I realized I would be arriving in Stockbridge right on the Feast Day of the Divine Mercy. As providential as it sounds, it just happened that way- though it did inspire me to leave Maine earlier in the morning than planned. The highway travel was smooth, even with showers and mountain fog; after all it was a Sunday morning. Indexing across the car radio dial along the Massachusetts Turnpike, I picked up a broadcast with interviews of various Marian friars talking about the liturgical holiday, Saint Faustina, and welcoming listeners to the Shrine. As I typically do, I glanced at the radio and said, “on my way.’ It was a good thing I had found that station, as I began to see single-file traffic after exiting the highway in Lee, extending all the way to Stockbridge. Impressively, drivers were civilized and patient. I wondered, <i>“Are these all pilgrims, too?”</i> The radio station began broadcasting the outdoor church service from the Shrine, and finding a parking space in the thick of the village, I proceeded to ascend the steep hill, hearing the singing choir’s music, my steps parallel to fellow sturdy walkers. I later heard that at least 12,000 pilgrims were in attendance that day, surprising the resident community and all present. How wonderful to arrive in such festive contrast to the misery I managed to interrupt back in Maine.
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Descending the Hill later, the village center in Stockbridge was replete with visitors, albeit too early for tourism season. Many café patrons and pedestrians were recognizably clergy and members of religious orders. The stately Red Lion Inn offered special rates for the week, and very thankfully I was able to lodge there, close to the Shrine. The 250-year-old Inn was in early-spring maintenance mode and thus uncrowded and very comfortably peaceful. The full-width front porch made for an added place of retreat for me, between Eden Hill, nearby hiking trails, and the village. My room in the Red Lion consolingly reminded me of my old place which I miss very much. I especially savoured the high ceilings and the Inn’s muffled ambience, reminding me of better days. Integral to the pilgrimage was the pleasant company of fellow guests, trading stories and insights. I made numerous notes, wrote letters to friends, enjoyed time to read, and visited with the resident cats.
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<center>
<i>above and below:
Jack and Jane </i></center><br>
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<center><i>the Housatonic River, in the Berkshires</i></center>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
At the Shrine’s book store, I asked for a volume of Saint Faustina’s words, “small enough for bus commuting.” The little book has since joined my twice-daily trek and coffee breaks. Throughout my week in Stockbridge, I was sure to be in attendance for Mass followed by the 3pm Divine Mercy Chaplet. There are many to be commemorated, especially Dad and Sister Sylvia. The days were calm and salubrious, replenishing me for me return to the world of struggle and uncertainty. I’ve learned over the years that pilgrimage not only comprises the return travel, but also proceeds on with every day and every task. It is essential to keep these in mind, with all the beautiful things I saw and heard- along with remembering the mountain air, as the pursuits of betterment and stability must continue.
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Saint Bonaventure wrote about the soul’s itinerary en route to God, and referred to how our pilgrimage is “kindled by the desire for the heavenly country.” The difficult road ahead is fueled by nourishing experiences and contemplation. The painful absence of respite in these recent years has been profoundly felt, and I must find ways to keep well- even while searching for a healthy place to live, and for better work. Writing of life’s itinerary, Saint Bonaventure added, “the route is illuminative and the pilgrimage is adhered to by love of the destination; philosophy is to be engaged in the understanding of the stages by which progress may be made along the route.” Ascension is made in progressive steps as on an upward ladder, and his words accompanied me in the Berkshires as they do on my daily city streets and transactions.
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<center><i>studying the</i> Itinerarium<i> of Saint Bonaventure</i></center>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
During my week at the Shrine, following the afternoon’s liturgy, one of the Marian friars gave all of us in attendance his blessing. He also blessed the devotional articles of all in attendance, such as icons and rosaries. Then, in a well-placed teachable moment, he said to us, “don’t just go home and put these things away in a drawer: bless others! Think of the many people who wish they could be here, and also those who don’t want to be here.” Another officiant earlier in the week preached about exemplifying the meaning of these prayers. Indeed, the work I do with the public and as an educator permit for many opportunities to apply merciful perspectives and ways of communication, albeit in a merciless world. It is unbearable to countenance thoughts of being a lamp concealed under a barrel, after years of consistently intense hard work and persistent defeat. I know enough to remind myself that few are fortunate enough to realize their potential, and many have it far worse. Saint Faustina surely could not have known- and would not have wanted to know- the reach of her words and her example of resilient faith. Among the assorted prayers in her journals is one of gratitude for her ability to love God by whom she need not lower her ideals. She elaborated:
<p style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote><i>“Although the path is very thorny, I do not fear to go ahead. Even if a hailstorm of persecutions covers me; even if my friends forsake me, even if all things conspire against me, and the horizon grows dark; even if a raging storm breaks out, and I feel I am quite alone and must brave it all; still, fully at peace, I will trust in Your mercy, O my God, and my hope will not be disappointed.” </i><br>[1195]</blockquote>
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-60626011629995592202023-04-13T15:28:00.001-04:002023-04-13T15:28:16.155-04:00lenten lands<p style="text-align: justify;">
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
<i>“By the waters of Babylon, <br>
there we sat down and wept, <br>
when we remembered Zion... <br>
How shall we sing the Lord’s song <br>
in a foreign land?”</i> <br><br>
~ <i>Psalm 137</i> <br><br><br>
<b>indefinite lent</b> <br><br>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
As with any season of commemoration, Lent is equal parts remembrance and lived practice which points ahead. Both aspects, as they may be internalized, envelop our own references. For example, an observer of this season, which by definition concludes on Easter may be compelled to inhabit the time of year, may be compelled to inhabit the time of year and match their daily lives’ paces with the forty days whose start is Ash Wednesday. Speaking from my continuum, last year during Lent my landlords of many years notified all of us in the building to be ready to leave due to an impending sale. It’s been a protracted season of purgation and penitence ever since. In Lenten fashion, the season is one of mournful anticipation and persistent reach. Unable to find a sliver of mercy in my own hometown through four months of nonstop, full-bore searching and personal campaigning, the desperation move I had to make was to a cramped, remote, and oppressively loud hovel. Neither peace, nor comfort, nor space to unpack. Life by the Babylonian waters now slogs through its eighth month. Alongside the Psalmist, how do I sing the Lord’s song in an unwelcoming place? Applying the <a href="https://laviegraphite.blogspot.com/2023/02/accidental-and-transitory.html" target="_blank">self-talk</a> I wrote about earlier this year, there is a lifeline in my insisting that the current and painful exile is finite. This is transitional and something has <b><i>got</i></b> to give, considering all this unwavering effort. Yet at the same time, I’m careful not to presume to be owed anything. My intention is to press on. <br>
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<b>spring takes shape</b><br><br>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
“Hell is the place of unsatisfied cravings,” Warren Weirsbe astutely observed in one of his broadcasts. I am intimately aware of this, vigilantly navigating a wilderness replete with roadblocks. En route to crosstown errands and to work, it is impossible not to notice the juxtaposition of elite waterfront construction and desperate homelessness along sidewalks and highway ramps. Both extremes of the housing scale are in vividly plain sight. The work I do requires extemporaneously helping the public, joining together learning and people; that means maintaining grounded and positive perspectives. And to be sure, genuineness and compassion must go together. After all, I must practice what I preach, implementing this for myself, too. Daylight extends, and I’m better able to run away from the invasive and shellshocking racket from immediately above those oppressively low ceilings. The best way out I can imagine is by perseverance, physically and spiritually, despite not having results in view. The present imperative is to hoist my spirits into spring. Last weekend, while <i>Le Cirque des Éléphants</i> upstairs was at full blast, with chair and journal out on the sidewalk, my exasperated stare probed the skies. Then I noticed sparrows collecting twigs, flying off with them, up toward their burgeoning abodes. Creatures such as these- including humans- have yearning instincts aimed toward survival. I’m reading the signs and taking notes. <br>
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<b>expectations and exodus season</b><br><br>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
There is an Eastertide <i>because</i> there is a Passover season. Few really understand this. The chronology of purging and displacement must give way to resurrection and new promise, biblically and personally. Perhaps your own penitential season has also run off the calendar; you’re far from alone. Exodus is a search and an offer away. There’s nothing passive about it, to be sure. Easier said than done. How near I am to significant discovery cannot be forecasted. But while all my efforts, strength, soul, and savvy are pointed toward tangible improvements, I’m toiling away and keeping watch. At work, tenuous and temporary as it’s always felt, my industrious engagement unquestionably continues, as well as refining my innovations. During this pandemic era, many workers have had to compromise dreams, possessions- even homes and jobs. At times it takes twisting both arms to try counting blessings. An effective distraction (and a useful one, too) has been to help others succeed at their projects. A praying person intercedes for those in need. Turning within is necessary, but there are dangers: there are haunting reams of denied dreams, rejected applications, and elusive housing opportunities. At least I know enough to persevere in forward directions and dare to expect improvement. <i>Every day</i>, heaven help me. Too many evenings, after long workdays, returning to <i>the compartment</i> sends me back outside again to escape the building’s noise. Lengthened daylight provides expansive visibility, and the higher temperatures allow me to perch in the open air for longer periods of time. Pedestrians are more apt to stop and chat. By being seen, a friendly cat- who happens to be my favorite neighbor- can easily find me and ask for treats. Albeit on a shoestring, how about being hopeful just for its own sake? This is also the season of Divine Mercy.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-21454891249194338672023-03-26T10:26:00.001-04:002023-03-26T10:26:15.535-04:00pursuits<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj856h5g3ehADacmEkp6iHpT644zK41WGDtxiSES44vjH1UY3aIR73lJHevdUCjWhfTKWjYcSASB3mDONpJ9sHsuj7QwHlXHlp10LbrCi07kvT55xg5AnmGlVKYLwEOEYXyj23AbXSg3XLY4L4LF4tWg1z8pKPepzVsta1R_eunGKc3j9myWinz-00q/s1600/pursuits-001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj856h5g3ehADacmEkp6iHpT644zK41WGDtxiSES44vjH1UY3aIR73lJHevdUCjWhfTKWjYcSASB3mDONpJ9sHsuj7QwHlXHlp10LbrCi07kvT55xg5AnmGlVKYLwEOEYXyj23AbXSg3XLY4L4LF4tWg1z8pKPepzVsta1R_eunGKc3j9myWinz-00q/s1600/pursuits-001.JPG"/></a></div>
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“Naturally, we desire knowledge, happiness, and peace; <br>
knowledge, since we see our thoughts curiously investigating <br>
the sources of things: happiness, since each person <br>
and indeed each animal acts with a view to procuring good <br>
or avoiding evil: peace since the pursuit of knowledge <br>
or that of happiness are not followed simply for <br>
the sake of the pursuit but in order that the desire <br>
in which it is born may be appeased by calm and repose.” </i><br><br>
~ Etienne Gilson, <i>The Philosophy of Saint Bonaventure</i>, p.87 <br><br>
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During difficult winter months, more energy than usual is needed for the basics. Getting from place to place is impaired by weather conditions, and overcoming such variables requires added time for car excavation, window-scraping, and idling the engine. Indeed, all symbolic to this writer. Trying to find hope amidst instability and unease tests all systems. It’s been taking a real stretch of the imagination to stay creative, ambitious, and sharp. There’s plenty to dull the senses and wits, in this present situation. Often, while I’m defrosting my windshield, I stare beyond treelines and rooftops- much as my aspirations set sights beyond the bland anguish of this winter in the East End. Where are the sources of cheer? Certainly not in the news. As much as I want to know the currents, I’ll wade in <i>just</i> enough, avoiding the misery of immersion. Without more than a pertinent acknowledgment, as I want to focus these words upon pursuits that raise my sense of vision, I’ll mention how my housing displacement (and continuing search for a place to live) prompts me to monitor economic news. Well, upon the ground of living in a perpetually depressed and intensely stratified region, the term <i>recession</i> is hardly distant; it’s been here a painfully long time. Atop years of toiling and producing in educational nonprofits, last year shoved me to this present brink. When articles ask readers to compare now with 12 months ago, I needn’t look far to recall living in 40% more space at 30% less rent in a beautiful place that was in a better neighborhood. Alas, it was sold and everyone had to leave. I know to avoid dwelling upon this much further, as trauma runs its course. This type of thing has been happening all over this city. I’m daring for something even better, while as yet unaware of its location.
