sprint the marathon

“Of itself, the light of the created intellect is not sufficient
for the certain comprehension of anything without the light
of the eternal word...
St. Augustine says in On The Trinity: “The eye of the human mind,
since it is weak, is dazzled in the presence of such excellent light,
unless is it purged through the justice of faith.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Christ, The One Teacher of All.

1

Just as critical as it is to keep on productively working, it is equally essential to continue being ambitiously creative. I’ve been insistent upon this directive for myself. Maintaining perspective demands increasingly vigilant discipline, amidst these pervasively discouraging times. A soul is not wired to expend all its energies for merely holding one’s ground, but rather to aspire and grow. With such abundance of convenient and ready technology, learning and mental health should not be so intensely daunting- but the fray above which we live tends much more to the nightmarish than to dreamlike hopes. Many say, “life is short,” and “you only live once,” all of which resembles forbidden fruit while most of us tread the mill of survival mode. A well-meaning colleague of mine, as sympathetic as they are prone to offer solutions, likes to tell me, “life is a marathon, not a sprint.” All of these sayings serve as nice reminders, while not necessarily practical. Some of us are fulltime caregivers that are also fulltime workers, managing both scenarios single-handedly- even gratefully. With enough coffee and clever planning, I get to write and study. Sprinting the marathon must have a fixed duration, though I continue testing that theory.

Priorities and urgency determine the pace, along with instincts informing me what is needed to survive. For at least the past half-dozen years, and for the foreseeable future, it remains imperative to hold course- at least until it’s possible to adjust the pace. Atop all that perpetuates my insomnia, it’s easy to believe we’re all witnessing universal decline. But haven’t observers been saying this since time immemorial? Indeed, though each one of us experience our own times and trials. A recently introduced reader of these essays told me that my writing is dark. Well that’s fair enough, and it isn’t my place to contradict another’s insight. For my part, I mentioned something I’ve repeated to my writing students for years, which is to write true- in all subjects, whether favorable or not. In personal writing, one must commit to practicing the written word and to do so with authenticity. Another subject I’ve been teaching, now for a solid decade, is philosophy. My own studies have long been with medieval philosophy, and I’ve always been profoundly impressed by thinkers who insisted upon extolling light Divine immersed in extremely dark ages.

2

Being grounded in the reality of vigilant and multiple responsibilities, there is the beckoning balance struck in the gospel to navigate society without allowing one’s soul to be owned by this exploitive world. Exemplified by the overabundance of newsfeed salespitch lures, one would think all our decisions are made for us. But not entirely. And the temptations are not limited to consumer products; there are also peddled ideologies piped to our personal devices. As a longtime student of such beacons as Erasmus, Ruysbroeck, Scotus Eriugena, and Bonaventure, I know to be enlightened in the darkness. The conscientious choice for what is lifegiving also comprises choosing away from unhelpful idols and ideals. Doing so requires strong doses of discernment, especially as even our work and worship passively absorb seepage running off from prevailing brutish culture. This entails an intentional choosing away from disrespect, keeping constantly aware that our vocations are for the purposes of service to one another. In other words, choosing that which is honorable is to choose away from denigrating others. Choosing the high road means choosing away from the low blows. Kindness over quagmire. A life’s work, to be sure; easier to utter than to fully apply. The road less and less traveled (but no less worthy) is that of human genuineness. A decade ago, many of us were striking the contrast between real and “virtual.” A meeting at a real table, or in a physical classroom, became an “in-person meeting.” The covid pandemic accelerated the transition from videoconferencing to meetings- or visits. Of late, the world has waded into varying degrees of artificial intelligence, expanding the distance between manipulated appearance and actual physical experience. For the conscientious, we’ll integrate watchfulness about choosing and choosing-away-from, into our days.

