awakened forces

“Did they tell You stories
‘bout the saints of old?
Stories about their faith?
They say stories like that make a boy grow bold;
Stories like that make a man walk straight.”

~ Rich Mullins, “Boy Like Me / Man Like You.”

winter’s progress

Latter January days are plotted among the depths of winter’s navigational chart. Today’s distance is far enough away to have lost sight of departure’s shore, yet too far still to detect land on the horizon. Along any lengthy voyage, there arrives a point at which the launch becomes too far away for me to reach back. An about-face would be as perilous as the way forward. And simply by virtue of the distance already covered, there follows the additional virtue of perseverance. Mind says to body, “look how far we’ve gone; we can only continue moving forward.” Mind seems to take for granted that it is of no consideration to stand still. There isn’t enough time to be dropping anchor out at sea. But the driving forces to proceed must be close at hand, and such sources must not drop out of sight.

assurance

Of late, my thoughts have been turning to the idea of how we can sense our own forces. We may not always be aware of the strength we have available to us in our personal reserves, but on some occasions we can sense it. We may even articulate our sources of strength. Admittedly, recollections of “fight-or-flight” crisis reactions can provide instances of reaching for our survival forces. In this instance, I refer to something more subtle and yet also more constant. I have known quiet instances of having been surprised by the realization of assuring strength, even when it was not necessary to call forth any special effort.

The memory of a fleeting impression remains with me, during which I had been simply walking across a busy thoroughfare. It was an early afternoon, and I had completed my day’s work. I might have been en route to a café, striding across Monument Square. I was momentarily and entirely at leisure, with neither backpack nor satchel appended to me. Very simply, hands in pockets, I paced across the bricks and looked upward. Sculpted façade-tops opened to seaside skies. Traversing the oldshoe familiar terracotta plaza, I was instantly astonished by an overspreading sense of completion. The old buildings and cobbled streets appeared as softly near as the flannel of my side pockets. I did not stop walking, and did not even slow my steps. But I comprehended that very moment which remains with me, years later.

sensing forces

What brings us to sense our forces? I frequently refer to teaching as a labor of love. Lesson planning and prep often feel like rehearsals toward interactive performances. I’ve been doing this for more than two decades, and the cathartic satisfaction always remains. Amidst helping others make artistic and intellectual discoveries, I momentarily forget my troubles. The ability to connect what we know and love- with professional challenges, or with the needs of others- finds us “in our elements.” A sense of strength can certainly manifest at repose, too. A strong sense of strength can settle in, during times of contemplative silence- even without a specific thought, or at times which might appear to be “inactive.”



The spirit transcends action and place. Reminders of strength can arrive as discreetly as a subtle thought, or solidly as a physical locale: a plain remembrance of my ancestral roots can be as forceful as the view from an ocean crag. I still remember elders telling me to “remember who you are.” Notice how athletes say “playing with confidence” is a decisive factor to their consistency. Still further is an ancient phrase from holy writ, intent to assure humble-hearted listeners they will overcome evil with good, as greater is the Divine that is within you, than that which is in this world.

big shoulders

The holiday season provided an opportunity to return to Chicago. While driving, strolling the Mag Mile, and peering from CTA trains, I thought about the sensing of strength. When do we “feel our forces,” whether they are stored up within us, or reflected through our prism-like selves? Can we call upon needed strength, when exhaustion and discouragement bring us to disorienting ends of our reserves? In Chicago, I saw family and familiar sights, yet was also reminded of the breadth of this world. Driving more than 2200 miles, and appreciating some unexpected kindnesses, I made note of the present as I looked forward.

While in Chicago, I went to an Irish tavern to hear a talented local ceilidh group play traditional Celtic music. Having played in many ensembles myself, I know how music shared among a group can generate cleansing joy. This particular group was really radiating cheer, and true to Chicago form they worked in a few jazz tunes. Toward the end of their energetic set, the whole group sang two hymns, beginning with I’ll Fly Away, and ending with How Can I Keep From Singing. I’d never heard folksinging voices interpret these before, and was struck by the spirited intimacy of the latter’s lyrics:

"No storm can shake my inmost calm,
while to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
how can I keep from singing?