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Survival is more than necessary in order to settle here-and-now responsibilities; it’s also the way to steer toward better horizons. Having to keep on working and contending with expenses, while making an emergency relocation, served to maintain focus. Fear, however, does little to nurture creative energy. Threatening, litigious language abounds- reminding me of how meanness can trickle all the way down to simple transactions and what could otherwise be good-faith agreements. Once more, it is vital to keep finding ways to be motivated by a vision of goodness, over and above the baser goading by impersonal threat. Some of us, even now, continue in our idealism. My previous landlord, may he rest in peace, was a dentist whose office was below my apartment. He was born in that building and my predecessor in “apartment 2" was his mother. When he handed the keys to my twenty year old self, he said to me: “We have one rule in this building; it’s the Golden Rule. You know what that is, right?” I quoted it to him, <i>“Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you,”</i> to which he responded, “that’s right, you know it,” patting my shoulder. That’s all that was needed, and in so many ways it’s the most essential of ethical rules.
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A less-ancient saying goes as follows: “Everything is a teachable moment, if we’re willing to be taught.” Though it’s been a strain, dear readers, I’ve been wrenching myself through daily uncertainties, discomfort, and desolation at all hands to learn what I can in this. Revealing how relative these things can be, several months ago during a mid-workday cancellation my director told me I could go home any time I wanted. I replied that I preferred being at work. “The Compartment” is no home to me, and I described that to him. We had a good and relaxed conversation in the empty hallway, and I gratefully kept on working. Better things are surely ahead, and each day is a day closer. Even my mustard seed’s worth of faith is enough to convince me of that. Keep the pursuits in mind. I’m in this life to create, to inspire, to foster the Golden Rule. And that’s just for starters, just like persevering in my work and sanctifying each task and interaction.
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As severely as the city of Portland has hollowed itself with its gentrification, I still manage to bump into friends on the streets. “Whatcha reading?” a fellow West End refugee asked, stopping to greet me at my spartan bus stop. Closing my book, I held it up, and my friend said “Philosophy. That’s heavy.” I defended my vice by saying, “Saint Bonaventure; he’s keeping me from jumping off the bridge.” There must be pursuits to raise sights and spirits. Creative projects are just about impossible in cramped and oppressive living quarters, not to mention the daily and nightly stomping and sound system racket penetrating ceilings and walls. But... during my coffee break in the middle of my 8-hour workdays I can scribble a few notes, and late at night when the stampeding herds cease I can steal a few more moments to write and read more philosophy. I’ve invested in a strange “white-noise” machine that has a setting that imitates the sounds of rainstorms. And this returns me to those windchilled bus stops. <i>Just for now</i>, I persist in my insistence. On better days, the wincing and cringing become pointers to remind me of the progress of time. This is surely transitional. I’m wagering my life on it, and my philosopher saints will ride shotgun with me.
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Such pursuits as the arts and philosophical studies may appear as goals, but these are indeed means. Bonaventure’s responses to the <i>Sentences</i> of Peter Lombard include the observation that we will not find our fulfilling achievements in the finite. “Our desire tends beyond each finite goodness toward and beyond another finite goodness.” In his enduring <i>Itinerarium</i>, Bonaventure wrote, “To follow the way of the soul towards God means to strive with all one’s strength to live a human life as close as possible to that of the blessed in Heaven.” Reflecting upon Bonaventure, Etienne Gilson wrote of the itinerary’s road as illuminative, and the pilgrimage is adhered to by love of the destination. A brilliant member of my staff whom I mourned last year liked to say, <i>the saints are always teaching us</i>. And I like quoting how she used to tell me this, Elaine surely being among those saints. Submerged in an undefined and intensely anxious time of instability and discomfort, such means as writing, the study and teaching of philosophy, spiritual devotions, and productivity on the job serve to maintain my sanity. I meant what I’d said to my friend at the bus stop. The itinerary trims the undivided highway margin between humiliation and humility. The latter is necessary for the exploration of philosophical truths, admitting that reason alone cannot achieve its object unaided, submitting to the Light which irradiates and moves the conscience.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-4520488786745153372023-02-26T10:11:00.004-05:002023-02-27T07:47:55.796-05:00accidental and transitory<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyCydAeiN9mhu62fxMoceWlSAEFGtP_GmTInRB6MpANd4qL9FGdHfZ-aOmxB4BrrptNibOM3asbUNsOzmgFSv0P5k3wO9CyOStNR_BJYBDWTbev3pOCr686oYONEBYTH1TrmH3vpxqL77xJoGWCgcnsemGyN45RiWGGv23wnUfcYpAbnJypDOVUNK/s1600/acc-tra-001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyCydAeiN9mhu62fxMoceWlSAEFGtP_GmTInRB6MpANd4qL9FGdHfZ-aOmxB4BrrptNibOM3asbUNsOzmgFSv0P5k3wO9CyOStNR_BJYBDWTbev3pOCr686oYONEBYTH1TrmH3vpxqL77xJoGWCgcnsemGyN45RiWGGv23wnUfcYpAbnJypDOVUNK/s1600/acc-tra-001.JPG"/></a></div>
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“At the very moment when everything seems to be collapsing <br>
before our eyes, we realize that quite the opposite is true, <br>
‘because you, Lord are my strength.’ <br>
If God is dwelling in your soul, everything else, <br>
no matter how important it may seem, <br>
is accidental and transitory, <br>
whereas we, in God, stand permanent and firm.” </i><br><br>
~ Josemaría Escrivá, <i>Friends of God</i>, 92 <br><br>
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Until at least this past decade- with refinements in wireless communications- those who appeared to talk to themselves were generally regarded with suspicion. Urban streets being arenas of assessment, stereotypic self-talkers tended to be written off as rumpled shufflers conversing with the air. Now, stereotypic bluetoothers tend to obliviously stride around, conversing with the air- except for the occasional crackling voice in response. For an observing pedestrian, I’ve gotten used to seeing individuals sauntering around to their own speaking voices. Negatively, the loud talkers in public spaces are intrusive. Positively, I get a great excuse to keep on talking to myself as I might while driving or working. Journaling gives me space to preserve ideas and experiences, as well as making sense of observations and ideas in writing. Speaking to my thoughts while in transit or at work also helps me distill observations and decisions. Thematically, my self-talk and most of my journaling -and photography- are parallel strands along the same streams of absorption, reflection, and creativity. These are extensions of consciousness. But like expression and the life of thought, self-talk wields enough influence to determine how we operate within as well as outwardly. Working alone as a self-propelled and consistently accountable one-person department for 36 months and counting, I’ve been my own voice of assurance. That’s a formidable discipline for me, unceasingly working through the depths of pandemic, personal loss, desolation, and gentrifying displacement, while rarely able to dispel my longrunning streams of verbal self-condemnation. Indeed, surviving present hardships only becomes more difficult amidst harsh self-criticism.
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<center><i>Small devotional booklets I've made which also hold my transit pass.</i></center>
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Gesturing with thumb and pointer finger about an eighth-inch apart, I hear myself exclaim, “I’ve got <b><i>this</i></b> much margin for error.” Unreasonable as it may sound, there are deepseated reasons beneath this, with a lengthy catalogue of failures, missed opportunities, and comparisons. And yet the hard-driven efforts and persistent hopes continue. Self-talk clashes against the challenge of faith. The equation of oppressive conditions at all hands has forced a necessary straightening out in the form of “Let’s get through this,” and “We’ll get there.” (Oddly enough, I naturally default to the plural- but only interiorly. It reminds me of King David asking his own soul why it was downcast.) In recent months while standing at city bus stops in subzero cold as part of my daily commute, I’ve been reading the wise homilies of Josemariá Escrivá. His essays join my special category of books that seem to have been written for me. I think every reader has their own equivalent bibliography.
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A captivating reading, like going out photographing, really gets me out of my own way. Escrivá’s words are notably welcoming. Between the lines of his theological reflections are plenty of his personal anecdotes about his poverty during the Spanish Civil War, and especially his experiences as a university chaplain. As it was for college students in midcentury Spain, present-day individuals struggle with existential angst. It is dangerously easy to believe that what we see is all there is, and that each setback is an unrecoverable blow. But Escrivá asked his listeners and readers to question the perspective that considers denied opportunities to be earth-shattering and perilous. Such things, as he said, should be viewed as <i>“accidental and transitory,”</i> which is to say incidental and temporal. He emphasized keeping in mind an all-essential thirst for the eternal, for the Living God. Escrivá wrote in his essay called <i>Humility</i>, <i>“Why do we become dejected? It is because life on earth does not go the way we had hoped, or because obstacles arise which prevent us from satisfying our personal ambitions.”</i> Of course this speaks to my ill-fitting and uneasy predicament. <i>“Don’t be frightened; don’t fear any harm,”</i> he insisted, <i>“even though the circumstances in which you work are terrible, worse even than those of Daniel in the pit with all those ferocious beasts. God’s hand is as powerful as ever and, if necessary God will work miracles. Be faithful!”</i> Sanctifying the everyday is a theme that manifests throughout his writing.
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I wonder how many of us, when we graduate from school- brimming with catharsis and ambition- say, “my life’s goal is to be humble and lowly.” Who does this? Not me. Academic and professional work are pointed toward achievement, success, and prominence. As many of us commendably aim high, many of us are frustratingly brought low. The former is in our nature, the latter makes us chafe. And the rub is in the transcendence of setbacks; not once or twice, but persistently countless times. Indeed, it is humbling to consider standing straight in defeat as a measure of success. With my philosophy students, we regularly take up topics in axiology. In one of our Socratic forums my question to the class about the definition of <i>value</i> became a discussion of <i>how we determine value</i>. It was a great discussion, and a parallel thread about the widespread societal concern called <i>success</i> led to how each person defined <i>stability</i>. Engaging in philosophy, we balanced such concepts as implied in material and moral ideas. As we step back to see the fluidity of the present as incidental and temporal, borrowing from Escrivá, an antidote for dramatic devastation is found in the sanctification of understated tasks.
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If we regard the present as provisional, rather than as helplessly irreparable, we can freely admit that everything is subject to improvement. That ubiquitous self-talk (for those among us who care to listen to their own thoughts) is also worth improving. Proofreading the inner script is a form of healthful detachment, essentially an untethering from living as though momentary deficiency is some kind of life sentence. Even if <i>momentary</i> amounts to years, and even if the years are saturated with rejections. Resilience has an upturned chin, an affirmative step, and conscientious manners. Things won’t always be like this, I tell myself, even at this late stage of the game. The pearl of great price is the open door in the wilderness labyrinth of barricaded passages. It is imperative to trust enough to hold with insistent certitude that supplications are not spoken into an unattended void. Prayers are surely not self-talk; whether or not they are granted does not mean they are not heard. Grace must be met with courage, and trials must not have the last word. I’m holding to this, as I navigate this throwaway here-today-forgotten-tomorrow culture. It’s easy to believe the immediate is everything. But it really isn’t, and such tempting mirages must be bypassed and resisted at all turns. There is much for me to learn these days about the fine differences between humility and humiliation. Fulfilling the daily obligations, under miserable living conditions, it consoles me to confidently keep its very temporariness in mind and to interpolate dashes of creativity when possible. And continually telling myself to keep faith, look upwards, and never cease searching for better conditions. No doubt, I daily join my praying voice with all who struggle with housing and employment. <i>Fortitudo et spes</i>.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-46041404563701188162023-02-03T09:21:00.004-05:002023-02-03T10:50:29.106-05:00repairs
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<i>Meno: What do you mean by saying that we do not learn, <br>
and that what we call learning is only a process of recollection? <br>
Can you teach me how this is? <br>
Socrates: I told you Meno, just now, that you were a rogue; <br>
and now you ask whether I can teach you, <br>
when I am saying that there is no teaching, but only recollection. </i><br><br>
~ Plato, <i>Meno</i>. <br><br><br>
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Going by the numbers on what is commonly called the Western calendar, here comes a new year to be seized upon. I began journaling in 1994, albeit sporadically, and then consistently beginning in 1999. Even back then, I’d reserve an evening leading up to New Years Eve for a “year in review” journal entry. These are great to read back over, and I highly recommend this for those who write their perspectives. As 2000 approached, I wrote a “decade in review,” and have had occasion to do this twice since. Such practices are not meant to handwring and rehash, but I naturally took to preserving reflective summations of time spans, such as years, or weeks at work, or eras at schools and jobs, or lengthy travels. Having taught writing, I’ve created years of lesson plans built around journaling prompts, and encourage writers to make up their own so they can keep going. My favorite prompt materialized as I’d write in an Exchange Street café now long gone: <i><b>I heard myself say...</b></i> Coffeehouses, prior to the pandemic, were great places for lively conversations and for reflective writing. When I’d shift from some animated discourse to assembling written thoughts, something always lingered from what I’d heard and what <i>I heard myself say</i>. It’s a way to visit what is really in one’s thoughts. What have you heard yourself say? Living under covid-era restrictions (and now fewer cafés), configurations have changed, but eventually we can catch our spontaneous thoughts and still make note of them. Resolved to emerge from the last year’s housing misery which led to an inhospitable living situation, recently <i>I heard myself say</i>, “I think the only way to not crumple under all this is to see the dynamism in the open-endedness in front of me.”