Somehow, I’ve been able to make productive careers around sustaining the unsustainable. From my years in extremely frenetic, deadline-driven commercial graphic arts and photographic production- to my following couple of decades in painstaking archival work and public services- my solitary output has regularly outpaced much larger departments. More than “just by doing,” it’s meant constant and strategized work. In the photo field, I kept a sleeping bag and changes of clothes in my studio. Through my second career, my thirty-minute lunches comprise 15 for eating what I’ve packed with me, followed by another 15 for journaling. Doing free-lance contract work, I took on (and completed) projects nobody else would take. In all circumstances, it’s been about earning my keep, proving the value of the work, and tenaciously keeping strides ahead of demands and due dates. Private-sector businesses and nonprofits each have their own versions of anxiety, bottom-lines, and absurdities. With both sectors, a worker must derive their own sense of satisfaction, and both involve bringing people and purposes together with well-crafted presentations. The same levels of craftsmanship, thoroughness, and communication are essential in both fields. Alongside appreciation from clientele, both spheres require constant proof of the worker’s worth. And clever innovation. All of which entail a disciplined sense of confidence, and impassioned drive. Through tougher days and easier days, consistency is de rigueur.

3

Fortunately, sustaining the paces of production and service grew to become an ingrained instinct. Occasionally I’ll notice the cumulative effects when I stop for a portion of a weekend. Nothing makes itself known quite like contrast. A wise friend suggested creating a sustainable bridge, spanning between protracted strings of strenuousness and the rare day off. Being one who loves words, the imagery suggested in bridge is much more interesting to me than my customary puddle-jump. And a metaphorical bridge needn’t necessarily be a place or particular length of time- elusive as both are. A sustaining bridge can be as humbly accessible as a coffee break chaplet, a sidewalk saunter, or an evening spared of lit screens. And writing. My handwritten lines are stitches connecting hours, days, and years. All words, which I compose myself; and the intelligence, if any, is natural.

There’s a worthwhile thought exercise in the consideration of what sustains. Years ago, I re-translated the old “daily bread” into the encompassing “Give us our sustenance, today.” A logic that precedes grocery errands, by making shopping lists, can inspire listing sustaining principles and endeavors. Indeed, there’s writing and studying- both reflective and practical. A philosophical shopping list of sustaining provisions would continue with such vital inspirations as discovery, faith, exploration, and opportunities to cultivate projects. As I’m sustained by physical and metaphysical nutrients, there are such corresponding manifestations as sharing my abilities and experience, while accomplishing and motioning toward the future. As it implies, sprinting a marathon persists at vigilant full-throttle. What’s most needed doesn’t always scream loudest.

With my philosophy students, we recently had an animated discussion about how we define happiness. The general consensus was their interest in simplicity, far exceeding material abundance. We talked about utilitarian ethics and there were many comments about the word pursuit. Most of the youngest students emphasized their weariness with electronic tethers, shifting the discussion toward self-discipline and personal interaction. And all of this took place after we disengaged from our “hybrid” live/teleconferencing model which we had been using for the past five years, deciding that we favored meeting together in person. Admirable and hopeful. Committed to being a fit and inspiring educator, I’m reminded about self-care, with the unadorned simplicity we were extolling this week. Deep-seated learning manifests with contemplation, and that is essential for the praxis of compassion. The squeeze of multiple fulltime commitments has compressed me into reaching for the refuge of the written word. Years of contending with time deficits has caused me to savour the oases all the more. At work, I’ve long conditioned myself into refraining from metaphorically looking up at the mountain, ingraining myself to persevere. For example, this past December saw my completion of a 14-year project in which I processed eighty years of archival journalistic photographic negatives- from physically salvaging hundreds of thousands of pieces of largely uncaptioned film from a gutted office building, to their preservation, inventorying, and digital publication. All the work of one person, in the midst of managing my multifaceted department myself. It took intense determination, not just to defend the project and my vision, but also to refrain from looking up at those heaps of cellulose and avoid being overwhelmed. Indeed, I worked as quickly and efficiently as possible, sprinting the marathon. The even bigger picture comprises belief in the value and purpose of the opus- whether it’s archives, or teaching, or writing, or living. The tie that binds is the drive to be the Renaissance worthy of pursuit.