My life goes on in endless song
above earth's lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
How can I keep from singing?"

An awareness of strength involves recollection. While listening to the music, I reached for my notebook and jotted, “remembrance and rejuvenation do not always coincide; spiritual and physical- both are ideally necessary.” Indeed, the ability and application of reaching for sources and reserves of strength is a self-discipline.

perspective

Calling forth needed strength occurs to me as a cultivated practice. Now my thoughts turn to occasions of taking charge of situations, and instances of defending undefended individuals. Then I think of less-sentient situations during which I’ve had to create carefully arranged and indexed archives from heaps of barely discernable chaos. And still further, I recall how I’ve been maintaining small measures of constructive calm as a caregiver, by studying philosophy in hospital waiting and recovery rooms. When I could not write, I could find wise words to read and safely inhabit.

With all these things in mind, I considered the subtly strengthening potential of ideas and words. Visiting with a fellow writer provided some insights I might have otherwise overlooked. My friend talked about exercising perspective, and keeping focus upon what is positive. We talked about writing through all sorts of seasons- the rough and the smooth. She described the positive energies immediately at hand, reminding me of the Greek word paraclete, which means the comforter at one’s side. With written words of truths and ideas passed along through the ages, there are assuring words spoken to present-day uncertainties.

I’ve brought this topic to a few more trusted friends. Through what kinds of situations do we feel our forces? Can we call upon our sources of strength, when it is most needed? I asked another esteemed friend, a fellow that leads a raucous rock band that is constant in performing and recording. He correspondingly perseveres with composing and practicing- to the extent that he told me that as he performs to large crowds, he feels that he’s “not really there.” I interpret that to mean he is not excessively self-focused, but rather moving with the immediacy of the pressured moment. He also says that right before a show, he suppresses his analytical thoughts. Being in one’s element is more about confidence and self-possession that about self-consciousness. When it comes to reaching for inner strength, he described going for solitary walks. The topic prompted us to talk about the importance of place. True to our shared Maine colors, he said his most recharging walks are along seashores.

Physical place is more than merely a point of reference; it can also be inherently a source of strength. Ocean perches and beaches, along with mountain trails, are places by which I find my forces. But to say inherent is as subjective as the interpreting individual. Yet it is easy to consider a physical setting as having intrinsic value. Such perspective attests to the solidity of human thought. Landscapes change, as do their connotations for each of us. Yet for our spirits, the most fluid, most elusive and ethereal references are those which produce our profoundest ground.

drawing the sources

“In coming to understand anything we are rejecting the facts
as they are for us in favor of the facts as they are.
The primary impulse of each is to maintain and aggrandise himself.
The secondary impulse is to go out of the self,
to correct its provincialism and heal its loneliness.”

~ C. S. Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism

sources

With the passing of time, my attention is increasingly drawn to the roots of my experiences. Lived experience refers to present, as well as past; sensed as well as seen, remembered as well as immediate. Sources never cease to compel. A passing glance that causes me to look again and consider will invariably bring my attention to the source of the idea, the provenance of a scenario. It is a thirst to know meaning beneath the visible. And then there is the draw of sources themselves: the books that ignite the imagination, the individuals that inspire, the places that hold intrinsic and deeply personal references to the sacred. My lifelong fascinations with waterfalls and the vast ocean find parallels when listening to eloquent elders describe their stories, or when reading manuscripts from distant times. Sources speak from places and ages I could not have witnessed.

