signs

“If we don't release the past,
We'll slap the face of the days to come.
Remember this melody;
Don't ever let it go away.
Sing it to your heart;
Day after day after day.”

~ Michael Roe and The 77s, The Days to Come

1

It seems the most availably productive way to recover my forces damaged by the trauma of housing displacement is to attend to what is immediately required. Learn the new commute, do exceptionally good work, serve those in my midst, and find redeemable aspects in these times. My former neighbors and I could not prevent the loss of our homes in a hastily-sold apartment house. As with countless many others, we’ve all had to navigate disrupted foundations. My home town is now equal parts of unfamiliar and familiar, detestable and endeared, all at once. The old, reliable stabilizing routines have had to be translated into inhospitably cramped and unfriendly confines. A crosstown move might’ve had the balm of improved living standards, but not in this case. The place is also economically unsustainable. Indeed, there will inevitably be another move in the near future; presently, workable compromises are as vital as undaunted ambition.

The pandemic era persists, and the lingering impression is one of a diminished world. Downsized in the sense that there are reduced opportunities. Perhaps there are too many metaphors in front of me, with the clenched apartment in mind. Existing in that claustrophobia-inducing compartment becomes representative of the compression of this stratified society, dead ends, and the intensified expenditure of energy needed to do all that had been previously taken for granted. It’s increasingly difficult to find any basic situation that isn’t forbidding- not to mention affordable. Yet all along I’ve had it in mind that light strikes the brightest contrast in the densest darkness. My own attempts to reckon with substandard housing and the inability to unpack things I used to easily reach for, have me stretching for any healthful inspiration. Perhaps I speak for many in my admission of these times as humiliating. Having admitted this, very consciously resisting identification as a downtrodden person, my focused attention turns to rebuilding confidence. It seems an unrealistic fantasizing to look forward when bleakness reaches to the horizons. News of current events worsen, and in the face of such immersion my journal entries keep straining for the light. I’m limiting my exposure to media sources, and am spending more time outdoors. Fresh air and skies are far more inviting than 8-foot ceilings and Le Cirque des Eléphants above my head within the puny building. And to be sure, the searching for something better continues. Looking, striving, searching, aspiring- so long as I breathe and dream- these must continue.


2

Breakfast and Bruins news on Beacon Hill

Those who know me well also know that I follow one sport, and that’s hockey. The best and worst of humanity’s universally iconographic traits are found in hockey. My father used to insightfully remark how the National Hockey League has always had a special annual award for “gentlemanly play,” the highly esteemed Lady Byng Trophy. One may choose to bear down on the rigors of skating, passing, scoring, and tenacious defense- or one may run up triple-digit penalty minutes in a league that inexcusably countenances brutality. But echoing my Dad, I love the game when it is just played, as in the Olympics, turning on skills and strategies without the violence. I’m grateful for the start of hockey season which brings in a welcome distraction. The ups and downs of the Boston Bruins, along with the Original Six, do a lot more for me than current events and workplace palace intrigues. In a recent Boston Herald article, I made note of a comment made by a veteran hockey coach who had been asked about the resourcefulness of his players, saying “The N.H.L is a find-a-way league.” That comment jumped off the page at me, as I recognized my admiration for such indefatigable pluck. Find a way. Get out there, find ways to score goals and hold a lead. Find ways to block shots. Back when I played hockey on roller skates, I was always told to “cut the angle” and “challenge the shooter.” None of this is easy and finding ways cannot be done from one’s elbows; it’s got to be full-throttle.

