ideals and possibilities

“By judging the truth of things according to the divine measure,
we acquire wisdom; by embracing the supreme good,
we are liberated to enjoy and use the goods of creation
for the enrichment of human life.”

~ Zachary Hayes, O.F.M., The Hidden Center.

The lead quotation for this essay comes from a book written by a modern-day Franciscan, addressing Saint Bonaventure- a fellow Franciscan who lived in the 13th century. The consistency of insight to this reader is such that I have the impression of studying a philosophical writer reflecting upon his own esteemed ancestor. I read the sentence to my philosophy students, as an example of idealism- and good, lofty one, too: Acquire wisdom and improve the lives of others. Cultivate what is needed to practice the golden rule. We subsequently had a lively Socratic forum about such divisions of idealism as the subjective, the divine, the ontological, and the epistemological. These topics will be revisited in greater depth, seeing how strongly they’ve resonated with the group.

One of my colleagues added encouragement, having participated in my treatment about how happiness ("eudaemonia") is defined in philosophy, generating an enthusiastic discussion. “Keep doing these,” she added, “we all need this.” Admittedly, so do I. Perhaps the study of philosophy- or philosophizing, in itself- may be just a bit escapist? Well, that’s worth another group forum. For the moment, I’ll say it’s a combination of reckoning with the surrounding world, and consolation. All points lead to understanding, to making sense of perceptions. Beyond the abstraction of thought is the praxis of a physical sign. The illuminative and the literal riding in tandem, searching for signs. Spring began showing itself at least a month later than usual, in northern New England, with persistent cold temperatures clashing against lengthened daylight. Eager for new growth, both metaphorically and three-dimensionally, I have my camera close at hand to photograph what treasured signs can be found and savoured. Living to such ideals as Bonaventure’s, and the later Bergson’s “realization of what is yet to exist which will provide greater significance” relates well to the new promise of spring.

For a week of respite, my first in four months, I recently enjoyed a nourishing string of days in Boston. My studies at the Athenaeum were centered around encouragement and assurance, all penned by various theological thinkers. More philosophy for inspiration. I select the readings through bibliographies and lengthy catalogue searches, followed by submitting the requests several weeks before my arrival. Those e-mailed communications signify initial forward motions toward pilgrimage, choosing my direction immediately after having my time-off request delicately approved. As the swirls of preparation, packing, transportation, and logistics settled, the brilliance of great company and thoughtful studies emerged. A lingering thought occupying many musings was a suggestion to consider the possible as an antidote in the struggle against confining and incessant frustrations. What possibilities are available while swamped in recessed economics, undercapacity, and treadmill existence? Turning toward an ideal of possibilities brings me to the captivating word, potential. Convinced for many years of the underutilized potential for my skills and experience, my perseverance toward better days continues to be fueled by the prospect of future opportunities. Necessary components and energies are at the ready; but there needs to be a convinced and welcoming receiving end. Realized potential as an ideal is the stuff of daily and constant prayers, immersed in quotidian productivity and conscientious service. The magnitude and immediacy of responsibility eliminates the option of waiting around for the miraculous. But a state of readiness can still abide, seeking out the possible, despite the encroachment of negative limits.

While drafting this essay, and during my recent week of commuting, my reading included two new books by Pope Francis, one which included these words...

“Do not surrender to the night; remember that the first enemy to conquer is not outside: it is within you. Therefore, do not give space to bitter, obscure thoughts... Faith and hope go forward together.”
(Light in the Night, 2024)

...and the day after reading these sentences, I learned of his passing. Pope Francis wrote in gentle and direct tones, as a seasoned mentor. The surrender he wrote about refers to something familiar to me, and I absorb his exhortation as a warning against my habitual tendency toward immersing thoughts with impossibilities. Entirely unusual for his position, Pope Francis engaged with this world and its many humanitarian crises, sharply critical of injustice- yet his idealism remained solidly intact. As with Brother Roger of Taizé (whom I knew), living to a similar age, Pope Francis consistently wrote about hope. Both leaders approached the entirety of life as a pilgrimage of trust. Brother John, former prior of Weston Priory (whom I also knew), passed away last month at the age of 100. When an esteemed leader- especially an elder- passes from our lives, and we notice traits and turns-of-phrase attributable to them, we begin to realize a spiritual inheritance.