Enduring sources are timeless and cannot be exhausted. These represent tastes of the Wellspring of life, which can neither be measured nor extinguished. Peering through the glass aboard a surfaced Boston subway train, hurtling across the Longfellow Bridge, the contrast between dark tunnel and bright sky was impossible not to notice. This same sensation occurs to me, just about every time I reach the outdoor portion of the inbound subway trip. From darkened mirrors facing in, to sudden and clear outward views. The Charles River, distant buildings, and the broad sky overhead, extend my focus and remind me of the sources of all that is before me. Indeed, the very Source, the Divine, the ground of being, is solidly present such that my fleeting attention is caught away by small components. Henry David Thoreau astutely warned how easily our lives are frittered away in detail. Whether or not he succeeded in his living experiment at Walden Pond, his brilliant writing left us a document of his motivation to live deliberately, and to confront the essentials in life. It becomes vital to unburden and approach the sources of life and inspiration.

Walden Pond


experiences

My experience shows me how sources take many forms and manifestations. I’ve already mentioned such tangibles as physical sites, individuals, literary sources, and even the heart’s direct experience of God. In addition, there are repositories cultivated within, made of one’s collected source material. We may list our diplomas, their granting institutions, and a selection of jobs in our résumés, but these inventories do not describe our formation. There are sources which have made us the working, thinking, interacting persons that we are. Consider how and where you were raised, from infancy and right up until you could choose your own mentors. On the occasions in which some of my teachers and professors would tell me about those under whom they had studied (“under” as though beneath a tree!), I’d reflect that I somehow joined a kind of lineage- a genealogy of learning. Naming off where and what we studied in our formal schooling is merely at the surface. Where and what was the learning- not just then, but now?

Consider the people, cultures, and trends that comprise your influences. My oratory style is an amalgam of my father, my favorite graduate school history professors, and one of my Benedictine monk friends. My culinary and penmanship methods bear my mother’s stamp, as does my taste for irony. Many of my manners and organizing sensibilities are owed to my years of lived experience in monastic communities. A long list could follow, but instead and for this purpose, it will suffice to say the sources dearest to me have been the ones that have guided me to sources. The particular subway ride I described was en route to the Boston Athenaeum library, a place introduced to me by school friends. Learning, perceiving, and creativity continue long and far beyond the old lecture halls. Sources produce beginnings, and further sources provide sustenance.

extension

Drawing from wellsprings does not have hoarding as its goal. It is quite the opposite, for me. Collected knowledge and impressions add rungs to our ladders. Ascents progressively heighten and descents deepen, as thoughts of self occupy less space at the center. Learning, at its most redeemable, is best applied when offered as a compassionate extension. My notebooks record history while providing future references. These incidental uses have proven to be as gratifying as informative. Indeed the enjoyment of writing, in itself, remains primary. What motivates discovery are hopes for the extending of hard-earned knowledge and comprehension. Thirst for wisdom is matched by desire to diffract and share the Light within.

Above: Restoring a treasured source for an elderly friend.
Below: His hands with the restored book

In some critical ways, those who assiduously pursue the Divine for the purpose of lived application are the uncommon torchbearers. The light must be carried through undetermined crepuscule, to be potential light for others. Through waystations and on the road, learning must continue with care, so that it can be spun into reinforcing fibers. There remain great and unknown distances to cover. But I do not venture without provision. Not only are my teachers’ and parents’ lessons and stories accompanying me, but also the imprints of their mannerisms and voices. What is expressed is as important as how it’s said. A disciple is taught more than skills and methodologies; through personal mentoring, style is transmitted. Thus, facts are accompanied by techniques. Conversely, committed and witnessed errors of the past can inform discernment, and prevent repetition. We extend and manifest our received learning.

development and vocation

Pausing at this precipice of time, it is as necessary to pose the questions of cultivation as it is to ask the purposes of desire. Over the years, I’ve been making every effort within my economic and time limitations to choose how I add to my learning. Often, such decisions affect my travels, and the pursuit of wise words and artworks joins my pilgrimage. Now I recall William Armstrong’s admiring commentary about the self-taught Abraham Lincoln, who “gave back as rain what he received as mist.”