‘Yet a little while, light is among you. Be faithful to the light that you have, for fear darkness should overtake you; for a person who walks in the dark does not know where they are going.” ~ John 12:35

forging ahead

“I am still following, still forging ahead, still walking,
still on the road, still extending myself; I haven’t yet arrived.
So if you, too, are walking, if you are extending yourself,
if you are thinking about the things that are to come,
forget what’s past, don’t look back at it...
You ask, ‘What does walking mean? I’ll tell you very briefly;
it means forging ahead, in case you should possibly not understand.”

~ Saint Augustine, Sermon 169.

As the new year began, five years into what has come to be known at the covid era, I was able to make two very long-awaited monastic pilgrimages. Part of my respite time scarcity corresponds with the nearly two years of quarantining, as well as closures to the public of retreat lodgings. All measures taken for the causes of safety and stabilization. In addition, since February 2020, at my workplace I’ve been a department of one, having to adapt into being an especially productive jack-of-all-trades. True to the adage, all work indeed means no play. No complaints. I get everything done, well and fast- and I’ve been gratefully employed the whole way. Forging ahead remains paramount. Over the years, banking up enormous quantities of largely unusable earned hours caused me to squelch hopes for those vital spiritual and artistic retreats that have provided nourishment throughout my adult life. It’s a trial of absorption and adaptation. Absorbing the constraints, while adapting to the tenable. A Saturday once a month at the Boston Athenaeum, combined with an interspersed holy hour at local sanctuaries, help to patch me along.

Several weeks ago, I had the time and space to fulfill a thwarted sojourn from a year ago. Last Christmas, I exhaustedly stole away to Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey only to arrive during the approach of weather so severe it forced all retreatants to evacuate. I’d been only a day as guest in their wonderful community, and they encouraged me to come back. And recently I did just that. My return to Wrentham Massachusetts was in clear weather, and the only storm was a manageable half-a-foot which added photogenic spice to the already peaceful landscape. With a spacious room complete with study table and a soft bed, my only real effort was to try slowing down to a restful pace. Disentangling from the compounded intensity of constant toil, housing crises, and vigilant caregiving, is no simple matter. Rest has to materialize in bits and pieces. Having a few days in beautiful environs with healthful helpings of contemplative silence and soothing sung liturgies made for a salubrious step in the right direction. Bringing both writing and reading material for the sojourn, reflectively studying philosophy seemed to be my natural course, in rotation with community prayers- and journaling. I had just taught my class before taking to the road, and was eager to complete reading material that needed undivided attention. Through experience I’ve learned that spiritual development mustn’t be forced, unstructured time is something to cherish, and thus both aspects counteract contemporary culture. As I had written in the previous essay, Pope Francis’ fortuitous theme for 2025 as a year to be undaunted pilgrims of hope immediately drew my attention. My nineteen years of published essays attest to how this theme superimposes with my own path. Indeed, it was all in mind during this recent pilgrimage, as well as during November’s sojourn to Weston Priory.