That’s how to start a new year.
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I’ve always admired restorers of objects, structures, and historic artifacts. Gratefully, my speed-dial numbers include my typewriter repairer, fountain pen restorer, camera technician, and auto mechanic. These individuals are also esteemed friends. When any of us talk shop, we’ll often note the parallels between their crafts and mine as a bookbinder and conservator. The purposes of our respective restorative work is to keep things in fine operational order. Often when I stitch a set of signatures and add silk bands at the extremities of a spine, I’ll invoke how the owner of Cambridge Typewriter says, “it doesn’t just have to work well, it has to look good!” Tom says this while polishing the parts and cover of a <i>Royal</i> or an <i>Olympia</i>- just as Greg across town used a special chamois to make my sterling silver <i>Bossert & Erhard</i> fountain pen gleam as crisply as it writes. When I use decorated endpaper material to conserve a book, I’ll usually make matching bookmarks and dustjackets out of the excess. Among my workplace colleagues, the maintenance workers take as much interest in what I’m doing as the librarians. Now 24 years in professional practice, I’ve always considered preservation to be the archivist’s <i>operatio Dei</i>. Conscious of that, I’m sure to use the best alkaline, long-fibred materials I can find, so the books and documents will have lengthened lives of utility and integrity. Too many aspects in societies, workplaces, municipalities, and throughout the world are woefully broken. While wishing all along to practice a tangible compassion, some things I can do are to continue preserving the documental record and the written word, and try to be an encouraging ingredient to all those with whom I interact.
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As startling as it is to ponder, the covid pandemic era is now at its 3-year mark. If the present time is a latter stage, its duration remains unknown. Social and mental health impacts have yet to be fully evaluated. An immediate shock for many were the sudden disruptions, quarantining requirements, and isolation during the scrambling for immunization. Surely a topic for a later essay. Sufficient for the moment, as a social being and public employee, I had to fall back upon skills cultivated during my years of solitary work. While we were all learning about “supply chains” and shortages not seen in more than a half-century, many turned their efforts toward “do it yourself” work-arounds to such practical matters as producing household cleansers, clothesmaking, and doing more cooking from scratch. A great many of us that had never “worked from home” found ourselves, by necessity, pressing our apartments and computers into service to be able to stay employed. I created a remote version of my service desk by using a corner of my dining table, also purchasing headphones and a refurbished laptop- even repairing books in my kitchen.
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As a longtime bookbinder, as well as a bicycle repairer, I could simply use my various sets of tools to remedy basic mechanical and electrical problems. During the 14 months of rotating my work site, between the library and my apartment, I took to carrying tools from one location to the other. In order to stay organized, I separated the materials and flash-drives by their function, helping to always have on hand what was needed. With just about all my commerce done online, along with most everyone, I had to deal with purchases arriving after long spans of time- and damaged. For example, a small toolbox for archival marking tools, hard enough to find, broke in transit. The vendor did not have any others, and kindly reimbursed me. Really wanting to use the box, and taking a good look at it, I replaced the completely broken hinges by melting small holes in the plastic with a bookbinding awl which I heated in a candle flame, and using 2 pairs of needlenose pliers to create rings out of bent-out thick paperclips. My repair worked like a charm, and has been holding up now for 2 ½ years and counting. Like my stitched bindings, the repaired item has more strength than the original structure. I use the box daily, it’s become one of my reminders of these times.
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Essential to the repair of an item is understanding how it works. Having to do much more of my living and working as a reluctant shut-in, it invariably became necessary to organize my household. (This proved helpful when the building very sadly had to be emptied of its residents last summer and all of us had to move out.) My usual studies and writing had to be done in and close to home (but at least I had a spacious place to live, at the time). Very thankfully, a supply line was opened to me via the Boston Athenaeum’s mailing and database services. I also continued teaching via <i>Zoom</i>, joining the many who became fluent in the medium.
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Amidst these times, I reacquainted with old writing tools, and put them into working order. Pens present their own forms of mechanical puzzles. While rinsing a much-loved Reynolds fountain pen from one of my many sojourns in France, I watched the ring from the nib section roll across the kitchen sink and irretrievably down the drain. As with the toolbox mentioned earlier, a study of the pen showed me how the ring was more than decorative trim- it actually provided the needed margin of space to allow the pen to be tightly capped by pushing the nib section into the mechanism that snaps it closed. I set the disabled pen on my desk, not sure what to do with it. One night, while writing and listening to the radio (a supply-line of culture itself), I stopped to look at the poor old Reynolds and an empty yoghurt cup I used for calligraphy. That curved rim got me thinking, and it occurred to me that perhaps if I could slice the plastic just right, I’d have a replacement part. Using my narrowest bookbinding mat knife, and masking tape to hold the container in place, I sliced thin strips of the plastic. It took a few tries, as I saw how exact the fit had to be, to get the pen to snap closed with the same click as it did before with its former metal ring. After getting the precise breadth and length, I sliced an extremely thin slice of archival plastic tape for the <i>inside</i> of the replacement ring. It worked perfectly, and I was able to use the pen as before- albeit sporting a white yoghurt container ring.
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I later found other uses for the strong, yet thin, plastic material to create spacers for altering new refills to fit older pens. Either due to cost savings, or forced obsolescence, inserts for even the higher-end ballpoints are manufacturered shorter now than before. Unlike a fountain pen, a ballpoint is essentially a “handle” that houses an inserted refill combined with its writing-point. The two components, like a textblock and book-cover, need to perfectly fit to be functional- and look right. Using very tiny pieces of the yoghurt cup plastic, I created spacers to customize and “push out” the points as needed for both the writing and the retracting. Getting the right fit was followed by adhering my homemade parts to the backs of the refills, and using a heated sewing pin to create a “breather” for the ink. Again, the repairs have held up to use, and the tools have been in the fine operational order of my preference!
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Having field experts as friends makes for great conversations. As well, I can turn to their professional expertise, supporting their enterprises, too. As it became possible to visit with neighbor and longtime friend Pat Daunis at her shop, I brought her my Reynolds pen, and asked about creating a permanent part to replace what I had made. She liked what I’d created, and used it as a reference point. We had a great visit, talking about the crafts of lettering and calligraphy- and I hired her shop to fashion a new pen ring. Daunis jewelry is among the very best and most highly-regarded that is made in Maine. Pat made the new and precise pen ring out of brass. This will surely last for the life of the pen- and I’ll make certain to rinse it over a tray, with the sink drain-stopper in place!
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Last week, I visited with another old friend whom I respect very much, and that’s Andy the owner of Classic Camera & Repair of Maine. I’m continuing to work full-time through these extremely difficult times. The slivers of personal time I’m able to find are for reflective writing and photography. I made sure to keep my faithful Rolleiflex unpacked, and have been making new images during snowstorms again. Andy helped me by testing the camera’s shutter, and that occasioned a heartening visit.
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Repairs and restoration are expressions of healing. I think of this when I bring books back to life, as well as when I see how fellow craftspeople and mechanics perform their own renditions of this. Of course, the treasures made for written and photo arts are meant to be used en route to new creative ventures. The damage done by the displacement last year, like collateral social ramifications of this pandemic, have yet to be assessed or remedied. I won’t know the extent of this current nightmare, until landing in a peaceful and comfortable living space- away from stomping, blaring, odors, and congested confinement.
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Finally and for the moment, I recently stepped away from the fray for the first occasion in a year, with a week in Boston. Soul repair takes much more time than it does to calibrate an instrument or to fabricate components. And iron-willed patience. Between the always-welcoming environment at Beacon Hill Friends House, and inspirational studies at the Boston Athenaeum, I especially savoured the sweet familiarity of beloved communities. Not only could I hear myself thinking, but I sensed myself breathing, being in the presence of many kindred spirits, and in the absence of overhead bombast. Indeed, the idea is to bask amidst the moment, though admittedly it became a distraction to want to load up on peaceful civility for the road ahead. To say the least, I took many notes, aperch in some beautiful places.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-3675513925176840452022-12-23T12:17:00.003-05:002022-12-23T12:33:40.112-05:00unseen visible<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjLaD5VfULkBiquH3R5N3owaldVfdd0BxiCzKpfEF1bLpJ-5qag_T1to3hEYipcDfC3jGV3zY_yADei28YtKnFXd7_Kw261TrXQMHQrsBbsz828A4NYuVb18FYfANVddHj1XDidSnRJwV_gsrB9hIVid8QHvQS3n6apZvATOS5xiHXbP9J3KM6i45/s1600/unseen-v-001.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjLaD5VfULkBiquH3R5N3owaldVfdd0BxiCzKpfEF1bLpJ-5qag_T1to3hEYipcDfC3jGV3zY_yADei28YtKnFXd7_Kw261TrXQMHQrsBbsz828A4NYuVb18FYfANVddHj1XDidSnRJwV_gsrB9hIVid8QHvQS3n6apZvATOS5xiHXbP9J3KM6i45/s1600/unseen-v-001.jpg"/></a></div>
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<i>“Blessed is that nothingness, <br>
and blessed the secret depths of the heart <br>
that possess everything. It desires to have nothing for itself, <br>
casting away all cares so that it may burn more brightly <br>
with compassion. <br>
Live in faith and hope even though you are in darkness, <br>
for in this darkness God enfolds the soul.” </i><br><br>
~ San Juan de la Cruz, <i>Letters XV, XX</i>
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It has now been four months since my displacement from the sold apartment building within which I had my home of many years. Though each day slogs across quagmires of unease, the work weeks capably string together larger parcels of time. Responsibilities along with demands connected to semblances of normal life force an equilibrium to meet each day. Adaptation, in this case, does not mean enjoyment. If anything, the whiplash effect of diminished conditions has sharpened my senses in pursuit of better living space- of a real home. Perceptions have also sharpened in the direction of transcendence. With merely my thoughts to shelter, while freezing beneath the elements at bus stops, I often gaze skyward. The expanse of distance strikes a contrast against the oppressive apartment which is transitional at best. I also read during my waiting, choosing anthologies portable enough for the transitory. So as not to endanger my rations of inspirational words, I’ve cultivated a knack for page-turning with winter gloves. Routines, in their varied forms, are necessary for many of us to accomplish things in sequential order, such as being prepared for the day’s demands. But memory devices must last only as long as they’re needed, until improvements change relevance. Recently while gazing up at the night sky, from the pavement at the corner of Congress Street and Exchange Street, I considered how we all adapt to survive. After some time and trial, the temporal status quo begins masquerading as a foundation; it’s a temptation for which I refuse to fall. All that I found constricting and objectionable four months ago is no less now. The most solid foundation during a provisional situation is that of the spirit, standing unadorned on frozen streetcorners. <i>The Author and Perfecter of my faith</i> will lead me to better and healthful conditions. When housing and daily life humiliate, the fires of ambition can only burn hotter.
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Beneath the temptation of acquiescence to an objectionable status quo is the notion that efforts at improvement are worthless and in vain. They are not, no matter how high the defeats stack up. Good and intelligent efforts must amount to positive results. What does keep me guessing is whether intensity and thoroughness meet their reciprocal forms of fruition. I’ve had to painfully learn that hard work is far from the recipe for success I’d been led to believe. Following that was being told that “working smart” needed to go with “working hard.” Granted, efficiency is a cultivated craft, and true to self I’ve mastered every methodology I’ve taken on. Though my results have amounted to numerous completed projects, what might be tangibly considered success remains elusive. Also dauntingly elusive is <i>assurance</i>. By this, I refer to a strongly assuring sense of validation that I’m on the right track. Where is the open door? Where is the welcoming place? Where and when may I unpack boxes that have been sealed since last spring? Liberation from the oppressive little hovel and the overhead circus cannot happen soon enough. Things are not looking good, although faith insists there will be open doors and a good future. I’m putting in my honest eight hours every weekday and I’m paying all my bills. The Advent season is about <i>preparing the way</i>, awaiting with expectant hope for the road to finally crest. Exhaustion, frequently made into a badge of accomplishment and survival, is more than anything a manifestation of overwork. Perhaps my efforts needn’t be overdone, and maybe success can happen on less-severe levels of outpouring. It is my nature to strive to make the best impression in all situations, but contemplative wisdom asserts how the most communicative language is silent affection.