“He received his knowledge as mist, because he had so little time to learn. No one provided him with books and classes and study halls. He snatched his study periods between hours of hewing away the wilderness and fighting hunger.”*

By noting thoughts, quotations, and moments in a journal, maintaining a spirit of research, the average day can yield a manuscript collection. With a balanced sense of enquiry, a corresponding sense of expression can be developed. Feeling, thinking, and willing have been called the three primary functions of the human mind. Each are needed, along with an ability to visualize the “big picture.” Returning to Thoreau’s ideas, as I know to maintain a broad view amidst life’s transactions and demands, then I would succeed at carrying my own portable shore of Walden Pond with me. His use of deliberate is what this century might call conscientious. A clear sense of intention, of vocation, provides a guideline for life emphases and study.

Above: Taizé, France.
Below: Walden Pond, Massachusetts.

A vocation is often referred to as a calling, and this is misconstrued when viewed in a passive light. Vocation is not simply a subtle impression of God to a human. It is the reaching for a person by the very Spirit of Creation, and the initiation of an eternity of relational discourse. Going to the sources of trust and strength is a response, and the purpose is at once to draw out and to be infused by the holiness that transcends corruption. Having drawn from life-giving sources, the succeeding purpose is extension. Hence, calling is a great deal more than to merely believe, but to relate and to act. Our very physical design implies receptivity and reaching out, comprehension and active response. And collected knowledge and insights must find their means for extension to benefit others, and thus, the universe of knowledge itself. Be assured, consoled, and strengthened: even in this culture of mirages, learning and a proximity to the sources of trust and wisdom cannot diminish either in value or in urgency.

__________________
  * Study is Hard Work, by William H. Armstrong

gift words

“the word spoken by angels
was steadfast.”

~ Hebrews, chapter 2

Swirls of words swarm our days. Screens, phones, printed media, and spoken directives inform and distract. For the most part, the information is excessive, and the distractions tend to derail. Through barrages of verbiage and clichés, the mind is astonishingly able to extract key words. Amazingly, we are as capable of sifting and sorting, as we are prone to missing the point. Words formulate assemblages of letters and sounds that connect souls to concepts, and ignite our responses. Communicated and internalized words carry potential as pivot-points toward our gratitude as well as to our fears. Indeed, what is comprehended either in writing or by voice conveys a message. The words themselves are ethereal structures, yet they may have their own iconographic properties. What is the worth of a word, as a value denominator?

Rather than to look at the broader subject of words in general, my thoughts turn to the word as gift. Holy Scripture phrases universally encompassing magnitude as God speaks life into being. Before all things that live and generate, there shone the Word, the uncreated logos, all at once both ancient of days and ever new. From the panoramic expanse of creation to the humility of human hands, an affirmative word signifies action. Yet still, without physical dimensions, gratefully received words can be cherished as artifactual treasures. In a mystery that is uniquely human, this is possible. The spiritual gift of memory is able to retain more than words themselves, but their contexts, and the tones of the soothing spoken voices that first accompanied those words. With careful curatorial cultivation of the soul’s archives, our highly personal gift-words can be at the ready when we need them. Gift words represent needed strength to sustain the soul through dark times and to make strides in fair weather.

As it admittedly happens, during a rambling church service my attention turned to my palm-sized New Testament which I keep handy for such eventualities. The tiny book is filled with years of my own pencilled notations. Opening it to Hebrews, my favorite biblical section, the words faced up to me as the gifts they are. Each assuring word, and it happened to be the second chapter, reminded me of a weathered yet shining inheritance. Pearls of greatest price have landed in my hands as the brightest orange autumn leaves, wafting through open air to nestle precisely where I can receive them. Then I thought of the ways I restore documents and books, as a paper conservator preserving the written word. Even the bindings and flyleaves have histories to tell. Yet I returned again to the strength of spirit undergirding those tiny, thinly-printed words in my small book. There are many millions of these editions in the world, but this snowflake reached my hands as though authored and printed expressly for me.