As I’ve noticed how my trail’s ingredients are constructed from my own steps combined with unwitting patterns of grace, I’ve also grown to recognize time as increments of significance. And the increments can be as long as seasons, years, and eras. I’ve held this perspective for a long time- dating back to measuring life in summers, grade school levels, semesters, jobs, and projects. Single-day holidays always seemed too short, and mostly about their buildups. Chronicling time with journal-writing provides a natural setting for marking various anniversaries- and of course describing their importance. For example, the Labor Day weekend during which I moved to Maine became known as Arrival Weekend (and I've numbered them since). Others are the closing weeks of my different graduation years- still commemorated. I’ve always much preferred Advent more than a stand-alone Christmas Day, and I grew to love the Lenten season. The latter provides plenty of time to inhabit, explore, and reflect upon during a forty-day period. Pilgrimage is as much about the coverage of physical distance as about spans of time. I regard my lunch-break novenas as spiritual journeys. Journaling provides personal space for incremental reflections. Among many things I learned during years of experience in the Taizé monastery and on the road with some of the Brothers, is to view all of life as a pilgrimage of trust on earth. On one occasion, after a week of supporting a large gathering as a liturgical musician (playing classical guitar), Frère Emile thanked me- hands on my shoulders- wished me peaceful travels, and said, “Now go make your life a pilgrimage of trust on earth.” Those unforgettable words have never, ever left me. That represents the grand view of a lifetime. The briefer and equally vital stages, such as several weeks ago in Wrentham, are to recalibrate and hold course.

Lest we romanticize pilgrimage, appropriating the stuff of novels and misty imagery, pilgrimage might occasionally be quite majestic, alas it’s more often than not pedestrian and gritty. Pilgrimage waits in traffic, rides lurching and odoriferous buses, and holds doors for strangers. It’s carefully shoveling snow. Pilgrimage is also noticing the queues of walking feet ahead, patiently pacing en route to the sacraments; it’s noticing my own. Commuting on public transit requires a lot of waiting and standing. There are also opportunities to read and to reflect; that’s surely more interesting than phone-fiddling. While taking in the sub-zero raw scenery at a bus stop, manipulating book pages with gloved fingers, I thought of how the dilapidated roads and sidewalks are not pristine or groomed, but they are all sunlit during the day. The voyage is not new, though it can be renewed. The dry docks of my start are far out of view, there is no better choice than to forge ahead.

Looking forward and staying the course are infinitely more appealing than giving up the ship. Stagnation is reversal. Maintaining awareness of the imperative to continue is enough of a challenge, particularly amidst setbacks, but what to do when the grinding trail threatens a loss of critical savour? Maintaining the furrow, because it’s what I know and it solves the immediate, fills my days. But is this progress? Not knowing how close at hand fulfillment might be, tests the fibers of hope. The saints of old are always teaching us and none of them ask us to drop the torch. It’s consistently about looking ahead, even if it means discarding all that is past- especially when it takes the form of a millstone. Perhaps beating the winter is no more effective than to check off the chores as they are accomplished. But there are no plans to cease walking forward. Yet another aspect exemplified in pilgrimage life is to affirmatively aspire when hoping looks absurdly irrational. Pope Francis recently said, “faith is a road to be traveled, without ever losing the goal.” Forging ahead, one next-right-thing at a time, is all this pilgrim of trust can do, for now.

tranquility

“St. Augustine’s language is rich and colorful,
but often lacking in precision. His was not a didactic mind,
and preoccupations of scientific methodology
were foreign to his outlook.
He wrote giving free reign to his thought.”

~ Maurice de Wulf, History of Medieval Philosophy, vol. 1, ch. 38

Maybe we have it in common that for a long time people have been telling you not to work too hard. Perhaps you’ve also regularly shrugged it off, when those around you tell you to get rest, slow down, and- perish the thought- “don’t worry so much.” And my habitual dismissiveness is automatic and reflexive, similar to waving off a gnat. But suddenly, between strings of tasks and obligations, fatigue brings all those friendly observations to mind. During those pauses, it becomes evident how slowing-down can be daunting. Striving and reaching for a day off, the result is a kind of reverse-inertia: instead of efforts to get moving, it takes focused intention to be able to stop. Within the pausing are detectable elements of fear, especially as the distractions are insistently pared away. Perhaps “don’t work too hard” can be recast as “make sure you listen to your thoughts.”

