staying the course

"Humble your heart and endure: incline your ear and receive the words of understanding
and do not make haste in the time of darkness. Wait on God with patience:
join yourself to God and endure, that your life may be increased in the latter end.
Take all that shall be brought upon you, and in your sorrow endure,
and in your humiliation keep patience.
For gold and silver are tried in the fire,
as we are in the crucible of humiliation."

~ Sirach, chapter 2

Among the popular wisecracks in circulation (and all “socialization” has been through indirect means) are the sarcastic regrets about having purchased a 2020 calendar. Many say, what use is it? With extended, necessary lockdowns and cancellations it’s difficult to tell the days apart. An “occasion” is now defined by requirement, rather than by whim: as examples, we all know about trash-collection dates and times, but the privileges of spontaneously visiting a café and travelling to random destinations are long past. The seasonal elements have noticeably advanced, but the weather seems not to matter anymore. Though gratefully still employed, albeit at a significantly reduced salary, I still keep track of days and hours. Weekdays and weekend days are signified by whether or not I am tethered online to the workplace, fulfilling tasks. I enjoy getting work done and seeing the good results, no matter the circumstance. But the contrast is stark, between stagnation and movement; it’s running in place against a rolling backdrop.

Another cause for gratitude is the ability to write. I’ve been journaling steadily for more than 20 years. Doing so has been a completely reliable endeavor and companion; as well, I always know what day it is- and I can read back about last week, last month, and this time last year or ten years ago. These times amount to intense trials of self-discipline and resourcefulness. Life appears to be “on hold,” but the paces of time do not pause. Neither do bills, whose paces are also unabated. These contrasts between what is in motion and what has had to stand still make for a challenge of perception. Trying to look at the present without being stalled by despair has altered my instincts that want to see all the details. This has meant adjusting to tuning out a lot of current events media, and limiting my sights to the immediate. Built into this are psychological games I apply to the effect that all of this is a test: In this sports-less world, I am amidst preparatory “spring training” en route to the big games. This is temporary; this is provisional.

As present conditions impose a survival posture with severe quarantining limitations, healthy reflexes look for what can be done. The way to navigate unknowns is to find ways that are possible, based upon experience and perception. While trying to figure the modes of productivity within reach, I’m also instinctively looking for stability. Having some strong impressions of how it feels to be assured and stable has helped absorb the shock of sudden exile and uncertainty. We all find ways to fall back on our “comforts.” A memory from years ago brings to mind Wanda the bookkeeper at a photo company I worked for. She had a gravelly smoker’s voice with a thick Boston accent. We would chat during breaks, perched on the loading dock; she always had a cigarette, a coffee in a styrofoam cup, and a Boston Herald. Every day. Our comforts help us stay grounded. As well, one’s “groundedness” can provide comfort. As ever, even working from home, I wake early and am washed, dressed, and caffeinated by 7:30. The breviary and a few words for my journal follow. Employment from my dining table skips lunch hour and breaks, though accompanied by cheese or hummus with crackers. Tidbits like these are what I call “exile staples.” There are many walks to the window, to be able to see something of the world outside. My radio is always tuned to music. Each night includes vitamins, more writing, and the study of philosophy.

Amidst this holding-pattern existence, especially under such unusual constraints, distant memories become yet another outlet to inform me of my being. A person’s memory can be a full-spectrum library of good and bad, of every lived emotion. It is also a way to make sense of things. And in the throes of crisis, my instincts gravitate to the more pleasant recollections. More assurance; more reminders of purpose, being, accomplishment, and a sense of mission. Still a professional archivist, I’ve come to regard memory as a trove to be processed and curated in order to be understood. As well, I appreciate the enormous value of recollections. Remembrance is instrumental to survival, and survival makes it so that remembrance can be instrumental for others. Consider the supreme value of the preserved memories of those who endured extreme situations, such as Viktor Frankl, Elie Wiesel, and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.

As consolations and memories can help us stay the course, so can communication. Although we presently have technological outlets that surely did not exist a century ago, how we communicate is impaired by the loss of in-person interaction. This is even challenging for a writer. In keeping with the exile life of quarantine, generous helpings of patience and compassion are required when it comes to words and references. This is also true regarding oneself. Early on I developed what I call The Mantra, speaking to myself, my context, and my sense of direction: I’m fine. We’re fine. Stay the course. You are more than welcome to appropriate this motivating insistence. It’s even trinitarian. And it’s a good thing to repeat daily. I’m also staying the course of notation and preservation, determined to emerge better than before. Holding course is pointed toward the future; it is a statement of faith. A member of my Philosophy Forum, during a “Zoom” session, asked about how different we’ll all be in the aftermath. An insightful question, to be sure. My response was that we can’t know, “while we’re in the middle of this.” We don’t know where the end of this is, or how it will manifest- especially as our perceptions of the future have so drastically changed. I think we can commit to our trial-tested ethics while we indefinitely stay the course. Built into that is the practice of thinking of the well-being of others. “We’re in this together,” is a popular motto-du-jour, and it represents good spirit. And while we are in this, we can be observers of present and past, while insisting upon straining forward.