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With Saint Bonaventure, I’ll cultivate reason upon the foundation of belief. At the same time, I’ll echo the unabashed Psalmist whose very depths called to the deeps of everlasting. A withdrawal of the Consoler’s presence challenges that aforementioned stabilizing foundation. As any of the best of us, the anguished Psalmist incredulously cries, “why am I forgotten?” He needs an assuring spring of water for the desert of his life. Nicknamed <i>the weeping prophet</i>, Jeremiah persevered and cultivated through deprivation and even exile. But he held against desolation, clutching the message, “if you seek Me wholeheartedly, I will be found by you.” The imperative in this testing is to believe without seeing. In this case, there are no reciprocal proportions: in order to see, there must be complete belief.
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But divine mercy is invisible and cannot be grasped. And the more persistently out-of-view, the more critical it is to press forward. This is neither passive, nor for the weak-hearted, because visualizing the unseen requires reveling in the lacking. Grace and mercy may yet be present to us, without our knowing. Mysteriously, these things are absent right up until the moment of discovery, yet we are called before we can know to reach. I’m reminded of instances during which I’m looking for an object I had set down moments before, such as on my workbench while binding books. A frequent culprit is a transparent measuring triangle. In its pursuit, I’ll say, <i>“it’s in front of me, but I can’t see it.”</i> My eyes scan the work surface and my hands palm the tabletop, while trying to recall when I last saw it. Eventually, I find these kinds of objects, at times in exasperation. Too often, the certain is not apparent.
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Reveling while lacking is followed by yet another notch for the raised bar, and that’s an honest gratitude amidst hardships. Thankfulness while wishing for leisure, favor, and fortune. The present moment requires my meditation upon divine mercy. These alienating trials of unknown duration demand the confidence Saint Augustine had when he said: <br><br>
<blockquote><i>“All my hope lies solely in Your great mercy.
Solely in that, Lord. On Your mercy rests all my hope.
Not my merits, but on Your mercy.”</i></blockquote>
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My ancient namesake not only embraced an unseen promise, Abraham had only perceptive faith to sustain and light his way to the end of his complex life: <i>“By faith he dwelt in the land of promise as in a foreign country, dwelling in tents...”</i> His very, very distant descendant in Sephardic Spain, San Juan de la Cruz, taught and wrote about embracing the nothingness that holds everything. Sounding like our common ancestor, Fray Juan’s <i>The Ascent of Mount Carmel</i> includes the enjoinder, <i>“hope in detachment and emptiness. The good that you desire will find you before too long.”</i> He went so far as to discipline his temperament to renounce seeking consolations. Such depletion becomes a clear slate- a lens cleaner for the heavenward gaze. Frozen and overcast night skies conceal brightness yet to be revealed. Grace is at hand, without seeing or otherwise sensing its imminence.
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This year has been an extremely difficult year which followed one of loss and sadness. I can merely manage as possible, within very tight limitations. While flailing to rectify a regrettable relocation by scouring for something better, admittedly the biggest mistakes are the ones not learned from. The recent move was surely under duress with few choices, but it stands out as a terrible mistake. Needless to say, the painful learning experience continues, and I know much more about what to really avoid. Yet another temptation is that of setting up shop in the wheelrutted inventories of my failings. An old reflex of mine is to turn away from distasteful things- things that are gaudy, unappealing, cruel, dissonant, and unwelcoming. I’ve always turned my camera toward eloquent simplicity and compelling motifs that inspire. That newer reflex I’ve noticed, looking to skies and horizons, counteracting my confinements, is the pull of contemplating the transcendent. This has been my closest way of looking toward home and being enfolded by hope.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-45448836148690270052022-12-01T13:35:00.001-05:002022-12-01T13:35:27.114-05:00radio silence<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0Sx01oklzOSq8y8VbvBsgvKdwyhQfVI8W33c3W_Y-UcqZvqQoRDTchGl9t5Pv6penmu_3zkkwtuVkRPVHUn_qRsFfYK1uSPwChHQ6OMqdcy-HIE54p3qWUSEYJIivg7XW5kFKX7v_8pIOnyyRHYM4RBK-izPHJ1r02r721iXdPtttti98RWXiCp8/s1600/r-silence001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0Sx01oklzOSq8y8VbvBsgvKdwyhQfVI8W33c3W_Y-UcqZvqQoRDTchGl9t5Pv6penmu_3zkkwtuVkRPVHUn_qRsFfYK1uSPwChHQ6OMqdcy-HIE54p3qWUSEYJIivg7XW5kFKX7v_8pIOnyyRHYM4RBK-izPHJ1r02r721iXdPtttti98RWXiCp8/s1600/r-silence001.JPG"/></a></div>
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<i>“And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: <br>
and after the fire, a still small voice. <br>
And it was so, when Elijah heard it, <br>
that he wrapped his face in his mantle, <br>
and went out, and stood in the entrance of the cave. <br>
And, behold, there came a voice unto him, and said, <br>
What doest thou here, Elijah?”</i> <br><br>
~ <i>1st Kings 19:11-13</i> <br><br><br>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
<font size="4">Refuge</font>, these days, has become entirely a state of mind. The most critical aspect resulting from the loss of my housing is the absence of physical sanctuary. Chased from our respective homes in the recently-sold apartment building, my neighbors and I suddenly had to find places to live. Some moved far away, most to various parts of this region, but all reluctantly. With employment in mind, precarious as that is, I’ve managed to stay in the city, yet at a heavy price and in an inhospitable place. Along with many of my fellow Maine workers, I’m an offer or a loss away from leaving the state. The grim reaper’s name is <i>Gentrification</i>, nipping at the heels of most of us, regardless of how industrious and loyal we’ve been. For the unwealthy, things are closing in. Looking around my tiny, temporary quarters, filled with boxed belongings, the closing-in is blatant and suffocating. There remains a great need for refuge, above the din of discomfort and anxiety- all the more when assurance continues to be out of range.
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Silence, like music, is received and internalized uniquely by each individual. There is a silence beneath surfaces of desolation, of deprivation. There are also qualitative, nourishing silences which soothe the soul. The latter is obviously the sort of quiet that is welcomed and desired. I cherished this long before it became elusive- as it is now in the temporary space. Healthful quiet is a treasure; if you have this in your life, count it as a major blessing. Throughout the recent months, my search for a sense of peace has meant going outdoors to breathe and stretch- often closing my eyes and awaiting those measures of grace. I’ve noticed myself doing this at bus stops, as well as during the late hours after the stomping, thrashing, and television racket overhead finally gives out for the night. It’s a daily <i>staggering</i> for peace, as though on a frenetic and exitless highway. When my friends tell me how “this too shall pass,” my response is <i>“when?”</i> The search continues, to be sure, notwithstanding how consolation, peaceful living space, good job ops, and spare money are all equally scarce.
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The constant and compulsive clatter reminds me that many people are afraid of silence. And just as many are unaware of the existence of others in their midst. Aspiring to be compassionate, it is essential to be forgiving of the inconsiderate. After all, somebody needs to be aware of the unaware. As this life is in preparation for eternity, here is the time and place to refine the ability to forbear. But as a flawed mortal who finds forbearance unbearable, I try distracting with noise-canceling headphones (which I can hear through), listening to music, running a household fan, and turning to a lifelong friend: radio. As with any means or instrument, it is for each listener to discern and discover that which suits. Due to all the noise in the building, I’m applying a dulcet layer of classical music to try masking the din of disturbance. My less passive form of listening happens when I seek out noteworthy programs and lectures. If the bulls-in-their-china-closet are too disruptive, especially when they rattle the walls, I’ll use earphones. Amidst the chaos, I’ve taken many inspiring notes from timely broadcasts. With all of this mentioned, when I sense a late night hour when the building falls silent, I’ve noticed how I turn the radio off- just to savour the silence. My shoulders and brow noticeably settle back. It’s the good silence.
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The expression, <i>radio silence</i>, has migrated from its technical origin to popular parlance. A command to “go radio silent,” generally meant stopping any transmission due to security concerns about signal interception. This was also employed so that a weak distress signal might be detected. Whatever the case, <i>radio silence</i> is when no broadcast signal is transmitting. In our common discourse, one can remove themselves from interactions, or withhold specific information. If there is a receiving end awaiting a message, there is no signal- just air- and the listener is at a loss for knowledge. <i>Radio silence</i> then becomes a not-knowing. Turning up the sound only reveals static. One might as well switch off the radio, although doing so eliminates the possibility of picking up a signal later. Waiting and potential are intertwined concepts. Non-broadcast air space and static often follow housing and employment applications, often known as <i>ghosting</i>. Inquirers disclose personal information and credentials, and anticipate responses that never arrive. The passage of time accompanies the radio silence. Companies and landlords never worry about offending anyone; they seem to have all they need.
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The luxury of enacting a broadcast silence of my own is an tempting idea, especially as I embark upon my 33rd straight month of being a one-man department at the pared-down workplace. It’s been an even longer time since it’s been possible to make the kind of monastic sojourn that I’d take twice a year. The pandemic era has comprised a marathon of work and workarounds for lots of us, but I’m very thankful to be working and managing my expenses. I’m always aware of those who are much worse off. Yet even with a sense of broader context in mind, the prospect of a healthful pause would be an oasis somewhere along the unknown way. This is among the topics of pondering while awaiting late buses in frigid, pelting weather. If only all the inflictions ceased, perhaps just long enough to not have to try being a perfect applicant, or with providential buffer space that is free from brutish situations. Or if things cannot stop, maybe they can noiselessly coast along like those fancy electric cars I’m seeing in the East End. The present experience emphasizes how contemplation needs the respite of quiet, or at least the ability to think above the din. Without the resources to create a large landscape, I can make small snapshots. Until substantial traveling becomes possible, there can be modest spans of reflection. Writing outdoors these days happens in colder weather, but I still make sure to intermittently set the pencil down and look skyward. If anything, doing this helps my perspective. Being attentively aperch is a shorthand regathering. <i>Assiduousness</i> is among my favorite words: rooted in the Latin <i>assidere</i>, it is <i>to sit down by</i> one’s attentive initiatives. Hardly the vacuum of radio silence.
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The purgative passage of the soul into darkest night comes to mind in radio silence. There is a receiver that is scanning, attempting to tune for an elusive transmission. Indexing across all available bands, adjusting antennae and power supplies, no signal can be pulled in. The crepuscular radio silence of the spirit lends itself into questioning whether there is a signal at all. Temptation in the desert. Faith says there is a frequency, despite my flailing attempts. Atmospheric conditions can change to something more favorable, so it is critical to keep tuning and hold course. But the when is exasperatingly unknown. Too much time has been wasted. Waiting is anguishing; it is neither passive nor tranquil. A thread running through these times is surely the learning and testing of confident poise. Struggle is a necessary given. We are conditioned to reserve gratitude exclusively for times of success and goodness. The challenge is to maintain that vital resonant circuit in desolation, when there are no soothing broadcasts or music. Gratitude in the radio silence. As well, being a discerning listener means not adding any obstructions of my own.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-53383254237552388272022-11-12T11:39:00.001-05:002022-11-12T11:51:07.460-05:00signs<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBKzBUuN4x2bavFJWtpl7vDmCEKGfaBsFYyZ5TueryqsRWRy5V97cOehxUe8116i6bx3cOUUU-9xn58XOOVIwVZJuKrpC3rTsf7Q2O6S00AL5cycGjk9Giw9aH5YRBaKNRBz5cSbEZlz3UHtWEi2grmpZwOcNVh5QjJ1Sz_vnwO5c2SKhVT6JtrSQz/s1600/signs-001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBKzBUuN4x2bavFJWtpl7vDmCEKGfaBsFYyZ5TueryqsRWRy5V97cOehxUe8116i6bx3cOUUU-9xn58XOOVIwVZJuKrpC3rTsf7Q2O6S00AL5cycGjk9Giw9aH5YRBaKNRBz5cSbEZlz3UHtWEi2grmpZwOcNVh5QjJ1Sz_vnwO5c2SKhVT6JtrSQz/s1600/signs-001.JPG"/></a></div>
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<i>“If we don't release the past, <br>
We'll slap the face of the days to come. <br>
Remember this melody; <br>
Don't ever let it go away. <br>
Sing it to your heart; <br>
Day after day after day.” </i><br><br>
~ Michael Roe and The 77s, <i>The Days to Come</i> <br><br>
<font size="5">1</font><br>
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It seems the most availably productive way to recover my forces damaged by the trauma of housing displacement is to attend to what is immediately required. Learn the new commute, do exceptionally good work, serve those in my midst, and find redeemable aspects in these times. My former neighbors and I could not prevent the loss of our homes in a hastily-sold apartment house. As with countless many others, we’ve all had to navigate disrupted foundations. My home town is now equal parts of unfamiliar and familiar, detestable and endeared, all at once. The old, reliable stabilizing routines have had to be translated into inhospitably cramped and unfriendly confines. A crosstown move might’ve had the balm of improved living standards, but not in this case. The place is also economically unsustainable. Indeed, there will inevitably be another move in the near future; presently, workable compromises are as vital as undaunted ambition.