For those of us who consider, construct, and comprehend with words, there is an added sensitivity to the verbal message. If we seek, we notice. What makes a word a gift, even something that points to the wellsprings of life? One aspect that comes to mind is that gift words are those pointed directly at me- fashioned especially for me, and spoken to my very condition. Another aspect is how my re-recital of these life-giving words effectively rekindles their intentions. But we sense far more than we can see, and I’ve come to believe that longings surface long after they have been rooted within. Part of this mystery is a longing for good words that reinforce, yet catch us by surprise. Words from our friends that know us best are often the messages that are most striking to our hearts.

The Spirit assures as well as alarms. Two personal examples which I never talk about have their places in this reflection. Very late one night, back when I was 18, I was interrupted from studying at my desk. I was living on a quiet street with large spaces between houses, and was very much awake while the rest of house was asleep. From outside my nearest window, I heard my name, called out several times in a brass-sharp tone. It sounded close to my windowsill. Of course, I went to the window to see who wanted me at that odd hour. Living on the ground floor, I ran quickly outside. Nobody was there. No footsteps, no vehicle, and not a subsequent sound. Just the night sky.

On another occasion, much later and in a very different place, there was a similar shock of an experience. Walking across a plaza in Boston, a section of pavement gave way underfoot and I fell through. I remember the pedestrian directly ahead of me was a blind man with a guide dog. It was an abrupt fall that I hadn’t a split-second to break, and the impact effectively shut out my lights. Long after the rescue, the bandaging, and the recovery, two aspects would not leave my thoughts: firstly, I wanted to know how long I had been unconscious, and secondly I wanted to make sense of something I “saw” during however long that span had been. I would return to the accident scene, bordered with yellow tape, and wonder about how long it took the medics to arrive. I had been reading Saint Augustine’s “City of God” on the subway, and I later had to clean my bloodstain off the cover. The book had been picked up and put on the stretcher with me. But I saw something, and I can describe it precisely. On a black background I saw two words, centered and all capitals in white: “IT’S YOURS.” It took a few years to comprehend something so unusual for so completely sober a person as myself. But the meaning came to me, and it remains to remind me that the life I have has been given to me. Though unknown and without influence or wealth, the gift of living can yet thrive. Several years ago, while running the footpath around Portland’s Back Cove, I looked to the sky above Casco Bay. The “It’s Yours” that had come to me became my “It’s Yours” that I suddenly understood to give back. Sprinting along the salt marshes, I said, “my life, God, it’s Yours- all of it.” The gift of “it’s yours” is to be given constantly.

What I "saw" when unconscious looked very much like this.

As much as words received can be traced back to their points of emanation, that which we internalize will draw us to our sources. Gift words do bring us to the sources of what strengthens us, and what gives each of us our own historic context. Consider how we find our ways through our days with symbols and words, noticing the nutrients as we seek them out. Indeed and realistically so, not every word and message will nourish. The gift words are the rarities that tend to be exceptions to the rules, yet surely not impossible or limited to few. Such words and sequences that enliven are discovered as they emerge. We notice as we seek, and we seek as we notice. Gift words, either spoken or in letter form, provide turns in the road that divert away from meditating upon miseries. Perhaps you, too, have your reference archive of gift words or even musical accompaniments, calling forth your truest self- that which is historic, evolving, and rooted.

en attente

“True silence
is the rest of the mind;
it is to the spirit
what sleep is to the body,
nourishment and refreshment.”

~William Penn, Quaker leader and author


Pulling away from Portland on a southbound track, the Boston-bound train picked up speed. My window view of trees and salt marshes began to blur and blend with the sky. Blurring and stirring in a swirl of sunrise light, form and color marbled into its own ephemeral texture. The journal writing I’d begun, before the train began rolling, was distracted along with my afterthoughts about previous weeks’ anxieties. Departing from the Sewall Street Station was the start of a retreat I’d anticipated for months. Such diverting landscape tableaux were gratefully received. The journey settled into a soothing overcast. In the buildup of worldly cares, economic trepidations, and general dead-ends visibility tangled into disproportion. With so many hopes sinking into swamps of thwart, I continue to try taking stock in the good that exists, while aching for the better of my wishes. When do my prospects improve, and will they ever? What do I await? My thoughts turned to the notion of continuing to hope for outcomes for which no evidence is detectable. A retreat is a chance to let the treadmills turn without me. The pursuit instead is for respite and hope. But patience is required to be able to unwind and rest. It takes time, though it is a worthwhile investment. Beginning to recover requires a slowing of paces. The gift of an entire week just starting, the train’s rhythm returned me to the present and toward the good fortune of a sojourn.