Like the coach’s comments and remembering what I was taught, I’m reminded of my instinctive and constant search for signs- for indications to point me forward. Something that draws me to reach forth unto those things which are before can appear in the least-conventional forms, including sports pages. The essential for discernment is openness to sensing the instructional elements in what I experience. Recently on the road, while merging onto the perilous Route 128 in Massachusetts, I gave a quick listen to the traffic report (“on the threes”) on WBZ, after my usual thrice-leftward lane transitions: one lane at a time, signaling like a Lady Byng candidate. After figuring out the necessary detours advised by the traffic report, I began incrementally ascending along the car radio AM dial. Tuning a radio without the presets leaves room for random serendipitous finds. Inching up from somebody prattling about wealth management- clearly meant for the haves, I caught a homily from a broadcast church service. While actively attentive to the rapid traffic, my ear latched onto the pastor’s theme which was compellingly about contending with hardships. His words had the cadence of a mentoring coach, pointing out how present-day lessons can be informed by ancient texts. He observed that personal struggles are means toward purification, that we mortals with our limited perspectives do well to consider how we may be fashioned and sculpted into life in God. He said that we are being pointed toward eternity. I listened intently to this, while the urban traffic thickened, and remembered as many of the words as I could throughout the day.


3

Being attentive to signs of promising directions, my senses have sharpened amidst times and situations that are harsher than I’ve ever seen. The friction and inertia between idealism and present-day realism are palpable. Mindfulness must proceed through minefields, testing even the most seasoned souls. The search for hopeful prospects, for substance, for satisfying applications of time and abilities is especially susceptible to clouding mirages. Ancient wisdom challenges us to test the spirits.

For my purposes, signs are manifestations and portents to suggest possibilities, as well as things to avoid. While adjusting to different surroundings and on the watch for something better, I have my usual photographer’s eyes and archivist’s mind. These discerning faculties help me notice and interpret my experiences, along with comprehending these attributes in context. I try to make sense of things by listening and looking- essentially attending to my surroundings. Even as a child, it was never sufficient to just go through the days’ motions. And to this moment, I need to see the why of things- utility and meaning always on equal footing. Impressions occur in an unprovoked flash. It is not a wrenching contrivance. The temporal present eagerly anticipates a good future. My daily striving is accompanied by taking in the signs of nature, such as the changing skies and lower temperatures. Colorful leaves that waft and fall signify the movements of time. Ubiquitous election campaign signs have not informed me about causes and candidates, but have made for an amusing sea of Yes and No statements. Voting against a cause is voting in favor of something else, and vice-versa.

The Portland Observatory - the signal tower built in 1807

Albeit temporarily, I’m becoming acquainted with the East End, after 37 years in the West End. Barely two miles apart, the two neighborhoods may as well be in two different gentrified cities. To the West End’s brick rowhouses, the East End’s woodframes include a 215-year-old signal tower. My inherent city sense has already figured out strategic shortcuts through the unlit narrow streets. The steep neighborhood has the feel of living on an island: the ocean is always in close view, and conveniences are not nearby. Mornings are damp, to the extent that I now keep a squeegee in my car. Commuting to work is now by infrequent city bus, after decades of walking or bicycling. I miss everything about the old life, but there was no choice for any of us to stay in the building that is now being gutted and luxurified. All there is to do is to continue searching and watching for opportunities to make a beneficial move. I’m reading the signs- both online as well as offline. Giving up cannot be an option; to that, I vote No.

A ubiquitous byproduct of displacement, especially to inadequate confines, is discomfort. More is uncertain than is certain. Signs of assurance may not necessarily appear as spelled-out posted markers. Friendly street greetings and bus driver acknowledgments are cherished. No longer having a budget for leisure, at least I can continue writing and photographing. And preparing comfort food for those humble front-stoop meals. I’m reading consolations in my philosophical studies and in the daily lectionary. In a library book, I saw these words of 17th century Quaker author Sarah Jones:

“Look not at your own weakness,
but look at Him who is calling you.”

I make notes of findings in my chapbooks, adding balance to my journals. Indeed, others have struggled, navigated, and discovered long before me. Their words are clues, signs that can point toward a worthwhile future. Occasionally, signs and consolations find us. The front stoop has been a ready refuge from the apartment’s compression- even though I’m too tall for that, too, and must perch astride it with my legs hanging from the side. But it’s a place from which I can look up, and can greet neighbors.