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The pandemic era persists, and the lingering impression is one of a diminished world. Downsized in the sense that there are reduced opportunities. Perhaps there are too many metaphors in front of me, with the clenched apartment in mind. Existing in that claustrophobia-inducing compartment becomes representative of the compression of this stratified society, dead ends, and the intensified expenditure of energy needed to do all that had been previously taken for granted. It’s increasingly difficult to find any basic situation that isn’t forbidding- not to mention affordable. Yet all along I’ve had it in mind that light strikes the brightest contrast in the densest darkness. My own attempts to reckon with substandard housing and the inability to unpack things I used to easily reach for, have me stretching for any healthful inspiration. Perhaps I speak for many in my admission of these times as humiliating. Having admitted this, very consciously resisting identification as a downtrodden person, my focused attention turns to rebuilding confidence. It seems an unrealistic fantasizing to look forward when bleakness reaches to the horizons. News of current events worsen, and in the face of such immersion my journal entries keep straining for the light. I’m limiting my exposure to media sources, and am spending more time outdoors. Fresh air and skies are far more inviting than 8-foot ceilings and <i>Le Cirque des Eléphants</i> above my head within the puny building. And to be sure, the searching for something better continues. Looking, striving, searching, aspiring- so long as I breathe and dream- these must continue.
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<font size="5">2</font><br>
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<center><i>Breakfast and Bruins news on Beacon Hill</i></center>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
Those who know me well also know that I follow one sport, and that’s hockey. The best and worst of humanity’s universally iconographic traits are found in hockey. My father used to insightfully remark how the National Hockey League has always had a special annual award for “gentlemanly play,” the highly esteemed Lady Byng Trophy. One may choose to bear down on the rigors of skating, passing, scoring, and tenacious defense- or one may run up triple-digit penalty minutes in a league that inexcusably countenances brutality. But echoing my Dad, I love the game when it is just <i>played</i>, as in the Olympics, turning on skills and strategies without the violence. I’m grateful for the start of hockey season which brings in a welcome distraction. The ups and downs of the Boston Bruins, along with the <i>Original Six</i>, do a lot more for me than current events and workplace palace intrigues. In a recent <i>Boston Herald</i> article, I made note of a comment made by a veteran hockey coach who had been asked about the resourcefulness of his players, saying <i>“The N.H.L is a find-a-way league.”</i> That comment jumped off the page at me, as I recognized my admiration for such indefatigable pluck. Find a way. Get out there, find ways to score goals and hold a lead. Find ways to block shots. Back when I played hockey on roller skates, I was always told to “cut the angle” and “challenge the shooter.” None of this is easy and finding ways cannot be done from one’s elbows; it’s got to be full-throttle.
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
Like the coach’s comments and remembering what I was taught, I’m reminded of my instinctive and constant search for signs- for indications to point me forward. Something that draws me to <i>reach forth unto those things which are before</i> can appear in the least-conventional forms, including sports pages. The essential for discernment is openness to sensing the instructional elements in what I experience. Recently on the road, while merging onto the perilous Route 128 in Massachusetts, I gave a quick listen to the traffic report (“on the threes”) on WBZ, after my usual thrice-leftward lane transitions: one lane at a time, signaling like a Lady Byng candidate. After figuring out the necessary detours advised by the traffic report, I began incrementally ascending along the car radio AM dial. Tuning a radio without the presets leaves room for random serendipitous finds. Inching up from somebody prattling about wealth management- clearly meant for the <i>haves</i>, I caught a homily from a broadcast church service. While actively attentive to the rapid traffic, my ear latched onto the pastor’s theme which was compellingly about contending with hardships. His words had the cadence of a mentoring coach, pointing out how present-day lessons can be informed by ancient texts. He observed that personal struggles are means toward purification, that we mortals with our limited perspectives do well to consider how we may be fashioned and sculpted into life in God. He said that we are being pointed toward eternity. I listened intently to this, while the urban traffic thickened, and remembered as many of the words as I could throughout the day.
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<font size="5">3</font><br>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
Being attentive to signs of promising directions, my senses have sharpened amidst times and situations that are harsher than I’ve ever seen. The friction and inertia between idealism and present-day realism are palpable. Mindfulness must proceed through minefields, testing even the most seasoned souls. The search for hopeful prospects, for substance, for satisfying applications of time and abilities is especially susceptible to clouding mirages. Ancient wisdom challenges us to <i>test the spirits</i>.
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
For my purposes, signs are manifestations and portents to suggest possibilities, as well as things to avoid. While adjusting to different surroundings and on the watch for something better, I have my usual photographer’s eyes and archivist’s mind. These discerning faculties help me notice and interpret my experiences, along with comprehending these attributes in context. I try to make sense of things by listening and looking- essentially attending to my surroundings. Even as a child, it was never sufficient to just go through the days’ motions. And to this moment, I need to see the why of things- utility and meaning always on equal footing. Impressions occur in an unprovoked flash. It is not a wrenching contrivance. The temporal present eagerly anticipates a good future. My daily striving is accompanied by taking in the signs of nature, such as the changing skies and lower temperatures. Colorful leaves that waft and fall signify the movements of time. Ubiquitous election campaign signs have not informed me about causes and candidates, but have made for an amusing sea of Yes and No statements. Voting against a cause is voting in favor of something else, and vice-versa.
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<center><i>The Portland Observatory - the signal tower built in 1807</i></center>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
Albeit temporarily, I’m becoming acquainted with the East End, after 37 years in the West End. Barely two miles apart, the two neighborhoods may as well be in two different gentrified cities. To the West End’s brick rowhouses, the East End’s woodframes include a 215-year-old signal tower. My inherent city sense has already figured out strategic shortcuts through the unlit narrow streets. The steep neighborhood has the feel of living on an island: the ocean is always in close view, and conveniences are not nearby. Mornings are damp, to the extent that I now keep a squeegee in my car. Commuting to work is now by infrequent city bus, after decades of walking or bicycling. I miss everything about the old life, but there was no choice for any of us to stay in the building that is now being gutted and luxurified. All there is to do is to continue searching and watching for opportunities to make a beneficial move. I’m reading the signs- both online as well as offline. Giving up cannot be an option; to that, I vote <b>No</b>.
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A ubiquitous byproduct of displacement, especially to inadequate confines, is discomfort. More is uncertain than is certain. Signs of assurance may not necessarily appear as spelled-out posted markers. Friendly street greetings and bus driver acknowledgments are cherished. No longer having a budget for leisure, at least I can continue writing and photographing. And preparing comfort food for those humble front-stoop meals. I’m reading consolations in my philosophical studies and in the daily lectionary. In a library book, I saw these words of 17th century Quaker author Sarah Jones: <br>
<blockquote><i>“Look not at your own weakness, <br>
but look at Him who is calling you.”</i></blockquote>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
I make notes of findings in my chapbooks, adding balance to my journals. Indeed, others have struggled, navigated, and discovered long before me. Their words are clues, signs that can point toward a worthwhile future. Occasionally, signs and consolations find us. The front stoop has been a ready refuge from the apartment’s compression- even though I’m too tall for that, too, and must perch astride it with my legs hanging from the side. But it’s a place from which I can look up, and can greet neighbors.
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
An especially consoling presence that regularly finds me on the stoop is a friendly cat. Usually the cat notices me first, and sometimes perches on my books to get my full attention. He also gets a slice of smoked turkey. The visits are always timely and appreciated. Among the neighborhood cats, there’s a Maine Coon cat that greets me when I descend from the bus in the evening. The long day’s transactions leave me saturated, but I make time for these visits and sit on the pavement to thank the singing cat. I suppose we all have our causes for vigilance, in the context of realizing the intensity of mine and how much mental space they consume. Exasperated, I see how I cannot force the progress of my urgent conditions- try as I certainly do. As these friendly cats come up to me, and I welcome them, there is something to be read in the arrival of unprovoked blessings. Signs to be discerned. Perhaps what I consider to be vigilance is actually consistency of intention and preparedness.
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<center><i>where the sidewalk ends</i></center>
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-52308564168530041862022-10-12T15:10:00.003-04:002022-10-12T15:17:48.704-04:00temporal<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2kV1ZjraNUMxnR03-XlJvFKBQ0gLd-lvDscvWudDsNk8sB0VBo7xSTnF_q7Q5jJy9TqzaoP2-0M7WkMkMyapKIDQQ_d9jGAnTbaUg6xR0lCeJNbtO7IDhvgROO-LvKBi1AHJtFgleGTc_x_-LYQuLtUGXF5ZNo1hl5_gv1saO_1PKFqpACrTSNh4/s1600/temporal-001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2kV1ZjraNUMxnR03-XlJvFKBQ0gLd-lvDscvWudDsNk8sB0VBo7xSTnF_q7Q5jJy9TqzaoP2-0M7WkMkMyapKIDQQ_d9jGAnTbaUg6xR0lCeJNbtO7IDhvgROO-LvKBi1AHJtFgleGTc_x_-LYQuLtUGXF5ZNo1hl5_gv1saO_1PKFqpACrTSNh4/s1600/temporal-001.JPG"/></a></div>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
<i>“It is not in vain that the fires of this divine discontent <br>
have been kindled within.”</i> <br><br>
~ Thomas Aquinas, <i>Summa Theologica ch. 1 </i><br><br><br>
<font size="4">1</font><br>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
In an attempt to regain a sense of normal creativity, I’ve glanced back at the recent weeks of my journal entries en route to this essay. Indeed the apartment house which had been my home for many years was sold by the progeny whose family had owned the property for a century. All nine apartments had to be evacuated, and my household was the penultimate departure. For every person, the experience was emotional, as nobody wanted to leave the elegant old landmark, but it was necessary, and none of us wanted to face eventual eviction. The extreme stresses revolving around hunting for a place to live during this state’s worst-ever housing crisis was as intense as the trauma has been for me. In my determination to climb out of despair, I’ve kept on writing, along with going to work every day. The emergency move finally happened 4 days after the sale of the building closed, so I can say I outlasted the former landlords. Being gentrified out of one’s home is a woefully common plight in present-day southern Maine.
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
Four months of scouring the region for an apartment acquainted me with dozens of stories that remain with my thoughts. The picking being slimmer than nil, due to my income, I found a painfully small place- two neighborhoods away- unsurprisingly and absurdly expensive. Strain and exhaustion led to the current disappointment. Of course, the entire scenario would have been positively cathartic, had I found something really nice. There was no choice but to move, and despite having to sign a litigious 13-page lease, this can only be considered temporary. As for the old place, which is now being gutted as I write these words, I’m grateful for all I enjoyed there: all the dinner parties, guests, space, and general tranquility. At the same time, it is critically important to remember that I never owned a square inch of the edifice. Finally leaving an empty building, depleted of all my neighbors, revealed to me that it was merely a tired old shell. Settled and caring souls are what make for a home. The music of life had disappeared. A row house that comprised the lives of doctors’ offices, writers, a piano teacher, families, eccentrics, and artists is now an object of investment real estate. Like covid, the housing crisis has struck far too many people. I tried my best to desensitize for the move. I find that I cannot call the present apartment <i>home</i>; it is referred to as <i>the place</i>.
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<font size="4">2</font><br>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
Amidst times that force countless among us to absorb increasingly greater expenses with decreasing resources, shall we permit ourselves the luxury of ambition? Is it unreasonable to expect advancement and stability during economic recessions and housing crises? How costly is hope? These recent months have shown me that housing is essentially for the affluent, and better employment is for insiders. From my diminished perch, the currently propagated logic that says inflation will slow down when there are fewer jobs looks terribly twisted. I know that I’d have found appropriate housing with a much better salary. For anyone, that would exceed the obvious. My own experience is the juxtaposition of fighting on through underemployment and inferior housing, upon the din of temporality and glaring imperfections at all hands. Indeed, I am very far from alone in such circumstances- yet speaking for myself, there must be improvement. The urgency is crippling, but my awareness of the temporal is oddly assuring. It is nothing particularly new or unique to have to get used to detestable things. In a place so cramped and unappealing, I’ve only unpacked clothing and books- along with kitchen and bathroom contents. From the boxes to my bookshelves (thus clearing some rarified patches of floor space), I reached for Thomas Merton’s <i>Life and Holiness</i>. In the book, he described how people and institutions tend to “cling to subtle forms of inertia and mental paralysis.” Merton challenges his readers to actively see to it that a consistent sense of sanctity must prevail, while facing truths of the imperfections in our situations. Having this is mind, I set about scrubbing the floors of the oppressive little apartment- which is more like a compartment- to make things as livable as possible, and so that I can begin the work of repacking for another move.