In between compound tasks and commitments, I managed to fit in my travel preparations. As the train-trip-eve drew closer, more ingredients were gathered at the floor near my desk. Snippets of late nights and early mornings permitted additions of writing, clothing, and photography provisions. Being able to see the accumulations, over several days, also permitted me to eliminate the extraneous from the essentials. There would be plenty of reading at my destinations, so I resisted loading-down with more than two small books. And the recurrent question of what I expected to do, prevented me from overpacking. Those who write and travel can attest to the discipline of balancing tools, trappings, and tastes when gathering gear. For such things, the priority goes to simplicity.

Beacon Hill Friends House sanctuary.

A journey into days of sanctified reflection implies pausing the pace, breathing in the immediate, and paring away inconsequential thoughts. Transcendent of setting, the place must simply be conducive to repose. All that is necessary is an open-ended freedom to be silent. For contemplative time to be what one might call “constructive,” there must be a slicing away of excesses. Unfettered, a soul may center down to its core, to the beyond within. In so doing, the reflexive grasp on external definitions is released. Even gripped retained experiences can be loosened away. I have learned, however, that one release is rarely sufficient; often a habit, or perspective, or an accumulation must be jettisoned many times before such things leave my thoughts. Simplification involves a clearing-away that is both physical and mental. Some material may be good enough to give away, otherwise it is best thrown out. Casting off and letting go may extend from such things as physical items- to ideas, concepts, expectations, connections, and even dreams. Though en route to meditative places, there were surely tastes of peaceful release as the train advanced.

Above: Beacon Hill Friends House, Boston.
Below: Beacon Hill Friends House courtyard.

My aspirations toward simplicity were met by the ethos of my gracious host community for the week, at the Beacon Hill Friends House. Quakers have, for more than 350 years, founded their spiritual practice in emphases upon simplicity and patient perseverance. I’d spent a restful week at the House only six months ago. This time I experienced the courtyard in late-autumn, with shorter and colder days in the neighborhood. With time and increasing bonds of friendship, the welcomes are ever warmer and treasured- among communities at the House and at the Boston Athenaeum. Between the two places, I found rest, nourishment, great conversations, and time to write, read, and walk the ancient little peripheral streets.

Above: Boston Athenaeum Library.
Below: View toward Charles Street, from Revere Street.

The literature I studied in the Athenaeum’s rare books room included treatises on grace and the companionship of the Holy Spirit, written by members of the Religious Society of Friends in the 1600s and 1700s. I saw much to enlighten my thoughts about anticipatory listening and awaiting- and eloquent simplicity. These writers had been persecuted for their belief in the direct relationship between God and the human individual, without intermediary or ritual. In silent expectancy is God received in the heart’s recesses. It is almost indescribable, yet the authors found their own ways to encourage their readers with testimonials and discoveries. Having time to read through such poetical discourse- after acclimating to the old style language- it occurred to me how it is a great gift to have time to read an item to completion without interruption. Much as it is to dine slowly on savory victuals, I could read and take notes- then go out for ruminative walks. Weaving the lanes on Beacon Hill, I asked myself about what I expect in life. My unreasonable tendency is to expect better, regardless of apparent limitation. How much time constitutes too long a wait? Surely an aspiring kind of anticipation is quite unlike ways we wait in traffic, or in queues, or in waiting rooms. The wait for God is not in vain.