“In revealing the possibility of a life lived in the presence of God,” continued Zachary Hayes’ gloss of Saint Bonaventure, “it reveals what is in fact the original possibility of humanity, created from the beginning in the image of God.” We’re reminded that various possibilities are in our midst to be discovered, if the “big picture” isn’t lost, while struggling to create wider opportunities. During my recent studies at the Boston Athenaeum, I read the inspiring Life of God in the Soul of Man, written by Scotland’s Henry Scougal in 1677. His term for spirituality was the divine life, and his intention for the work was that his readers derive encouragement to stay the course through the challenges of hardship. His enjoinder to continue making progress in faith has the reminder that with wholehearted devotion, “we shall have all the saints on earth and all the angels in heaven” interceding for us. Readers are instructed to take heart, keep faith, and not be afraid. “Away with perplexing fears,” Scougal insisted, continuing with:

“We cannot excuse ourselves by the pretense of impossibility.”

... which is to say that we mustn’t be so quick to unquestioningly say “it can’t be done.” Indeed, we have yet more idealism, and I welcome strengthening words, relieved to discover such fine company. Studying written treasures is more than reason enough to travel. As I witness the passing of various visionary leaders that taught generations preceding and including mine, I’ve become increasingly aware of thinning ranks, in no less than these darkened times. Let us all consider our reception of torches passed into our hands, no matter our states of readiness. Many are already teaching others, unwittingly and by profession. There is little choice but to carry on. Now, how shall we find and flex our discovered possibilities?

more than this

“I'm hearing right and wrong so clearly
There must be more than this.
It's only in uncertainty
That we're naked and alive.
I hear it through the rattle of a streetcar;
Hear it through the things you said.
I can get so scared.
Listen to the wind.”

~ Peter Gabriel, That Voice Again

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.

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.

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, Making the Best of a Bad Decision. I’ll add that many of us must make the best of other people’s bad decisions. Can I get an Amen? Back to Lutzer. Through the noise of first-thing scrubbing, I heard the radio voice beckon, “If you’re still alive, God isn’t through with you.” 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 supplicatosphere, which is the stratum immediately beneath clouds of unknowing. “Through with me,” in the wrong context, sounds threatening; but in a healthier frame of reference, my wish really is 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 hope.

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 Golden Rule, 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, neighbors. 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.

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 metanoia- on both our accounts. Reflecting upon this, later in the day, I was reminded about a barely-known spiritual exercise called examination of conscience. 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 “knowledge of self is the first step the soul must take in order to arrive at the knowledge of God.”

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 there is more than this, and the accumulation of my being is meant for better and more conducive circumstances.

repairs

Meno: What do you mean by saying that we do not learn,
and that what we call learning is only a process of recollection?
Can you teach me how this is?
Socrates: I told you Meno, just now, that you were a rogue;
and now you ask whether I can teach you,
when I am saying that there is no teaching, but only recollection.

~ Plato, Meno.

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 heard myself say... 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 heard myself say. 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 heard myself say, “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.

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 Royal or an Olympia- just as Greg across town used a special chamois to make my sterling silver Bossert & Erhard 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 operatio Dei. 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.

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.

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.

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 Zoom, joining the many who became fluent in the medium.

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 inside of the replacement ring. It worked perfectly, and I was able to use the pen as before- albeit sporting a white yoghurt container ring.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

compass

“...when fears shall be in the way and nature faints,
when all the interest that has been given to life
by what was of the world shall be exhausted,
what then can we bring out of the stores of this life
that shall be adequate for our necessities?”

~ Edmund Quincy Sewall, On Spirituality of Character.


dark glass

Milder months widened sights to lengthened days and warmth. Aromatic trees and sunlight provided spaces for musing and ambitious tries at setting dreams forth. Many pounds of bread have been cast upon many waters, with highest hopes. Aspiring and casting has persisted through darkest cold, over and again. But time passes as it slips away. Following suit, resources run thin. As the ground of being erodes, physical supplies of inspiration are increasingly expensive, hoarded in abundance by fewer and fewer. For a worker of modest means, tenuous housing and employment, it is difficult to gauge the extent of existing rations. How far along on this voyage? How close the destination? No amount of striving and straining suffice, as I can will myself to only so much achievement. “For now we see through a glass, darkly,” the ancient Apostle Paul famously observed; in this life, “now I know only in part.” I may never know real and satisfying success, but I know the value of rigid hope. “When will I?” becomes “will I ever?”- as the challenge intensifies, racing against time. Yet there remains this moment, as I write these very words. Potential is meant to be realized. It is as vital to be ready as it is to be willing.