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<font size="4">3</font><br>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Temporary</i>, for many, is a convenience- such as a rented car or a nice hotel room. In my present case, it’s painful and anguishing. As I try to figure out any useful divine purpose in this, when I write my daily journal entries that are equivalent to surfacing for air, I try to recall the value of the dynamic of the provisional. I remember well enough how the <i>temporal</i> used to be hopeful and exciting- or at times a kind of fear that something held dear was about to reach an unwelcome end. Now with a visegrip of a living space, immediately after losing my home, I am beyond eager for this captivity to be short-lived. The tote I had labeled “desk drawer” prior to moving is still next my empty writing table, which took weeks for me to unearth from beneath piles of boxes. It is unavoidably a hold-pattern kind of life which I am striving to redeem. Where is <i>home</i>, when one cannot go home? If anything, this is a difficult and protracted learning about attachments to places and things. At worst a prelude to mortality, and at best an opportunity to muse about an open-ended future.
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
For someone like me that instinctively looks for solutions to problems and routine conundrums, I want reasons, purposes, and strategies to get me out of wheelspinning ruts. Thinking about transcendence is a much better distraction than to let stomping elephantine upstairs neighbors hijack my wellbeing. I used go home for the peace and quiet; now I run away from the place to seek peace and quiet outdoors. <i>Illegitimi non carborundum</i>, as the pseudo-Latin goes. The name <i>Hosea</i>, in actual Hebrew, means <i>salvation</i>. Hosea the Prophet (8th century B.C.) famously wrote (chapter 10): <br>
<blockquote><i>“Sow for yourselves righteousness;
reap in mercy; break up your fallow ground,
for it is time to seek the Lord, ‘til He comes to you
raining righteousness.”</i></blockquote>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
The imagery of fallow ground never leaves my inquisitive thoughts. What is its meaning? Well, the biblical prophetic voices have always had the purpose of turning people to the Light of life: to God and to vocations of being instruments of holiness for the benefit of others. Hosea essentially bids the reader to self-reform, though it requires a broken and contrite spirit. He used the agrarian language of the ancients, “plowing up the fallow ground” to make the foundation of life receptive to renewal. Cultivate the ground such that heart and soul are cleansed of all that corrupts, removing weeds and thorns impairing the causes of uprightness and good works of generosity. Then my thoughts were drawn to the portion in Jeremiah, warning against “sowing among thorns.”
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
Me being me, I want a meaning, a message, something I can implement like a marching order. And like the Psalmist, I contemplate the words and digest them like food. What’s this about unproductive, fallow ground and sowing among thorns? Maybe life in the comfortable old place in the West End (which I could afford) was fallow ground that needed to be tilled. Maybe the moneycraving landlords and their doings (and misdoings) were part of this casting away into the abyss. Perhaps I live in a city and a state that amount to fallow ground, complete with thornridden recipients of one well-composed cover letter and résumé after another. If this is true, I want to know right away, before any more life forces are wasted. I could look back and grind away more in persistent defeatedness, or strain to look ahead for the miraculous.
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<font size="4">4</font><br>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
While disciplining my thoughts to steer away from the brink of tempting despondence, I write my determination to leverage the temporal toward promising horizons. The pandemic era got most people to internalize “making the best of a bad situation.” Trauma lingers and anxiety remains: the latter due to the expense and unsuitability of <i>the place</i>. There needs to be another move, a liberation from such an oppressively claustrophobic environment. Last month’s emergency move notwithstanding, precious resources were sown in the wrong kind of soil, thus any sort of harvest I can salvage is out-of-joint.
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
My better musings return to gathering some functional thoughts to try recognizing Divine purpose in this intense trial. As I transfer my personal effects from cardboard to reclosable plastic totes (since <i>the place</i> is too small for unpacking, and I want to be better prepared for the next move), I’m reacquainted with treasures I haven’t seen in four months. I get to see what I’ve missed and what I did not miss. From a box of childhood keepsakes, I unpacked my Felix the Cat- the sight of which brought me to tears, and I apologized to him for these crabby confines. Felix is a keeper, though I am finding other things to give away or sell, as I make yet another comprehensive purge. It’s all unsatisfactory, yet coping is necessary, reconciling without settling.
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
In the midst of this continuing crisis, as I’ve surely seen throughout the last six months, multitudes cannot even find small places to stack their treasures, and still more are homeless. Along with the health crisis which has claimed almost 7 million lives worldwide, maintaining a sense of context is critical. An impartial observer that notices the fortunate that get good jobs and have nice places to live, must also keep an awareness of the less-fortunate. My definition of <i>home</i> has become elusively fluid. The best thing said to me came from one of the wonderful librarians at the Boston Athenaeum, who compassionately wished that I’d find a sense of home at the library, and at any time I open my journal to write. Having made decades of pilgrimages, it’s easy to call to mind how writing is a movable feast- even with just a morsel, a notebook, and a pencil. Still, the pride of place I had for many years in a lofty Victorian row-house has been brought to something lowly, clenched, and yet overpriced. It’s nothing to be proud of, and will be easy to leave behind.
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<center><i>Boston Athenaeum terrace</i></center>
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<p style="text-align: justify;">
If ambition really is a luxury, then I stand flagrantly overdrawn. Aspirations are pearls of great price and I intend to invest with them, rather than to hoard my credentials. Even in these harsh circumstances, I insist upon enriching myself with studies and knowledge. These pursuits long predate this year, and there have been plenty of rewarding adventures. Why not anticipate more? Living against the barricades of canned confinement and treadmill workdays must amount to a launch into something healthful and lifegiving. Several years ago, a counselor to whom I described my work situation replied with a memorable turn of phrase: “Well, that burns the platform hotter, doesn’t it?” It’s not to say I feel that I’m owed anything; it’s more like a marrowdeep desire to live and work in better environs. The perseverance muscles are flexed, as is the longing for the fulfilment of two careers’ worth of cultivated abilities.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-52756229171140804712022-09-18T12:22:00.004-04:002022-09-18T19:19:51.668-04:00snap!<br>
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<p style="text-align: justify;"><font size="5"><i><center>snap!</center></i></font>
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<br><br><br>speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-42718452365900857602022-09-05T07:58:00.001-04:002022-09-05T07:58:11.533-04:00necessary sadness
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcQtSZsG__v5aybVCIAeGhEe035HDsc9UHjxwJJ6itjpKeJ2UYVTCuihDOlHtGbkm4mrMmSAa-RUSg5X0HCAv82PSJNMTy1N7fVmZuHOqlct_K5ct06C6qhM4xJfQgEvUip6yZic81-P5k5KcrvElRP1KI7tgnWg40Hdk1w51kUypT2mVAdZjPEbJ/s1600/nec-sad-001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcQtSZsG__v5aybVCIAeGhEe035HDsc9UHjxwJJ6itjpKeJ2UYVTCuihDOlHtGbkm4mrMmSAa-RUSg5X0HCAv82PSJNMTy1N7fVmZuHOqlct_K5ct06C6qhM4xJfQgEvUip6yZic81-P5k5KcrvElRP1KI7tgnWg40Hdk1w51kUypT2mVAdZjPEbJ/s1600/nec-sad-001.JPG"/></a></div>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><i>
“You have here no place of long abiding, <br>
for wherever you have come you are but a <br>
stranger and a pilgrim, and never will find perfect rest <br>
until you are fully joined to God. <br>
Why do you look to have rest here, since this is not <br>
your resting place? Your full rest must be in heavenly things, <br>
and you must behold all earthly things as transitory and shortly passing away. <br>
And beware well not to cling to them overmuch...”</i><br><br>
~ Thomas à Kempis, <i>Imitatio Christi</i> <br><br>
<font size="4">1</font><br>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
Reminiscent of the sports situation in which a team is down by several goals late in the 3rd period, my furious and relentless five-month search for housing ran out of time. Watching my version of timed “regulation” fizzle, I was forced to choose between an emergency move or eviction. Losing my home of 37 years due to the gentrification of the apartment building is but one unfortunate story among many in a small city that has sold its own soul. A recent housing survey has tabulated that the Greater Portland area is short more than 9,000 housing units. True to the local fashion, years and years of talk do not lead to effective action. The pandemic era causes many of us to try making the better of a bad situation. Witnessing the misery and struggles of countless neighbors and colleagues, I have an idea that I’ve managed to defy some of the odds, albeit on a very modest income. Listening to dozens upon dozens of hardship stories- from sudden compounded rents, to evictions, to evacuations from condemned buildings- has generated a saturation factor causing an emotional wrenching now each time I encounter anything reminding me of <i>housing instability</i>. All the while, I’ve been flailing at creative networking, cold calling, traipsing through more than 30 apartments, and chafing at the unwinnable contest of answering online advertisements. Conceding defeat is essentially managing the losing. It’s also making efforts to insist upon recognizing any good I can find. <br><br>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
Many- too many- people are forced to endure the horrors of having their homes kicked out from under them. So many injured souls. The crisis extends far beyond this region and across the continent. Amidst this overspreading precariousness there is hunger for solidity and consolation. My vigilant searches and inquiries have painfully shown me how there is a severe deficit of compassion and mercy. Who will dare to not exploit? All the courage and fortitude I can conjure up cannot compensate enough. At the same time, what is past needs to be released to create space for the future. The loss of my home is also my farewell to the dwelling which accompanied my adult life up to now. These recent five months of purging, packing, and feverish searching have also comprised a protracted grieving. I’m eager for this to end, even though it means squeezing into a smaller and costlier space. The new chapter is forced by crisis, and the decision is surely a compromise.<br><br><br>
<font size="4">2</font><br>
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The general, abiding impression is that of <i>necessary sadness</i>, hoping this is provisional and that I’ll transcend this. Indeed, I want to write about other things. Along with all my neighbors in the building, we did not want to leave. These conditions are equally sad and moving is necessary. The added overlay of a general housing crisis enhances the anguish. It is necessary to move; there are no alternatives. It is necessary to stay the course and insist upon hoping for better days and situations. It is especially necessary to continue cultivating ambition, even in the face of yet another recession. It is, alas, also necessary to compromise living conditions- albeit as civilly as possible. I have learned plenty about how little I can afford. Surviving this crucible is necessary, and the road traverses intense sadness. It is sad to be forced out of my home of many years, before I’ve been able to improve my fortunes. Loss of housing and neighborhood make for a sad equation. At the same time, I have witnessed the decline of my neighborhood’s resources, infrastructure, and quality of life. I also watched the building deteriorate into something unsafe. Sometimes you leave your neighborhood, and sometimes your neighborhood leaves you. In my case, I suppose it’s both. A major aspect of this sadness is connected to the people who have either left or passed away during my years in the building and vicinity. Loyalty is an effortless trait for me, and in these recent months I’ve seen a painful downside as it concerns <i>loyalty to place</i>. Uncertainty about the future is also a sadness, and I know many who share this sentiment. Being a supportive friend helps distract me from personal worries, and allows me to be more useful. Along with that, I have no intention to espouse the passivity of the regional culture- those who watch the sufferings of others, instead of doing something to help. There really is a mercy deficit.