An especially consoling presence that regularly finds me on the stoop is a friendly cat. Usually the cat notices me first, and sometimes perches on my books to get my full attention. He also gets a slice of smoked turkey. The visits are always timely and appreciated. Among the neighborhood cats, there’s a Maine Coon cat that greets me when I descend from the bus in the evening. The long day’s transactions leave me saturated, but I make time for these visits and sit on the pavement to thank the singing cat. I suppose we all have our causes for vigilance, in the context of realizing the intensity of mine and how much mental space they consume. Exasperated, I see how I cannot force the progress of my urgent conditions- try as I certainly do. As these friendly cats come up to me, and I welcome them, there is something to be read in the arrival of unprovoked blessings. Signs to be discerned. Perhaps what I consider to be vigilance is actually consistency of intention and preparedness.

where the sidewalk ends

savour

“Then you will come to walk cheerfully over the world,
answering that of God in every one;
whereby in them ye may be a blessing,
and make the witness of God in them to bless you;
then to the Lord God you shall be a sweet savour,
and a blessing.”

~ George Fox, letter from Launceston Gaol, 1656.

In my previous essay, I wrote about the assuring properties of a “split-second.” By this, I refer to spontaneous, uncontrived personal resuscitative moments that have reassuring properties. A distant memory returned to me from childhood, of a hockey coach’s quirky two-syllable caring gestures. Then I found that in the face of daily life increasingly hinging on the tentative, on all fronts, I’d occasionally whisper to myself, “just for now.” A reinforcing breath, held to memory, serves as a hurricane’s eye at the center of turmoil. I’ve even taken to reminding myself not to embellish any impressions of duress as endless and inescapable. Sufficient unto the day are the ends of my shoes.

As a recollective moment serves as a rock perch in swirling river rapids, a retreat is an island amidst swarms of indistinguishable months of hard labor. Earning the time and making the plans, I carved out a seven-day sojourn on Beacon Hill. As is customary, the week prior to my time off was replete with the usual barrage of ineptitude and overtime- but I got through my obligations. Cathartically reclining in my train seat, stretching out and enjoying a rolling view of the Saco River, I made note of the railroad journey as a resuscitative moment. While looking forward to my destination, I found the way there pronouncedly reassuring. I heard myself say, savour this. This thought remained with me, across the snowy salt marshes, through the backlots of Dover and Haverhill, and across the Charles River.

Alighting onto Causeway Street and seeing no frozen precipitation descending, I decided to trundle across the West End and up Beacon Hill. I’m no stranger to this traversal. Brisk paces inclining up to Cambridge Street, followed by measured half-strides up the sharply graded Hill- and this with a backpack and 3 heavy bags, one filled with baked goods I’d made for my kind hosts. “I’ll go home lighter,” I always rationalize to myself. As expected, the huffing and puffing began halfway up Hancock Street. But I said to myself, savour this. And it’s up, and up, and up, pulling all that cargo, amusingly turning at Joy Street. “Are you savouring this?”- I asked myself, still ascending, in a purgative froth. “Sure, why not?”- following my own words and looking up at the pale housepaint sky. In my grateful relief at being away from employment tribulations, everything around me looked comforting. Straining and sweating on a winter day, pulling belongings, gifts, and my typewriter up the steepest neighborhood in Boston, I exhaled “savouring this, savouring this,” with my strides.

Indeed, I wanted to be there, through every part of the journey. Inevitably my upward passage crested at Mount Vernon Street, bending left at Walnut Street, finally experiencing the benefits of favorable gravity, looking right to Beacon Hill Friends House nestled along Chestnut Street. In a neighborhood of posted gaslights, the Friends House has a large lamp on an outward arm, as though extended to greet passers-by. It’s a votive of confidence, held out for pilgrims seeking refuge. Finally, I hoisted all trailing freight up the curving stone steps to the front door at Number Eight. The basis of a retreat is essentially a savouring of what is. The idea is to break the routine, borrow some time, and rekindle alertness to savour what is good. The residence manager and I recognized each other with joyful greetings. He spoke the most perfect words I could have imagined hearing: Welcome Home. I immediately savoured this, proceeding to settle in- not a single one of my dozens upon dozens of well-packed home-baked cookies broken- greeting more residents en route to my usual room.