Ready and willing. One can be ready, but unwilling- without the drive to carry plans out to completion. And one can be willing, but unready- unprepared to take best advantage of opportunities. But how to be both, and where to look? Not finding helpful support, I’ve had to be my own compass. Indeed, I know the direction of my pilgrimage destination, however not having the material wealth to assure stability, it’s been necessary to find inventive ways to build my own spiritual and mental reserves.

Looking at my intensely-labored worklife of many years, I’ve only recently realized some discouraging truths. Because I’d joined the workforce very young, and then also had to change careers at a young age, I thought my few experiences were holding back my progress to better employment. After a very prosperous time in graduate school, from scratch I built a consistently solid history of successful projects, both shoulders to the wheel. Building anything meaningful takes time. In the process, countless friendships developed along with all the work- both professionally and by volunteering. A great many stories, to be sure, filling dozens of journals. What I’ve seen is that attributes such as achievement, track record, attitude, communication, and presentation are exponentially less valuable to the search than whether or not search committee members know you or have some personal interest. The disillusionment is dizzying, witnessing the “Peter Principle” theory manifest in so many places. What the rejections don’t do, is diminish my ambitions and my appetite for excellence- yet there is no assurance of success, despite having an accurate compass.

Last month, I found myself turning the documentation I’ve made during various professional projects into a personal archival resource. Indeed, I’ve always remained a photographer at heart. An extensive application process required a seven-part dossier which took three weeks for me to assemble, edit, and refine. As my fortunes would have it, I was rejected in a suspiciously rapid four business days- uncharacteristic for that institution. Their door was likely never open to begin with. But the disappointment aside, my construction of an electronic archive of nearly twenty productive years led me to think about inner resources. Obviously, there are the kinds of physical resources we can procure for ourselves as we are able. We purchase our necessities, from housing to food to clothing to things related to transportation, recreation, and so forth.


storehouse

For this context, I’m thinking about a soul’s storehouse of resources. These are absorbed through our experiences, both outside of our influences and by our own intentions. Within these experiences are reactions to circumstances and thoughts. The action of seeking the respite of refuge is a mixture of material and spirit. For example, the Boston Athenaeum is a well-stocked library and a beautiful environment. I can barely afford the membership fee, but I keep it going as I can; the resources are profoundly valuable to me. While I regroup and try to find nourishment, I’m also gleaning insights, thinking of what I need to be able to return to the chaotic fray better equipped and stronger. The quotation, above, by Edmund Sewall is something I discovered in the manuscript room at the Athenaeum, while poring over this and several related works.

The source material I absorb becomes part of the guiding and assuring repertoire within. These vital syntheses essentially provide direction from a nonmaterial center. Admittedly I have not completed my accomplishment of this art, but I have a few methods based upon my practical experience. There is no shortcut, and there is a lot of writing involved. Study and the gathering of knowledge, reflection, and a contemplative mindset; silence, observation, practice, and a sense of setting oneself apart. These are all factors, and by the latter, I mean being able to step away from the pack- from detrimental sameness. It’s the lonelier road, but necessary for the distinguishing of reflective impressions from the fads and formulae. By so doing, it is possible to develop one’s own language, imagery, and ideas.


compass

A standard, portable compass is a physical, directional instrument. The guiding needle points to “magnetic north,” and by orienting the dial to match the needle, navigators can determine their bearings. Giving some consideration to the metaphor, I’ve been carrying a compass through my mundane errands, and to my closed-in, windowless workplace. I’m able to figure out where east-to-the-ocean is, or northeast-to-Acadia. I looked at an opaque office wall and said, "that’s north." A friend of mine who builds houses saw me studying a map with a flat compass. He talked about “project north,” which is a construction term used for workable approximation. Of course, I appreciate all such terminology, imagining personal application.

Oriented toward a north point beyond myself, adversities cause me to scramble for direction. In these times that are long established as “post truth,” an especially strong sense of discernment is needed to hold direction. Alongside the scholarly pursuits and the moorings of spiritual maturity, the critical sensor remains the tuned interior compass. Indeed, integral to the pursuit is continued cultivation of inner resources. That is an everyday nurture, and there can still be more missed crossroads- surely reminders of imperfection. Further still, the need to continue this formation intensifies with the rejections, setbacks, and desolation. More than an inner compass is needed, but in addition an inner generator. I’ve got to keep generating my own power and light- for myself and for the support of others. Hatching up ways to do so happens with fits and starts.