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By definition, necessity does not really go away; something is <b><i>necessary</i></b> until it isn’t. We all remember requirements from our school days. As for <b><i>sadness</i></b>, it may remain as a landmark, and that is preferable to being an enduring state of mind. Grief settles into the fibers of our being, if it must simply be an unresolved landmark in time and place. With this move, unsatisfactory and expensive as it is, there will be a beginning to the distance placed between now and the future. Everything is packed, that frightening lease has been signed, and my reimbursed security deposit for my current place will come from the invisible developers who bought the old building. I’ve been photographing parts of the building that I hadn’t previously documented, and writing at a few perches for the last time. A wise friend suggested that I find ways to break with the place, without regret, and thoroughly. For me, it’s always writing and photography. Of course, those crafts go with me. <br>
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While writing on the front stoop, the hallway steps, and at my old window, I am thinking about what proceeds with me from this long night. What will stay with me, after I return my keys and get used to different streets? The necessary sadness comes as a result of a lot of active struggle. Not being able to accomplish my housing preferences, such as with neighborhoods, spaces, and my hopes to continue renting from families, sadness is paralleled with disappointment. At the same time, I’ve actually found <i>something</i>, and that will have to do, for the time being. It has been difficult to separate my disappointment from the hundreds of conversations I’ve had around this metropolitan area. The word-of-mouth efforts failed, although I did meet a lot of people. During interspersed quiet moments, I’m telling myself that it is of critical value to <i>not</i> become angry or bitter toward anyone. <i>Just don’t</i>. Sure this is all rotten, but these times are rotten and desperate for a lot of people. Still more are homeless. As with the general pandemic, this city’s regional gentrification has taken down far too many people through no faults of their own. The cruel consequences are largely unavoidable. We are each left to commandeer our resources and wits. One of numerous leasing agents I met told me about a family she knows that had to live in a tent pitched in a friend’s backyard even though the head of the household had a job. They could not find an apartment, and wound up sinking themselves in an ill-timed mortgage. A neighbor saw me carrying donations out to my car, and we got to talking about this whole sad scenario. Amidst our conversation she asserted that the neighborhood and the building will <i>always</i> be part of me. A number of other neighbors have said this to me, as well. Yes, the memories go with me, and the better ones should stay with me. All the years of photographs will help. And still more valuable is to have it in mind to appreciate what was. A great deal of goodness to reflect back upon, while fully aware of what has finally run its course.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-35121776082816188332022-08-02T20:11:00.001-04:002022-08-02T20:11:35.019-04:00when
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<i>“They’re building a new gallows <br>
For when You show up on the street. <br>
Polishing the electric chair, <br>
They're gonna give You a front row seat. <br>
Heard a sneer outside the garden, <br>
Salutation so well heeled; <br>
‘final stop no points beyond struggleville.’”</i> <br><br>
~ Bill Mallonee and the Vigilantes of Love, <i>Welcome to Struggleville</i> <br><br><br>
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Humidity and thick, heavy, opaque clouds during a drought. The skies are remembering along with me, and they, too, want to weep yet somehow cannot. My notebook pages are weighted down with two rocks, as I perch to write in front of my desk fan during this heat wave. Neither fresh nor cold, the fanned air is at least <i>moving</i>. I’ve had a few months of living my farewell to the building that has been home for most of my adult life. Recollections and sadness are forcefully overshadowed by unrelenting, desperate searching for a place to live, as the building’s ownership changes. Equally unsure about the <i><a href="https://laviegraphite.blogspot.com/2022/07/where.html" target="_blank">where</a></i>, is the <i>when</i>. <i>When</i> do the multiple rows of dominos tip, with respect to the sale and dismembering of the apartment house, the finding of the next place, and the general big-picture future? Will the sequence of events permit for a dovetailing of addresses? Those multiple rows do not necessarily run in parallel formation, and surely not at identical paces. As for the professional work I’ve diligently cultivated and refined, the future is also unclear. <i>When</i> do the metaphorical yet solidly vital doors open? <i>When</i> do things tangibly improve, after so many hardworked years? <i>When</i> do the sown seeds come to fruition, and what has really been sown? How late is the hour?
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My unceasing prayers are for Divine mercy, not solely for myself but for all. Where, and <i>when?</i> Indeed, persistent prayer meets its greatest adversity when there are no affirmative answers, when intentions and petitions remain ungranted. My own response to these perplexities is to soldier on; it is no passive matter. Long before and steadily throughout these pandemic times, the <i>officium Divinum</i> has been part of every day- especially the early mornings and at night. The movements of the day, regardless of quarantines, disruptions, isolation, and threats of displacement, can still be accentuated with the Psalms. Although I’ve seen this at four-week intervals, only last week I noticed this in the midday office: <i>“Help us to be faithful to your word and to bravely endure our exile.”</i> It takes strength to transcend passivity.
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These recent three months have been much like the past thirty months of this pandemic era, annoyingly exemplifying the state of being <i>at the mercies</i> of too much and too many that are unmerciful. As the word <i>empathy</i> has come to be used in place of the more casual <i>sympathy</i> (or <i>sympatico</i>), the words <i>mercy</i> and <i>pity</i> are popularly interchanged. The pairings have their similarities, but each definition in their respective full strengths signify significant practical differences. Are you a watcher or a doer? The medieval morality play <i>Everyman</i> is about the journey of the character by the same name who is both tested and tests the intentions of his fairweather friends. After he is told that he must complete his life’s voyage to its destination, Everyman asks his various friends if they would accompany him. His old pal Fellowship starts out with pleasantries, but backs out at the prospect of a hard road. Even his familiar Cousin says his toe hurts, and adds he has an “unready reckoning” anyway, to which Everyman observes: <i>“Fair promises men to me do make, but when I have most need, they me forsake.”</i>
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Everyman’s friends sound like Job’s, and like too many people all of us know, thus he falls upon his own stamina and spirit. Even his personal property failed him Adding insult to injury, his wavering buddy Good-Deeds may have just as well used a social media channel as he says, <i>“Everyman, I am sorry of your fall, and fain would I help you, and I were able.”</i> At last it is Knowledge who sticks with Everyman, introducing our protagonist to Strength, and Beauty, and the Angel. Upon reaching his hard-fought destination, Everyman stretches forth and says, <i>“Here I cry God, mercy!”</i> Having neither more nor less than his own soul to offer, Everyman affirms, <i>“In manus tuas</i> of might’s most; for ever <i>commendo spiritum meum.”</i>
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“Hang in there” is something many of us hear quite a lot. Most of the time it reminds me of the desolate Everyman, but not always. When the manager of my local supermarket tells me this, after asking how the housing search is going, I can tell the wish is heartfelt. This morning I heard the words from my usual bank teller who also means it. She told me the story of her two years’ search for a house during the recession of circa 2000. Having endured the hardship illustrated her sense of understanding. The anxiety-laced dance of hypervigilant hunting for a place to live has removed relaxation from all parts of these months. My thirst is for the days I can <i>go home</i> to wherever my writing table will be, kick off my shoes, open the window for some fresh air, and just plain take the situation for granted. I believe many others do, as well. According to local news, southern Maine now has a shortage of at least 9,000 places to live. Not sure how that is measured, but I’m sure the number would be much smaller if not for the scourge of short-term rentals in residential neighborhoods. A recent local news article observed that “houses are no longer primarily thought of as homes, but as financial instruments and investment pieces.” In my neighborhood, I see town houses sold and resold and resold, without so much as a chair traversing a threshold. A major front-page article spotlighted an evicted family who live in a camper they park nightly at a Maine Turnpike rest stop. In response, concerned neighbors raised money to help, though the family’s search for a place to live continues. A social worker acknowledged the crisis conditions of the state’s housing shortage, adding, <i>“If you’re on a limited income and have no other resources, you’re really at the mercy of the market.”</i> <i>Where</i> is that mercy- and <i>when?</i>
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This four-month tribulation which is embedded into the 2½ year pandemic is unresolved. At the still-unknown yet anticipated other side of these times, all of us will surely have tales to tell. In my daunted search for mercy, including my own Everyman experience, I wonder about misinterpreting life as transactional. Alas, mercy and respect cannot be purchased; you either have it or you don’t. A friend of mine who spent years trying to earn his tenure at an elite college talks about how “the good jobs get handed out” to cronies rather than to the most talented and accomplished. He said this even after he got his offer. Favors come to the privileged, to those who least need them. I’ve yet to figure out how to excavate good fortune, or to somehow generate it. Inevitably, all involved need to have their hearts in the game. I certainly do, but I’m not so naïve to assume that friendly territory abounds. Well, so does old Screwtape; I know. At the same time, I can choose to <i>be merciful</i>, and that comes through my willingness. Does that mean my pursuit of life and holiness continues independently of the Almighty? Or course not. Invoking the wagering philosopher Blaise Pascal, <i>I don’t dare to do so</i>. Like the character Everyman, the mind and soul are not to be compromised, even as the comforts of home and home itself are pulled away. In addition to holding fast to faith and mercy, another critical trajectory is openness to compassion- and even goodness. Openness means there may yet be good results. Lately, with an upward smirk, I refer to the rent-free realms of contemplation and devotion. I hear tell that parking and utilities are included.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-61972052485254842762022-07-21T20:13:00.003-04:002022-07-23T10:26:08.854-04:00where<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAE_fuIkTLre_uuMZHE5qFS6jGpZOgULqv07t6ynfvzoY4yX-1ObHljqEq_LHo1IDmGJ1rGepiwXueseXs99ca1ZMCK6R4URekHFSZLLS-2tr0b_KTzwda6ehFLIP-Cadc0ReqV5GZP0GNdE3GnjRvWW_jtK2UMJ4-EtJ3mHMHo9xqC8xJdm2hVzTX/s1600/where-001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="577" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAE_fuIkTLre_uuMZHE5qFS6jGpZOgULqv07t6ynfvzoY4yX-1ObHljqEq_LHo1IDmGJ1rGepiwXueseXs99ca1ZMCK6R4URekHFSZLLS-2tr0b_KTzwda6ehFLIP-Cadc0ReqV5GZP0GNdE3GnjRvWW_jtK2UMJ4-EtJ3mHMHo9xqC8xJdm2hVzTX/s1600/where-001.JPG"/></a></div>
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<i>“My Lord God, <br>
I have no idea where I am going. <br>
I do not see the road ahead of me. <br>
I cannot know for certain where it will end, <br>
nor do I really know myself, <br>
and the fact that I think I am following your will <br>
does not mean that I am actually doing so. <br>
But I believe that the desire to please you <br>
does in fact please you. <br>
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. <br>
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. <br>
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, <br>
though I may know nothing about it. <br>
Therefore will I trust you always, <br>
though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. <br>
I will not fear, for you are ever with me, <br>
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.” </i><br><br>
~ Thomas Merton, <i>Thoughts in Solitude</i> <br><br><br>
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Atypical of my gender stereotype, I’ve always been one to ask for directions. At every age, both time and energy are precious, and I try to make the best of my resources. Recalling a day replete with irony, after hearing from two different potential employers that I was overqualified, I drove to an interview to talk about a job for which I truly was overqualified. I could not find the place. Certain that I’d overshot the address, I stopped to ask for directions in a grocery store. Having given myself plenty of time, I wasn’t in danger of being late. Speaking with the grocery clerk got me out of my bubble, and reminded me that I was surely awake. Indeed, I found the place, and what followed amounted to something absurdly depressing. Once again the outlier, these adventures return to my thoughts. As my housing uncertainty continues, metaphors become threatening realities. The brevity of time in this liminal present is exemplified in the apartment building which steadily empties of the lives who have called it home. Everyone knows what’s coming, and we are all being as proactive as possible in this forbiddingly stratified housing market. Being forced out of my home of many years is an experience that combines instability, heartbreak, and exasperation. Incredulity and reluctance have led to an impatience to join my fellow evacuees. Coexisting with packed boxes of all my worldly goods is conducive to imagining moving a lot farther away than across town. Varying degrees of unease occasionally manifest as sparks of adventurousness. What is next, and <b><i>where</i></b> is next? <br>
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Living, working, and having been actively part of this city for decades, I’m doing plenty of asking for directions and advice from among the legions of people I’ve befriended. It is as though I don’t really know anyone, and am a refugee in my home town. Some are willing to help, but are unable; some are able to help, but are unwilling. Under the weight of desolation, it is as vital to persevere as it is to resist holding grudges. This city kid was raised to know better than to be bitter and reticent. Perhaps some day I’ll be in the role of helping a neighbor find housing, and I will not stand afar and snub. For now, things need to be taken at face- even as <i>“good luck”</i> has come to translate as <i>“glad I’m not you.”</i> Strolls around town are now mournful, being under the shellshock cloud of crisis, noticing the haves and the have-nots. When answering ads, I ask about how these apartments are heated, and if they’re making residents pay for their hot water (which never used to be done before). It’s a landlords’ market, without doubt. On my way to work the other day, I saw a homeless person sleeping in the doorway of an upscale real estate office that brokers idyllic coastal hamlets. The two Maines, and people like me are somewhere in between. As long as I stay in this city, having neither wealth nor influence, a nice place to live will be out of reach. Along with so very many, I’ve been exploring where my prospects can be better- but without surrendering this part of the world. For the moment, the urgency is in finding stability. Perhaps in the grand scheme of things, we’re all <i>renters</i>. When we think we’re “buying time,” we’re actually <i>renting</i> something we cannot own, and can at best pay for it.