From the very start of my seven-day sojourn, I savoured a profound awareness of being welcome, and this set the tone throughout. There was a snowstorm immediately after my arrival, prompting me to savour my timing. I found myself waiting outside the Church of the Advent during the heaviest snowfall; the rector was late for the morning office. But the ensuing welcome made the wait worthwhile. I didn’t even mind my drafty room, named after the pioneer Quaker George Fox, at the Friends House; it’s always drafty in there. Why not savour the reminder that this was my 12th sojourn with the community? At the heart of each of these retreats are my studies at the Boston Athenaeum, through which I find words and ideas to savour. I always plan a personal study theme for these extended stays, selecting material from the library’s archival collections. This time, it was what I called Assurance and Divine Guidance. Each of my readings had these ideas in common. An example is from Nathaniel Appleton’s Discourse, published in 1742, in Boston:

“Faith is a Grace that inspires a divine life into the Soul; and the good Man may make a comfortable Subsistence on it, even in the worst of Times. Habakkuk: 2.4. 'The just shall live by his Faith.' ‘Tis by this that he fetches constant Supplies from Heaven... By this he looks up to the Recompence of Reward, reserved in Heaven for him, and is animated and quickened in a Life of Piety, by the glad Assurances of it. And by this he maintains a Life of Communion with his dear Redeemer: and let temporal Things go how they will with him, while he can do this he is easy, he is happy, he is joyful. Thus beholding as in a Glass the Glory of the Lord, he is changed into the same Image, from Glory to Glory. Thus for this Life he has a glorious Provision made for him.”

Alongside lifegiving words I heard and studied, were savoury sights, sounds, and tastes. With the occasion of residency on Beacon Hill, I have round-the-clock possibilities for unfettered walks along mazes of intricate streets, as well as through parks and bustling thoroughfares. Urban creature that I’ve always been, a good, large city is as relaxing as it is inspiring. Merchants use their wares as decorative elements. The supply of photo motifs is endless, and the juxtaposition of sidewalk musicians woven among pedestrians provides contrasts with the quiet residential lanes. Yet another contrast is the interior of a cavernous sanctuary, deep in the city, an island of contemplative quiet with soothing and occasional echoes.

Church of the Advent, Boston.

Perhaps the most obvious connotation for savoury is taste. It is a joy to bring baked treats to my hosts at the House, the Athenaeum, the Advent, and to shopkeepers I know as friends. The motivation is not that of any kind of “exchange,” but simply one of gratitude. For me, it is a gift in itself to see others happy. On these retreats, I am surely recipient of savoury abundance- from House dinners, to high tea at the Athenaeum, to convivial evenings out. One fine midday, I accompanied members of the Athenaeum staff to a memorably lavish lunch at the Somerset Club. On this recent sojourn, amidst the week of aromas and cheers of the Friends House dining room, I was treated to a dinner on the house by a colleague who is also a restaurant manager. The latter, a small bistro on a side street, provides an environment as savoury as the meal. My friend sat me near the latticed front windows, which I found to be ideal for writing. From a perch within a perch, my appreciation extended from the seasonings and substance, to the textures and sounds of the busy- yet calmly intimate space, by the subdued warmth of incandescent light. Even the return walk to the House, through icy air, was something to savour.