How to stay inspired? How to find humor? I know the sources to tap into, but how to do that better? These concepts are tied to value: personal value, moral value, and the value of a course well run. In addition, the value of daily life. There’s no shortage of opportunities to try savouring the commonplace, complete with my coarse cold sandwiches, tedious routines, boring meetings, and predictable responses. Up against all that, I alter my routes to and from work, among other things. Find the tiny gems in the tedium. Notice the skies, as the seasons change. Taste the maple syrup in the coffee. Don’t miss imagery in reflective surfaces. Sharpen that pencil slow enough to notice the spiraled wood shavings. Ponder the hiddenness of God, and how that challenges the human soul. San Juan de la Cruz observed that Divine wisdom is darkness to the mind.


in measure

For a couple of days in the Boston Athenaeum manuscript room, I studied the fascinating work by Thomas Brooks (17th C.) called The Mute Christian Under the Smarting Rod. The full title is a paragraph’s worth, and the spirit of the text is a lot more upbeat than a non-reader might assume. Speaking to his times, Brooks assembled as much assurance and inspiration as he could conjure up for his mid-1600s English readers. A notably poetic passage I found begins with Stars shine brightest in the darkest night. I looked up from his ancient pages and toward the vaulted windows facing Beacon Street, with a breath, after his little mercies are great mercies... the higher the mountain, the gladder we shall be when we are got to the top of it. Brooks referred to memory as a potential holy ark, a heavenly storehouse. The archaic words from about 350 years ago told me to hang on; joy comes to those who endure.

The contents of a “heavenly storehouse,” like Sewall’s spiritual provisions, are not resources that can be purchased. Drawing from sculpted inner deposits, intangible necessities can be procured. These include retained and treasured consolations. I like to call upon cherished words of past mentors; these recollections help return the brilliance of those whom I miss very much. They continue to teach me, though my enshrined memories. I call interior reserves “intangibles” because they are nonmaterial rations. Other people can only see these sustaining resources as they are expressed through me, curator of the archives of my soul. The files are carefully conserved and stored for my retrieval and facilitation. There are even finding-aids and inventories. Inner archives are as integral as directional compasses.

Hardly a flawless repository, human as it is. Reaching for inspiration, whether physical or metaphysical, still requires insight and determination. Though I may know what is necessary, my reflexes and grasp can fail, vulnerable as they are. I’ve surely experienced this, namely in the recent several years. Thankfully, my constant journaling provides something of a documental sounding board for me to review and re-read. When things appear to close in, and my journal entries repeat too many of the same troubles and roadblocks, my attention turns to setting attainable goals. The very short-term is as brass-tacks as “the next right thing.” Get through the week. Get through the morning. See if this-and-that can be done, while doing the-other-thing. Be a good trooper, so there’ll be time to journal later. As navigating becomes increasingly treacherous, managing the hazardous depths is best handled in brief distances. For a horizon-gazer like me, maintaining short perspectives is daunting, but often necessary to hold course. Those faraway yonders do exist, even when it’s best not to stare. Save the fine-focus for the moment, with wider angles for basic direction. Stored memory of gratitudes can supply sustenance that strengthens needed night vision. Now to remember to continue.

silent spaces

“For silence is not God, nor speaking; fasting is not God,
nor eating; solitude is not God, nor company; nor any other pair of opposites.
God is hidden between them and cannot be found by anything your soul does,
but only by the love of your heart.”

~ An Epistle of Discretion in the Stirrings of the Soul. (14th century)

The act of writing is as much tied to syntax as it is connected to context. And yet another factor for reflective writers is the essential attribute of observation. During my overscheduled years in graduate school, and in my overcommitted years since, I’ve made the necessary chore of laundry-doing into writing opportunities. The weekly wash is a constant. I’ve often said to Pam the laundromat proprietor, “death, taxes, and laundry!” And journaling. Though I’ve rarely seen others writing in laundromats, I’ve typically seen readers, crossword puzzlers, students doing homework, those who only appear for loading and unloading machines, and those who simply sit or stand with their thoughts. More recently, and today was no exception, I was the lone journal writer- surrounded by hunched individuals enveloped by their glowing phones.