The season of Advent is one of glowing and expectant waiting. As the darkness of daylight’s diminution progresses, so conversely do hope’s embers intensify. Early-arriving evenings provide contrast for small, bright Advent lights displayed in windows. I began to notice them, along my afternoon walks. Guiding stars keeping vigil remind those in transit of the transient darkness. We wait not in vain. Having the opportunity to view a simpler expression of the upcoming holidays, Advent emerges as a season of hopeful expectation that anticipates fulfillment. As with the austere worship of the Quakers, the Holy Spirit is both evident and imminent, which is to say close at hand. Parakletos translates as consoler, comforter, the at-one’s-side, and the summoner to freedom as expressed in the gospels.

The Church of the Advent, Beacon Hill.

To silently await attentively upon the Creator Spiritus- as part of a large congregation- is as substantial as it is mystery. Somehow, in a perfectly congruent serendipity, first thing each morning I participated in morning vigil at The Church of the Advent- just a few minutes’ walk from the Friends House. Reciting the Psalms aloud from a lectern, toward the echoing heights of the large and elegant sanctuary, was an experience of spoken prayer in ancient footsteps yet with my own voice: No less extemporaneously, from row-house to cathedral, the Spirit moves. And just as seamlessly, the places and experiences of a week blended together as they settled within for the train trip home. Imagery of winding gaslit lanes, places of prayer, bright faces, ancient books, church cats at The Advent, and my chilled outdoor-writing hands filled my closed-eyed thoughts as the Downeaster rolled north. Rather than to look for any great resolve from this retreat, my hope is simply to do justice to these treasured experiences. For me, this means being faithful to the hopeful signs I have met and seen.

The lectern I read from daily at The Church of the Advent.
The motto translates as:
"Lord, let Your servant go forth in peace,
according to Your Word."

look, listen, live

“Woke up, fell out of bed,
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup,
And looking up I noticed I was late.
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke,
And somebody spoke and I went into a dream
Ah.”

~ John Lennon, A Day in the Life



Consider how well you know the sound of your own voice. In unstrained tones, without restraint. And recall the appearance of your unhurried handwriting. These manifestations attest to our observations and developments of thought. Vital signs of the soul’s engagement with reality require light, air, solitude, nurtured with vigilance. A string of 11 days comprised 10 workdays, during which I’d greatly looked forward to the respite that followed. With a bright early start, bookbag, coffee thermos, and my typewriter on the car seat next to me, I set off on the road. First the news and weather forecast, then I switched to recorded music, over which I began to talk- prompting me to shut down the sound system. Apparently there was a lot for me to discuss, wavering between a recap of the week, collected quotes, sights, and sundry observations- all connected by my witness. In his memoir of his childhood at sea, Frank Bullen wrote, “I grew up with a habit of providing my own company, holding long conversations with myself aloud.”

As highways unfurled before me, my voice connected all the subjects and matters that had saturated recent days. Noticing other drivers on their various cellular devices, it occurred to me how they resemble those who talk to themselves. Maybe that’s what they’re actually doing. Generally, impressions related to those who speak aloud without a detectable counterpart draw reference to mental imbalance or antisocial behavior. But perhaps all those cruising bluetoothers are doing us self-talkers a favor- as long as we can’t hear them. And that’s just it: solitude along a trail or in one’s own vehicle provides context for an interior oratory that is very much like journaling. Developing an inner line of communication makes for a broadcast that is more interesting (to us) than much of what’s on the radio. Talking to oneself in the car is the perfect opportunity to be extremely tedious. Just think of all the tedium our minds absorb through an ordinary week! Then once the mind is de-saturated, the discourse works down to more enduring thoughts. The more uncompromised the privacy, the more honest our observations. Indeed, it is more than in our human interactions that we can reflect upon what we’ve noticed in our inflections. For years, I’ve peppered my journals with paragraphs that begin with “I heard myself say...”

To be able to hear the voice within- let alone the Holy Spirit’s call- there must be some form of silence. Away from commotion, clear recollection happens quite naturally. But it means changing the pace. During my years of repairing photographic processing machinery, I’d note how the best and most efficient processors had an “automatic standby” switch. This meant that when there were no prints fed into the machine to develop, all the cogs and roller-transports would pause- even the water pressure dropped, preventing waste; but all the liquid temperatures held, ready for new material. The mind’s automatic standby takes shape as “breathing room,” and I’ve derived this from travels, meandering walks, and even glancing from a window. And journaling. Liminal spaces are well worth defending.