Returning to words as enduring reminders, in that usual serendipitous way, mixtures of readings I select in advance turn out to perfectly intertwine. Somehow this always happens, even as my selections span centuries and varieties of authors. Perhaps it’s a result of ingenious library cataloguing. Perhaps it also has to do with a reader being an active factor in joining works of literature together in the moment. Among anticipated connecting themes, I repeatedly noticed my savour observation in much of what I studied. Across eight literary works, by as many different writers, a noticeable amount of glimmers emerged about savouring one’s living faith. Don’t take your heartfelt belief for granted. Appleton observed, “we are the possessors of so inestimable a treasure.” Writing about spiritual confidence, Samuel Worcester (19th C) wrote that our faith is the most precious of treasures. In an anonymous work called Path to Happiness (18th C), the writer describes how, “those principles which are really received into our hearts, have an inseparable effect on the actions and conduct of our lives,” and that we must maintain the “safety of that invaluable treasure within us, our immortal souls.” Richard Lucas (17th C), encouraging his readers to persevere, used the exhortation that we “make our progress into assurance.”

Indeed, the reader does play an active role in thematically joining works of literature together. Study is as much analysis as synthesis. The seekers are those who find. And a string of days filled with intense study produces a momentum of perception and awareness. During my leisurely morning coffees, between the Advent and the Athenaeum, words that celebrate the savoury appeared in no less than the sports pages. My muses, once again, were hockey players; this time in gratitude for the Bruins’ unexpected successes. Their specialty is a game that is made of split seconds. “How lucky we are to be here,” offered Brad Marchand to the Boston Herald, “You want it to last forever, but that’s not how it is.” They look as far as the next game. “I appreciate every moment,” philosophized team captain Zdeno Chara, “It goes by fast. It’s very humbling and I’m very grateful I’ve been able to play for this long in the game I love and enjoy so much.” Of course the ideas in my studies and thoughts stayed with me, as I read the morning recaps! Philosophy and competitive sports are not so far from each other. Savour the good words. Store them where you can find them, in the soul’s archives.

Bruins and Brew, at Café Tatte, Boston.

Just as scholarly learning is an ongoing process, so is the ability to savour. The authors and athletes alike knew to treasure their confidence and their participatory moments. Thomas Merton was one to say that spiritual life is as much struggle as it is contemplation. As vigilance is active, savouring is passive. During my studies in the rare books room, I looked up through the tall windows facing Beacon Street, and wrote in the margin of my notes, “we can never know the stability of our times, places, and loved ones.” Intermissions from the struggle provide time to better appreciate what is meaningful. I do as I am able to afford. By very intentionally savouring a situation or an experience, there’s an ingredient of trying to make time stand still- trying to permanently preserve the moment. But like the hockey player said, that’s not how it is. I know this empirically, as I hold moments in writing and photography, while ferociously pointing toward hopes for better days.

At my little windowside table in the bistro, delicately tasting my dessert, I wrote in my journal: “Savour dares me to sense some contentment, even through so much difficulty and instability. 'Savour this' means to really taste all this wonderful food and ale, this place, and commit all of it to memory.” An improved perception must transcend the retreat, and be with me in the work trenches. In ways that are similar to how I connect the words I read, it is vital to be able to find what is worthy to savour. These weeks on Beacon Hill always conclude with the Sunday’s Quaker Meeting for Worship. Indeed, I savoured the company of friends, as well as the wise contemplative silence of the gathering. Settling into the communal silence, I certainly had to ride out distracting thoughts about the frustrations and insufficiencies awaiting me. Then I chased them out of the present, recalling what I had been studying about holding inestimable treasure in an earthen vessel. Glancing around the large room, filled with kindred spirits, I noticed sunlight coming in from the Chestnut Street side. It was as though the authors I sought out were passing messages to me, to trust that my faith is something real- to savour this very simple thought, and to continue to stay able to savour.

confidence

“Lady Luck smiles on the few in this world,
I hope and I pray that she smiles on you.
I ain't gonna preach, no I ain't gonna teach;
I 'm just gonna sing about the things that I need:

A little bit of love, a little bit of hope;
A little bit of strength, some fuel for the fire.”