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The impending loss of housing has generated its own measurement of time. In a broader sense, the pandemic has caused a change in how the world has been perceiving recent years. The change is signified in how we’ll say <i><b>pre</b></i> and <b><i>post</i></b>, as the stream of normal life is diverted- or derailed. Speaking for myself, this year’s spring and summer have been lost seasons due to urgency. It is as though there are constantly more and more and wider rivers to traverse, en route to a clearing as yet unseen. There remains writing, and indeed I have found ways to write through life-threatening trials before. If language really is the house of being, then ambition must be the basement of aspiration. <br><br>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
The erosive symptoms of hopelessness are difficult to stave off. When suppression burns too much energy, I’ll simply entertain the notions in my journals, stepping through the minefields of the usual patterned and condemning responses en route to writing about hopes. Creativity and imagination are potential instruments for doing battle with futility. Amidst this indefinite wilderness of not knowing the <i>when</i> or the <i>where</i>, it is as imperative as ever to keep on <i>doing the next right thing</i>. The humblest measures, those of <i>intention</i>, can still be forward movements. Recently, having another among dozens of apartment viewings, I needed to take time off from work, and chose to walk to the address. Making the crosstown trek and seeing an unfamiliar neighborhood, the novel occasion caused me to notice skies, trees, street repairers, and sundry individuals being about their respective business. The doings of life are in motion while I try to find traction for mine. Does hope require proof? What forms of proof are convincing enough? Are hope and trust reciprocal complements? Such virtues exist in time, yet are not confined to place. In essence, there is no <i>where</i>.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-16627032898653037012022-06-29T19:41:00.002-04:002022-07-23T10:26:29.185-04:00see beyond<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdE9SwVtXWOMt2JE7JXytZG4M0ErkUauuHqzETUXFaDgCGQkbTxYobpL-6h-XDBBZMmMPQ6svZNvpaR9wG_K3B4KNk83cm1QBJIn_eJyj-_dgr6Vx7xYyCwb4oHB8fmBrf8EKK6g1kZGLEvsGtneKXOoR6jm_eohgQNs_3Rjri4702ySl9w62MATPo/s1600/see-beyond_001.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdE9SwVtXWOMt2JE7JXytZG4M0ErkUauuHqzETUXFaDgCGQkbTxYobpL-6h-XDBBZMmMPQ6svZNvpaR9wG_K3B4KNk83cm1QBJIn_eJyj-_dgr6Vx7xYyCwb4oHB8fmBrf8EKK6g1kZGLEvsGtneKXOoR6jm_eohgQNs_3Rjri4702ySl9w62MATPo/s1600/see-beyond_001.JPG"/></a></div>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
<i>“We must accept finite disappointment, <br>
but never lose infinite hope.”</i> <br><br>
~ Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., 1968 <br><br>
<p style="text-align: justify;">
This time of the year is especially conducive for outdoor writing. Perching on the sunwarmed granite front stoop to write and read has been consoling for many years. But now with the inevitability of losing my housing, even benign routines have become tainted with mournful tones. Necessity and survival demand that I force myself to see beyond these liminal times. While I witness the steady evacuations of my neighbors, as we are all anticipating the “redevelopment” by the next landlords, I am also wildly scouring the grounds for a place to call home. Yet, still, the stately Victorian architecture remains, as do roses, leafy trees, and ants scurrying across the stone steps. Occasionally, an ant will run right at my book, realize it’s an obstruction, and either climb over it or scramble around it. Then I’ll stand the book up, to see how it tries to figure out how to navigate, determined to hold its direction. Not wanting to antagonize the poor thing, I remove the barrier and let it scamper on. Like these small creatures, I am also trying to make sense of setbacks. Most of us have them; sometimes the hardships are compounded. Job hunting, apartment searching, seeking grace- all look the same, all pursued with the same desperation. Perhaps it’s all too similar, and this will require some thoughtful parsing. In crisis mode, too many things seem alike. All the begging, scraping, and strenuous attempting to impress are amounting to levels of humiliation unusual even to me. Yet the fight must not cease, neither should the refinements of my pitches. There is surely much more to lose by clutching a status quo, than in making a move.
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Another annual summer reminder is my memory of arriving in Portland. After my hardworked endurance of the New York City school system, I graduated from the High School of Art and Design. Commencement was at nearby Carnegie Hall, and the speaker was alumnus Ralph Bakshi. I had saved my money to travel back to Paris so that I could spend the summer with family. I had missed everyone very, very much- especially my grandmother- and there was nothing I wanted more than to be there. It was undoubtedly a great decision in every way. By Labor Day weekend, with a great many thoughts and ambitions, I arrived in Maine. The building containing my first apartment is down the street from the place I will have to leave. Through eight different apartments, I remained close the center of the city.
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I remember very well how desolate it was to be a seventeen-year-old stranger in town- even after beginning at Maine College of Art. I’ve since been active in numerous community efforts- creating, befriending, giving, serving, teaching, and working- but this housing crisis has me no less on the ropes than when I first arrived. A stranger in my own town. Maine is a wilderness at multiple levels: Yes there are thick and endless woods, as the state is mostly rural, with beautiful landscape. But it is also a hard culture. Somehow I wound up fitting in among kindred spirits, especially as I got more involved in civic and artistic life. The cultural differences surface as I seek advice and help from among the hundreds of people I know. A city person like me prefers to communicate directly and unabashedly (but with the best of manners). The stereotypic Yankee mindset is to go about things indirectly and laconically. People tell me about this-and-that empty apartment across the street from them, but they can’t tell me who owns the place because they either never speak- or the owner is an “avowed enemy.” I’ve heard that latter expression many times. Social media is well suited for such personalities, because they can suspiciously snoop around without directly communicating. I’d like to think I’ve evolved over the years, but never into <i>that</i>. My purpose in life is to be a <b><i>doer</i></b>, not a spectator. As much as I inhabit this world, I am not <b><b>of</b></b> it. Still, try making any progress with housing or employment without help from others- especially those “in the know,” and the “gatekeepers.” Even if you ask politely. Even if they know you.
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I’m reminded of a Maine College of Art memory; a very subtle one that I somehow remember. I had written a paper for a literature course, and my professor wrote an interesting reflection after my last paragraph. <a href="https://laviegraphite.blogspot.com/2021/01/have-words.html">Professor Aldrich</a> concluded his positive comments with confessing there was something he couldn’t quite agree with, and then wrote <i>“but maybe it’s just the mood I’m in today.”</i> His candor was commendable enough, but the admission also taught me something about context. We tend to perceive according to our circumstances. The <i>covid era</i> is now 29 months running. We can look back across 2½ years of world-altering plague. While we all heard daily about fatality numbers and immunization, both the housing and job markets spiraled into merciless stratification. Before realizing how different everything became, everything began to <i><b>look</b></i> different. Like many others, I kept on working- setting up a remote space at my dining table with an extra laptop computer I had purchased, when not pitching in for various departments on-site. The imperative has been to keep on working. While I witnessed furloughs, layoffs, and countless voluntary departures- I kept on working. Lunch hours became isolated twenty-minute breaks, and vacations became impossible. All was subsumed for the causes of relevance and productivity. And survival. The <i>mood I’m in today</i> is that I’ve kept on working, obstacles notwithstanding.
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One of my colleagues recently said to me, while discussing what we’ve been able to accomplish in the past fiscal year, “We’ve all been through a lot.” Stopping and looking up, I replied, “We have, indeed.” The covid era has weatherbeaten and accelerated the aging of most of us across all the generations. Ambitions held so preciously in the depths of our lockets, tenaciously carried through our school years, collide at the compromising crossroads of plague. The imperative is to survive, but what are the rewards of survival? Like the ants on the front stoop, it would be good to know that I’m scurrying to something better in this life. I seem to have met many of the descendants of the friends of the biblical character Job; they like to tell me I’m being tested, and that my life is a trial. And it’s much more than being on the brink of losing my home. Well, if this is indeed a protracted spiritual test, there isn’t much else I can do but to stick to my scruples. It means to believe without seeing, to pray insistently into the opacity, and to forgive all the tin-eared people from whom I’ve asked for help. Speaking with a wise friend, I mentioned the weight of some kind of bewildering punishment. He told me to do all in my power “not to go there,” and to be reminded of Divine compassion. Going further, he told me to <i>be sure</i> of that. Perhaps if this is a test, it’s about how I perceive God. Purposes are often discovered amidst struggles.
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Maybe I’m not being punished. Maybe I’ve heard the expressions <i>no-cause</i> and <i>at-will</i> a few too many times to be reminded of my own humanity. Everything looks very different now. But while I continue straining to perceive through cluttered apartments and dilapidated buildings, my self-prescribed imperative is to see beyond reticent neighbors, see beyond this smallminded culture, see beyond constant setbacks, see beyond roadblocks and rejections, see beyond exclusivity, and see beyond all that tells me to just give up. Seeing and proceeding beyond limits may lead to a clearing, a pasture, a wellspring. That inner locket is still where it has always been, with me since my school years when I was thrashed around by bullies who outweighed and outnumbered me. It’s still kept safe, and the preserved spirit of forgiveness and devotion will repel the tarnish of these times.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7444624899216363472.post-78953061000631878732022-06-20T17:44:00.005-04:002022-06-20T17:44:51.826-04:00shreds
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<i>“Where the Spirit of God is, our souls are set free. <br>
And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the glory of God, <br>
are being transformed into the Divine image with ever-increasing glory, <br>
which comes from God, who is Spirit.” <br><br>
~ 2nd Corinthians 3 :17, 18 </i><br><br><br>
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My “off-duty” time, through the recent three months, has been more hectic than during my job hours. Following a solid six weeks of purging and packing, yet another weekend of apartment-searching has now passed. The impending loss of my decades of housing, due to the landlords’ liquidating the building, is an alienating- even a disenfranchising- ordeal. Indeed, it never leaves my thoughts that numerous others are embroiled in similar struggles. My daily journal entries are filled with descriptions of things I’ve seen and heard, including my astonishment at persistent slum conditions in too many overpriced southern Maine apartments. While trying to vigilantly persevere with arranging for viewings, along with preparedness for an unknown move to an unknown place, it is impossible not to hear the unnerving stomping and thudding caused by people dislodging their things out of the building. At least I’ve got my household downsized, crated up, and ready. But there isn’t a place to go, <b><i>yet</i></b>. That latter adverb represents evidence of lingering optimism. Adding to that, I hope and pray the next place has a window next to which I can place my writing desk. Natural light and fresh air are two things I cannot experience at the job. Maybe a perch that is even better than the old one. Dreaming is assumingly permissible, atop the daring pursuit of stability.
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Recently, <i>I’ve heard myself say</i> that I miss taking things for granted. For years and years, I’d walk home from work (yes, I’m a Mainer who walks to work), kick off my shoes, sit down and say, “It’s good to be home.” The walking commute is likely to disappear in this gentrified area, and my definition of home has been jarred out of joint. My sense of <i>home</i> has become a sense of the past without a clear future. This uncertainty of physical place has sent me fleeing further to the solidity of the interior life, a foundation long-established.
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Contemplation encompasses more than writing, study, and reflection; there is imagination, visual art, and listening. I’ve left two radios unpacked, one for the kitchen counter, and the other for my desk. Hearing classical music, along with various spoken broadcasts, provide for some healthy distraction, as well as connecting me with that elusive sense of home. A shred of familiarity among all the packed boxes is my pared-down writing perch. I’m keeping this somewhat intact, until the as-yet-unknown thirty day countdown. My desk is empty, and a translucent Sterilite box labeled <i>Desk Drawer</i> is among the nearby crated personal effects. The din of my days is one of homesickness, but the sentiment is overshadowed by an impatience to move to a stable and safer place. If anything, something in a much better state of repair, without the funereal ambience.
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In this bizarre race against time and economics, my instincts try to find ways to be reminded of the ground of my being. At best, this is to find solidity for the present while thirsting for a good future. The housing market is an unfortunate ocean of piranhas, and I’m getting a close view of an underworld of which I hadn’t been fully aware of before. But the present is relegated to little more than a launching pad replete with shards, shreds, and shavings. And this sort of status-quo is easy to leave, especially as I step through dilapidated halls to reach the habitat of my boxes. Witnessing neglect and decay is its own brand of exhaustion. Surely there must be many others (at least I’d like to think so) who long to see something <i>good</i>, some signs of general <i>improvement</i> in these times. Having met with dozens of people during this ongoing search, I hope to be part of some kind of neighborly effort that connects those who struggle as I am now. Not one of the community or municipal agencies I’ve approached for advice or advocacy have helped. I don’t wish this sort of scenario upon any person. Circled wagons and closed doors serve only to stratify things even more. If I’m able to transcend these ashes, perhaps this experience may become a helpful component for others, later on.
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speculatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02726065482584166028noreply@blogger.com1