Even as we cordon off our privacies- and especially so- there remains a universal need for healthful silence. This is to say settling those thoughts, and doing so without things purporting to be “smart” devices. It can be disarming, but I’ve found it to be worthwhile. The observation of contrasts serves as a good teacher, and in this case the classroom is aboard public transit. I saw the positive side of things during subway rides on the day of a downtown festival. Boarding an early Red Line, as usual with a book, the size of the crowd was noticeable. What was even more striking to me were the sounds of jovial chatting and laughter on the trains. Instead of siloed phone-fiddling, most of the riders were animatedly facing one another, many using their phones to take pictures. I really enjoyed seeing this. At my own destination, atop the Boston Athenaeum, I savoured both the celebratory commotion I witnessed earlier, along with the quiet of wafting treetops at terrace level. Reading and writing material in front of me, I still know to look around and just listen to my thoughts.

Nobody will dare us to be idle; we have to be self-aware enough to find opportunities around the busyness for tranquility. Finding opportunities means somehow finding parcels of time and making space. All too rare! But, essentially, the proliferation of resorts and spas demonstrates how so many crave some sort of therapeutic downtime- albeit at high costs. Valuable as stillness is, there needn’t be great expense to pause and reflect.

Being able to unplug the stimuli and simply air my thoughts allows me to perceive with a wider perspective. Before the pandemic, for many years I regularly made pilgrimage retreats, often twice a year. With the combination of compounded work commitments, being on a diminished staff, and various communities’ lodging limitations, I’ve had to be especially resourceful- sometimes succeeding to briefly get away to peaceful and contemplative surroundings. For the most part, aside from a few hours on a weekend, time to simply abide (as differentiated from the more active aspects of journaling my thoughts) happens between lines of reflective reading during my workday commutes. As philosophical historians go, de Wulf (quoted above) was much less admiring of Saint Augustine than Copleston. Well, I prefer Copleston- both as writer and historian. Admittedly, my own thinking is also much more speculative and metaphysical, and less mathematical. And I’ve never found Augustine to be “lacking in precision.” But I’ve still enjoyed de Wulf’s works nonetheless, and really relished his criticism of the great North African philosopher saint: “He wrote giving free reign to his thought.” This is indeed as the motto posted at the Maine Turnpike entrance affirms, “The Way Life Should Be.” Speaking for myself, I wouldn’t bother writing if I couldn’t give free reign to my thoughts!

I like to remind my philosophy students that we converge at the meeting-point of the ideal and the visible world, which is to say the conceptual and the physical. But in philosophy the ideal is solid in its own right. Giving free reign to our thoughts allows for understanding to accompany our perceptions. Let ideals be practical, even if simply in our musings. There’s more than enough to limit our aspirations; it’s for the individual to choose contemplative ways. Release the margins, as possible, and muse. Simply being is not so simple, as our scattered thoughts can over-occupy us, and need to be somehow directed. In his Breviloquium, Bonaventure described human capacity as “born to magnificently grasp great and numerous ideas.” With inspiration, grasp means we can calm them, too. Healthful silence serves to nourish, but we must each know to make the kind of space which is both physical and metaphorical. The Psalmist articulated the wish for a fully renewed heart and spirit. And the heart, Saint Gregory observed in the Philokalia, is the “shrine and chief intellectual organ of the body.” Not only can learning can reach our depths, in contemplative stillness, but as well our yearnings become most evident to us. “Less is more” surely has a spiritual application- if anything, as time and space fillers get cleared away in favor of unstructured attentiveness.

past and future

“How can the past and future be,
when the past no longer is,
and the future is not yet?
As for the present, if it were always present
and never moved on to become the past,
it would not be time, but eternity.”