~ The Alarm, Deeside.


confidence and urgency

When progress is undiscernable, confidence is indispensable. Yet although progress and confidence need one another, these attributes are elusive, and there are no guarantees as to success. At least, confidence does not hinge upon outside approval. Individuals can derive their own courage, though it’s much easier said than done. Experience teaches me that confidence is abundant when it is not overtly needed, and that confidence is most needed when it is difficult to find. Feast or famine, and these are indeed deserted times for this burgeoning professional. By confidence, I refer to an unflappable, self-possessed inner assurance woven through one’s efforts and being. Last year, I wrote about what it means to sense the strength of one’s own forces, and that is surely tied to sustaining confidence. It is urgently needed now, as repeated defeats and rejected applications leave an erosive wake. Surely, I can find enough confidence now to continue trying- and even write about it- but I sense a depleting supply.

How is confidence restored, especially without success? How is determination maintained, the course kept, and hopes upheld- when no earthly rewards are assured? How to confidently navigate unwelcoming territory, and be simultaneously prosperous? By nature, crossroads and precipices prompt me to consider what has historically helped me to survive and find better circumstances. Not having material or influential privileges, I’ve relied on spiritual consolation, scholarship, writing, and creative imagination to endure hardships. There is no land in sight, and resources are thinning. When possible, over many years, I’ve made time for rejuvenating retreats. It’s important to know oneself, know what is constructive, and also know what to avoid. In addition, there is great advantage with changes of scenery and having friends outside of the daily confines. We are all able to encourage one another; we must all know that we are not alone. Among survival abilities is to find ways to look to an improved future- and to be willing to do so. Confidence is necessary fuel for the fire of meaningful life. St. Theophan wrote the following about the health of a soul’s ignited spirit:

“Cast aside everything that might extinguish this small flame which is beginning to burn within you, and surround yourself with everything which can feed and fan it into a strong fire.”

observed examples

Along with continually learning from my own lived precedents, there is also the active observer’s role. I try to retain the better things I’ve heard, seen, and read. These are parts of my inner arsenal called upon in times like these, and meant to be applied. In eleven concise sentences, the Forty-Sixth Psalm is an ancient, remarkable expression of calm resilience during unbridled turbulence. Amidst avalanches, ruptures, erosion, and desolation, there is a river whose tranquil streams will bless others and be blessed. Of this river, reads verse five, “she shall not be moved: God shall help her; and that right early.” The waters symbolize renewing life and grace. The waters run in a conduit, as with the human heart in an individual who calls to the Creator of all that lives, “refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” The petitioner must hold course, be still, and know, confident in the refuge of faith. Rootedness in the unseen demands all of a finite individual’s drive, but the cowering and hydroponic alternative is unappealing. The currents of the Holy Spirit carry the attentive soul to places of bold confidence.

Recently, I enjoyed a week’s residency at Beacon Hill Friends House, and studying at the Boston Athenaeum. Carving out time for reflection, reading, and writing has been my most effective way to renew. Staving off burnout, while struggling to build a life and career, is itself an occupational effort. And that uphill effort includes artistic expression, kindred souls, and written words. Among the Quaker community, I saw that familiar combination of conscientiousness and activism. Venturing in any distance, out of toxic trenches, helps to remind me that I’m not alone.

At the Athenaeum, my week allowed for an immersion into some adventurous memoirs from the 17th and 18th centuries, filled with accounts of endurance and inspiring words. These studies remain prominently in my musings through the days of respite. Among my shorter readings was a tract from 1829 by Robert Aspland, on the theme Courage and Confidence. He emphasized that confidence is safeguarded by those who love truth and keep faith with “an undaunted spirit, rising above oppression.” Aspland considered it an encouraging sight to behold others who were “cheered amidst reproach and persecution, by their own consciousness of rectitude and benevolence.” By virtue of our very pursuit of holiness, we can find confidence. Aspland wanted his listeners to take heart:

“Faith built upon knowledge is firm and durable, and not to be shaken by accidents and privations and pains of the present imperfect state of being- that the consciousness of laboring in a good cause imparts satisfaction and comfort to the mind.”