Although this culture is a decade into the “smart phone” era, I’m still startled to notice that commonplace disjointedness which I refuse to espouse. Comprehension requires a mere conscious acknowledgment. Glancing around the busy laundromat, just like peering around any dining area, park, or train, I saw that everyone was engulfed by their little mirror-like electronic devices. Every last soul but me. Amidst the large room full of brow-knitted hunchbacks, I suddenly thought of the lost trait of looking up. Simply gazing upward, at least to me, is a natural motion: something of an interlude from whatever I might be reading or writing. Staring into space has its own healthful aspect, reminding us of distance, proximity, and context. Consider how cats like to watch life from windowsills, thoughtfully and meditatively. Or, perhaps not. Maybe the spacing-out in itself is a wise gesture from which we can learn.

When academic research was new to me, in high school, the idea was to pile up the source material; it was an additive process. With databases and boolean search strings, the conundrum became one of paring down to the relevant; it is a subtractive process. In a general sense, having everything to distract us, from every angle (including elevators, gas pumps, and between innings at ball games), the more conscientious among us must know to subtract. Instead of scarcities of amusements, the profounder rarity is reflective time.

Along with the slivers of breathers I carve away from chore-filled weekends- and monthly sojourns at the Boston Athenaeum- about every 4 months I make time for personal retreats. In our obligatory frameworks, nobody instructs us to seek out healthful silence. It is for us to inevitably know to step back into respite... when possible. Earned time off is a rare benefit, and many of us must endure extended gauntlets en route to a prize of time. Increasingly, as I navigate this world, I notice my stealing away to find tranquility away from the chaotic dins of disappointment. As the encroachments intensify, so does the hunger for unfettered quiet. That very appetite, fueled by depletion, sent my steps toward a recent retreat. And for a week in Boston, public transit is the wisest way there. Busses are clenched and jostling- but they have a strict no-cell-phone rule. Trains are roomier and smoother- but passengers are the mercies of the behaviors of other passengers: this has become a woeful risk.

Sure enough, what could’ve been a tranquil mid-day train ride was an excruciating two-hour sandbagging between a couple of phone-yakkers. No amount of glaring or blatantly sticking my fingers in my ears while trying to read was of any use. I wound up listening to music through earbuds, via my netbook, trying my best to drown out the boors. There is a difference between the dulcet hum of passengers and coffeehouse ambience- compared to the shrill paroxysms of “cell phone voice.” Aren’t there enough of us wincing through such boundariless abuses? Amtrak personnel merely shrug, and that has none of the usefulness of creating and enforcing a rule- like the bus company effectively does. And thus our general culture further extends its unbounded adolescence. Many of us witness how self-obsessions supersede common respect for shared public spaces. Sadly, our defenses are relegated to plugging wires into our ears and turning up “neutralizing” sounds, metaphorically painting ourselves into corners. So much for calming respite.

Getting through the two hours intact, I kept in mind that I was on vacation, and would be getting away from the brutish Downeaster passengers. Navigating the streets and Boston’s subways, I found some refreshing civility. The trolley cars are loud, and instead of hollering into their little mirrors, people are swiping and texting instead. It was good to observe other people reading, as well. Moving through the adjustment from work and routines- to leisure and study, it was easier to notice things easily overlooked. While pursuing a week of reflection and quiet, I was pronouncedly reminded of the popular aversion to silence by the many who cannot (or will not) still themselves or detach from their pacifying devices. Sure, I see this every day during my downtown commuting and lunch breaks, but hadn’t really noticed how strange this looks. Before this current decade, it was considered “abnormal” to walk around in public, talking to oneself. Now we’ve all gotten used to the gesturing solo-talkers, contributing to the characters that surround us that make all the world a phone booth. (Remember phone booths?) I’ve learned to identify the white droplet-looking ear inserts, indicating “hands-free” yakking.

The quality of our civilization’s public settings rests very much in the hands of those who use these common spaces. “Sanctioned” quiet spaces, such as private enclosures and religious sites tend to comprise some expectations and rules. But when the common space is public transportation, a dining place, a building, or even a park, it’s really up to the individuals’ consciences to uphold the qualities of these spaces. Recently, and enjoying the continuing mild weather, I sat in a city park to write. Portland has a no-smoking law posted in all parks, yet there were smokers scattered throughout the place. I chose the least downwind part of the park, to avoid the fumes as much as possible. Each gust of ocean air made the park that much more enjoyable. Then, sure enough, a well-groomed man, that I assumed should know better, appeared in the park. He was pacing in circles, never more than ten feet from me, yammering into his glossy phone about schedules, restaurants, and various domestic trifles. He was so loud and obnoxious that other park denizens and I began exchanging disgusted glances. I could hardly think my next line of journaled text; so I began writing about him. Every time he’d walk one of his “laps” of his nervous circles, I’d think I was rid of him, only to hear the circular yelp get louder again... until suddenly and thankfully he pushed off to sully some other unfortunate part of town. Upon the man’s exit, I looked up from my books, and a park bench sitter and I swapped collective sighs. Even the universe celebrated the boor’s departure, as a busker appeared in the park, playing baroque music on a portable piano. The music was twinkling in its mellowness, blending with the composite din of passing traffic, non-phone chatting murmurs, dogs, and the occasional jetliner in the clouds overhead. This evenness allowed me to listen to the park.