~ Saint Augustine, Confessions, Book 11

The unrelenting marathon of professional life finds some redemption in the complexities of service and curatorial projects. Indeed, preferring productive and supportive work, I’m not in this for the palace intrigues or the ladder rungs. The prize at the unknown opening of the maze must lead to something much better. And the route has to tunnel beneath the careful consistency of relational and physical accomplishments. Holding firmly to my ethic of “bloom where you’re planted,” in addition to managing and facilitating a full-service department single-handedly, there is no shortage of projects. Just as well, the satisfaction in producing successions of positive results serves as both motivator and sanity factor. Josemaría Escrivá famously said that vocation is the greatest gift of grace, and a vocation surely has many related facets. I still strongly believe in the work I’m doing, bringing out unique archival materials that inform many- including me. In order to generate effective and accurate metadata, varying degrees of thoughtful analysis are needed- from basic verification, to skimming, to comparative reading. All the while, there’s always an eye on time-efficiency.

A project I pulled to the fore, amidst my complete overhaul of the archives I’ve most recently created (having set up archives throughout the State, over the years) is a large array of rare, local serial collections. As much as researchers love them, the service end of things is replete with indifference about newspapers and periodicals. I happen to really enjoy the writing styles and advertising graphics of eras past. To me, the materials are captivating- essentially history in real time. For each time I bring out digitized ephemera, I hear from grateful audiences who devour the contents. And with the researchers, I’m fascinated to see what was, leafing up to later dates, then back to earlier years and decades. Through all my inventorying and indexing, I’m better able to connect people with information. And it happens. About two months ago, I sought out and processed a unique run of a cultural periodical, printed on newsprint, from the 1970s. It had been locally warehoused. Shortly afterwards, a visiting researcher asked whether I knew of that exact title, as she and her mother had both published in it. Bringing out the alkaline boxes of flattened papers, my guest was elated. This sort of serendipity is not uncommon. I can merely glance heavenwards, wink, and keep up the good work (and the good instincts).

While in the throes of sifting and sorting piles of antique newspapers which had been migrated from one library building’s attic to another’s basement, I found several items that I knew would fit perfectly in another city’s archives. It so happens I had created their archives more than twenty years ago, and remember their contents very well. Eager to deliver the gems, I carefully reinforced the 19th century broadsheets in a portfolio, and made a daytrip of my errand. En route, it occurred to me that while I had maintained some contact with that particular library, I hadn’t been inside the place in a long time. A life of continuous, hard work leaves very thin margins for respite. Trying to offset exhaustion with journaling and unstructured Sundays have provided ways to continue puddle-jumping, refraining from looking too far. Indeed, I brought the historic items to grateful recipients I’d never met before, in a building I hadn’t visited in twenty-three years. The place still looked the same, and it was heartening to see the calligraphed sign still displayed which I had made for them back in 2000. The last time I’d been in the place, I had completed major projects; it was shortly after my completion of graduate school. This time, I crossed their threshold after having achieved and endured numerous professional scenarios and challenges. My impression of this brief visit wasn’t an experience I expected- at the same time both strange and familiar. After quietly leaving the building, I walked to a nearby church to reflect, knowing the doors were open.

Again, I thought of Escrivá’s words- whose books I’ve known only in recent years- and how he told his readers to ask themselves who they sought when they approached the Sacrament. He said, “Are you seeking yourself, or are you seeking God?” That hour of contemplative intention, immediately following my strange visit with a past place of employment, was just the right instinctual balance. As much as archival work serves here-and-now access, and conservation for future use, the interpreting of raw material magnetizes our compasses toward the past. This week’s projects send me back to earlier projects in earlier places quite easily. All the jobs we’ve had, with our schools, communities, our various adventures dotting our timelines- good and bad- illustrate each of our personal histories. These stages along our pilgrimages form our perspectives. An individual is essentially a living time-capsule, replete with ethereal archives. Life and art mirroring each other amidst my wakeful hours, I wonder at the human version of deaccession and preservation. Tireless work makes for tireless thinking about work, especially all the pending projects. Insomnia tangles with my strategizing of the department I manage, and that slides into when I report to work, so that I can implement the ideas. And with my cultivated and critical senses and skills, the work always gets done.