My studies in sources of old, pulled from the deepest archival recesses of the Athenaeum, provide new ideas, helping to retrain my thoughts to light the way ahead. And indeed they do remain with me, not just in my writing, but also while interpreting my days. Around the city, the concept of confidence continued appearing in front of me. Various friends showed me how they participate in meal preparations, to feed thousands of people in need, from their bases of operation in large church kitchens.

In surely much lighter and more ephemeral ways, I noticed something about self-confidence appearing in the local sports pages during my morning coffee. As it happens in competitive sports, success breeds success. Hockey is especially a game of momentum. Apparently the struggling Boston Bruins, “were in the midst of a crisis of confidence,” so wrote Steve Conroy of the Boston Herald. The next day’s Herald included this remark by Stephen Harris about rebuilding the team: “That’s a multi-year endeavor that requires faith and patience and can be ruined by short-term, emotional desperation.” The team was losing a lot of close games, and their numerous shots-on-goal were undisciplined. The players talked about “going out there and finding ways to win.”

Suddenly they started winning their games. The morning after an unusual come-from-behind win, Chris Mason of the Herald observed how the Bruins were “emotionally connected to this game.” That hard-won confidence had to be built upon. More victories followed, yet the players seemed too humbled to swagger; but they owned their confidence. David Backes, a forward, observed, “A level of consistency has gone up, a level of execution, a level of belief.” Another forward, Frank Vatrano added, “We’re just playing. We’re not worried about making mistakes.” Their coach, Bruce Cassidy, stressed they must “ err on the side of aggression,” and, “keep up the emotion and confidence level.” These athletes are using language not unfamiliar in philosophy and theology.




stabilization

It takes profound discipline to cast aside flame-quenchers like a philosopher, and to keep up the confidence level like a hockey player. Conscientious individuals must decide how, when, or whether to compromise. Our workplaces are too often wildernesses of distrust and uneven ethics. Confidence is difficult to build amidst environments that undermine and undercut. Some have enough wealth and good fortune to walk away from hostile situations; the rest of us are forced to stand straight through indignity- and the rarer souls find ways to achieve along dead-end streets. The insistence upon accomplishment amidst belligerence implies the collateral damage of absorption and erosion. It is a solitary crucible, rarely comprehended- even by the survivor.

Reading back through recent years’ journals, a phrase caught my attention. Giving myself some advice, I wrote, “Create pockets of stability amidst inhospitable places.” These may take the forms of creative ventures, but they can also be work projects and transactions. Encouraging sparks come by way of the enthusiastic responses from those I serve. Confidence must be cobbled together with ingredients such as gracious words, beautiful scenery, savory tastes, and gratifying tasks. Another learned survival measure is to conjure up confidence by taking long views ahead.

By looking ahead, even if not at anything specific, I make efforts to see beyond these present trials. The looking becomes quite tangible, as I naturally reach for my lifelong language of photography, going to ocean ledges and city streets. Using different cameras allows me to change the ways I see. I’d like to know that I can transcend the limitations of what has been, and stretch them into what can be. My years since graduate school have been fraught with looking for improved and sustaining employment. Productive endurance while ceaselessly prospecting is as demanding as it is daunting. Perceiving beyond limitations and rejections is nothing less than vital- and I must persevere. While out photographing, I’m reminded of having practiced the craft since childhood. I’m self-taught, and made a living by it for fourteen years, rising to the top of my profession. Economics and a dying field forced a career change, and short of a miracle this may be happening again. The tension of a low-pulse job market, excruciating employment situations, and the passage of time recalls the torrents threaded by the calm river of the 46th Psalm. The wincing, writhing brand of tolerance is not effectively tranquil; that will not do, and it is strangely the opposite of confidence. For me, the object of this trial is to reach that better situation without bitterness or discouragement, emerging the better for having endured.