As always, the Boston retreat was a week of salubrious respite. I was welcomed by many friends, and my studies at the Athenaeum were brought together by themes I created around the strengthening of character. Conviviality, collegiality, and kindredship- all threaded together by the leafy streets of Beacon Hill. On this occasion, I was hosted by the College Club of Boston. They’re situated in a grand Victorian town house near the Boston Public Garden. I was offered the writer’s room, which has a stately drop-leaf desk near a window. The house is a retreat in itself; no two alcoves, or rooms, or views are alike. My hosts were heartwarmingly kind to me. Then there was the quiet. Upstairs from the parlors and dining room, the large house was cushioned in a consoling hush that creates space for reflection and rest. I marveled at the difference between the bustle of Newbury Street and Commonwealth Avenue, compared with the muffled interior of the house. I believe that I’m not alone in my cherishing of tranquility and recognition of stepping away from unnecessary noise. Yes, retreats are great and healthful things, but ironically it takes some major effort! Current advertising seems to have caught some of the current: hotels market themselves to resemble spas; vacation getaways include the trappings of “peace and quiet.” These venues all look very expensive and dauntingly stress-inducing. Still, there is a detectable, general thirst for contemplation. Much less exotic, during a walk through Copley Square, I saw ads for public events called “The Big Quiet,” one of which to be held in the Boston Public Library. We can all use some recollective silence.

Richard Rohr, a Franciscan author, recently published an article called "Finding God in the Depths of Silence", in which he wrote: “Probably more than ever, because of iPads, cell phones, billboards, TVs, and iPods, we are a toxically overstimulated people. Only time will tell the deep effects of this on emotional maturity, relationships, communication, conversation, and religion itself.” He added that although silence may come across as a luxury, it is inevitably a decision. Striking a very familiar chord, Rohr offered this succinctly-articulated observation:

We are all forced to overhear cell phone calls in cafés, airports, and other public places today. People now seem to fill up their available time, reacting to their boredom—and their fear of silence—often by talking about nothing, or making nervous attempts at mutual flattery and reassurance. One wonders if the people on the other end of the line really need your too-easy comforts. Maybe they do, and maybe we all have come to expect it. But that is all we can settle for when there is no greater non-self, no gracious silence to hold all of our pain and our self-doubt. Cheap communication is often a substitute for actual communion.

Indeed, the soul needs silent space, in some accessible form. We must procure it for ourselves, even if it is at our expense. Even if it means a few less enslaving gadgets, apps, or activities. Even if it might mean sitting with our thoughts as we decompress in laundromats and on trains. There is more to be missed than to be amassed.

The week of retreat and reflection happened as late-summer transitioned toward early-autumn. A liminal season of noticeably changing light and air. Being in Boston, I’m unavoidably reminded of the annual return to school for the new academic year. Added to the city’s usual intensity are the swarms of arriving students. I saw reminders of this time of the year in all my places of community and study, through the week. But I was in the city for the contrasting purpose of respite. Ancient pages of text reflected up to me in the Athenaeum reading rooms, while muted sounds of traffic audibly reminded me of where I was- albeit on my own schedule. As with the moments in which I saw common spaces upheld by a shared sense of sanctity, I was able to savour the sounds of the environment. Finding silent space of any duration, amidst our chaotic swirls, is essentially our developed skill for identifying counterforms between our time structures. During work weeks, morsels of respite, discovered between rigid forms, can serve as windows through which we can admit light and air. Just as in graphic design, the ability to delineate counterform leads to improved perception of solid form. In the life of thought, this would be parenthetic quiet. Surely not a rule for every person, as we must each determine whether or not some grasp of our consciousness is being denied. Beneath this realization is an awareness of a deficit to be transcended.