Integral to the processing of historic serials is their preparation for longterm storage, retrieval, and future digitization. I’ve been doing all of these things, including a lot of the scanning, after flattening and even very gently repairing torn newsprint. No matter how disciplined my adherence to tasks-at-hand, it’s impossible to avoid reading from my discoveries. Indeed, the more informed I am of the content, the better my analyses for researchers’ queries. And, admittedly, the narratives and illustrations of bygone eras- be it the 1990s or the 1790s- are compelling in their vocabularies. Newspapers, in particular, are frozen moments with commentary. The paper strata themselves have distinctive stories, in their very ingredients and manufacturing. Handling and reading really go together.

There are embossed textures in pre-1840 cotton rag content paper, retaining an impressive amount of strength. Latter 19th and early 20th century newspapers were largely very cheaply made, using bleached wood pulp, resulting in thin and highly acidic surfaces. Depending upon how the paper has been stored, I’ve seen darkening that has the appearance of having been burnt. Scanning this type of material saves the content. Rewrapping the deteriorated pages, with enormous care, the telltale rattling sound attests to the papers’ embrittlement. The other day, while checking my work, it occurred to me how a computer screen can give digitized, antiquated text a similar look to present-day electronic text. Past and present become easily juxtaposed this way, but the genuine article has the intrinsic aspects of authenticity. Artifacts carry memorable content, but also the physical objects also have memory. Among my regular patrons is a researcher who writes about religious communities and biographies. Having just flattened, repaired, boxed, and inventoried a run of regional newspapers beginning in 1822, I brought him several early issues as a sampling for perusal. He was clearly impressed and inspired, spontaneously reading various paragraphs to me, from the cotton-based 200 year-old newspaper, in surprisingly good condition. We took turns reading to each other, talking about what we read as archaisms. A moment worth remembering in the life of doing this work. This fellow was astonished at how close these unique papers were to being discarded. Past is pulled to present, and projected ahead to future endeavors, in the search for knowledge and context.

looking forward

"The kingdom of heaven only costs as much as you have."
~ Saint Gregory

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 able 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

the storm past; writing by candlelight

“Still will we trust, though earth seem dark and dreary,” William Burleigh composed more than a century ago; “Though rough and steep our pathway, worn and weary.” 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 Battle for the Better continues, albeit via Advancement by Small Measures, 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 housing-loss grief 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 “Interior and unceasing prayer is the desire of the heart.” Essentially, one’s profoundest hopes are distilled into intentions of the spirit. He added, “The desire of your heart is itself your prayer.”

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 "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*". Everything is in need of improvement; bring on the new year.

views from Saint Mary's Abbey, by ambient light only

_____

*Philippians, chapter 3

within

“The Spirit moves the faithful to plead
with sighs too deep for words by inspiring in them
a desire for the great and as yet unknown reality
that we look forward to with patience.
How can words express what we desire when it remains unknown?
If we were entirely ignorant of it we would not desire it;
again, we would not desire it or seek it with sighs,
if we were able to see it.”

~ Saint Augustine, The Spirit Pleads for Us.

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 barrage 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, lit screens are integral to each day- especially at work- and can be very useful, if not essential for connectivity, 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.”

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 hope. A soul that hopes is one that aspires to see and inhabit better days. And persistent 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.

A conscientious, focused suppliant turns the mind and thoughts to God. Contemplation essentially entails immersing the mind into the heart. Ancient wisdom as recorded in the Philokalia 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 en route 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.

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 continua, 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 hope and must are twinned by necessity.

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 curriculum vitæ 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, Collations on the Hexaëmeron, Saint Bonaventure beautifully observed:

“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.”

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 the record, that which he witnessed, and that which was written, 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, you’ve overcome cruel spirits, because greater is the Holy Spirit within you, than that which circulates through the culture in our midst. 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, “what’s within?” 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.