A few days ago during a stretch of travel on a Boston subway train, I looked around and noticed many passengers engulfed in their smartphones and palm-sized texting components. At the point when the Red Line emerged from the tunnel to traverse the Longfellow Bridge, revealing the sparkling Charles River, I saw how phone-engrossed all these people were. Flashy little electronic tethers divert so many from allowing their minds to muse and wander beyond practical dimensions. Those liminal spaces for open-ended thought are endangered as they erode- such as on subways, or even in elevators. These are brief and transient situations when the mind has a chance to stand by. We may be looking out through a subway window, or at an elevator floor, but the mind’s processes are digesting. Perhaps there had just been an animated conversation- good or bad. Maybe the elevator ride followed a layoff- or a hiring. And that little setting of temporal time and space is where the mind can do its version of breathing. One person’s obsession can surely become another’s obstruction: many of us have walked behind gadget-possessed pedestrians who waver and halt at centers of sidewalks and streets. (Much has already been said about “distracted drivers.”) Those who are lost in phone function mode are neither looking nor listening, and are unconscious of what’s happening around them. Trading stories with a colleague about popular communication-device-dependence, she observed, “in this culture we’re in a constant state of fight-or-flight.”

__________________________________________________

By contrast, I recall strong impressions after my first-ever visit to a Quaker meeting for prayer. Being a graduate student with a 200-mile commute, amidst employment, teaching, and field work, the silent ambiance was extraordinary. Describing the shared extended contemplative stillness in my journals, I referred to the experience as disarming and confrontational. There is nothing to hide behind; not a single ritual or ceremony to be learned- save for the discipline of attentively quieting oneself. I’ve grateful kept in touch with the community, visiting them occasionally, and always in awe of their literature.

With the idea of vanishing liminal spaces in mind, it amazes me to see how many churches subvert environments meant for prayer with unrelenting sound and visual overstimulation. Never knowing quite what to do in these places, and being a polite guest, I’ve been glad to have a notebook and an imagination to preserve some thoughts. Otherwise, the experience resembles that of fast-food, complete with feigned abundance and ephemerality. Hardly a threshold moment between the earthly and the limitless.

But, alas, few of life’s avenues bypass daily dietary demands for flashing screens, incessant news-crawls, and white noise. Damaged attention-spans become unable to settle in front of great works of art that invite our gaze and can actually bear up to scrutiny and dreaming. As with the Quaker meeting, I’ve often pulled one of those little wicker chairs up to Rembrandt paintings at the Louvre, savoring the artist’s presentation of transcendent mystery. Surely, this is no anti-high-tech rant, but rather an affirmation for those of us post-moderns who dare to ponder and muse. Blessed are the pensive, for they shall inherit subtle perception and an ability to read between lines.

Inevitably, each of us must confront self and Source. There’s every good reason to do that while at the heights of one’s energies and form. In this regard, due to my own circumstances, I’m grateful for my very early start. All that attentiveness, adventurousness, and jotting comes in handy. Facing his unjust incarceration, the ancient Boethius bested his irrevocable fate with philosophy and faith. His Consolation of Philosophy, enduring across millenia, attests to how a well-rooted soul can be raised up and “freed from the darkness of deceptive emotions and enabled to recognize the true light in its splendor.” Boethius was among those who found consolation amidst suffering, and the strength to bear it. For us, the living, the ladder of contemplation raises our sights above little devices and space-fillers, toward blessed vision. Pursue the path to the end. Be consoled by life-giving words, imagery, and ideas. Begin and recommence by noting your own voice.

hidden life

“We can laugh and we can cry
And never see the strong hand of love hidden in the shadows
We can dance and we can sigh
And never see the strong hand of love hidden in the shadows.”

~ Mark Heard, Strong Hand of Love