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.

just for now

“Our transitory burden of suffering is achieving for us above measure
exceedingly an eternal weight of glory;
while we look not at things seen, but things unseen;
for things seen are temporary, but things unseen are eternal.”

2nd Corinthians 4:17-18.

Among some old habits of mine is that of keeping a few bandages in my wallet. Through my adventures in art school, studios- and as a bookbinder- I’ve had to provide my own ready supply. Foraging enough with lacerated fingers, through remote and sparsely-stocked first aid kits, taught me to be self sufficient. Most of the time, the band-aids are for my own immediate patching-up, but I’ve given many of these away as needed. In such situations, the most effective cure is the most instantaneous. The cuts and scrapes can be revisited and redressed, beyond the momentary and stabilizing remedy. Rather like temporary, low-speed spare tires that allow us to retake the road en route to safety and more enduring solutions. It is the instantaneous aspect of a short-throw response that lingers so meaningfully. I believe this also holds true, when it comes to timely and thoughtful words that represent generous intentions. As with the small bandages, lightweight tires, splicing tape, binder clips, lengths of fishing line, and plastic tarps, consoling words do not necessarily solve problems: but they may act as vital stop-gaps. The idea of such triage is to reach the next step intact.

The new year is off to a start that too closely resembles the old year. Indeed, a calendar page’s turn does not automatically change our living standards. Road signs inform us about our direction; their purpose is not to tell is how enjoyably we’re travelling. The passage of time is about my only detectable progress. Apparently, the list of those who meteorically rise in flashy success is short. For me, the pace has more of the resemblance of a forest tree. True to a northern New Englander’s colors, seasons are stark and rapid. Roots anchor deeply, and whatever is above the surface must endure battering elements for some ten months per year. Seedlings evidently need a lot of time, accumulating forces and building some requisite ballast. The process, as least for this mortal, is excruciatingly slow. Fruition cannot manifest soon enough.

But what to do, when the ground trembles at every turn and foundations are endangered? Planning ahead and projecting only go so far in front of closed doors and locked gates. Now that surely needn’t negate composing wish lists. Instability demands a closer focus upon the present- even taking stock to appreciate the temporal. A wise friend once told me about “split seconds;” as anyone might do, catching their breath to regain composure and be able to stand at ease. A change of perspective is to sense my immediate context, and leave the far future for later- even if just as an experiment not to overthink. To me, a split-second regathering is a restorative moment, a stabilizing and portable respite.

Pondering this, through the tentativeness of unaffordable housing and difficult employment, my sense of momentary consolation is put to the test. There remains much to appreciate, but it requires creating some space in the chaos to be better able to savor what is life-giving. Appreciation must be an active observation. Don’t just admire that perfect cup of coffee; drink it before it gets cold. Just the other day, it came to me, as I was reassuring an anxious colleague. I heard myself say, “this is just for now.” Somehow those few and small words alleviated stress, pointing to the fleeting nature of a present oppression. The storm will pass and dissipate. Just for now. Later on, through the week, I noticed that I was occasionally repeating this to myself. Even the typographic "J4N" has been appearing in my journal entries.

But an active mind always aspires for more, especially as sources are discovered and tapped. And the motivation for supply is the demand. While just for now helps soothe the soreness of defeat, the memory of a long-ago “split second” has recently returned to me. Way back when I played hockey, the teacher that coordinated and watched over us did his job with fierceness and with the vigilant eye of a mentor. We were unruly kids, yet we followed our leader. Amidst our rambunctious collisions and adrenaline, he’d say to any one of us, “[are] you all right?” -or “you okay?”- in an understated tone of voice. Channeling this memory of sound, I’ve claimed this as another momentary respite: You all right? You okay? In an imagined response, I’ll say, sure; all right, and instantly resume whatever task I’d interrupted with that very brief pause.

Those split-seconds’ worth of resuscitation are punctuation marks in seamless streams of verbiage and shifting surfaces. Not solutions in themselves, but they are stepping stones in the days’ traversals- small yet vital bandages at the ready. Just for now is both grasp and release. In recent years, my experiences have comprised a voyage of survival, requiring a development of momentary consolations. The salve of just for now may be in response to difficult days, or weeks, deadlines, of crises of varied duration. The “time being” of a just for now might be a long time.

The relationship of time and memory amounts to yet another dimension in the human odyssey. As with any reactive remedy, just for now exists in real time. Retrospective observations are not about now, but about then. “Somehow, I pulled through,” or “I nearly didn’t survive,” are both statements that look back. Intrinsically, administering an instant cure is pointed toward the future- yet it is the present that is stabilized. A fleeting pause may be an eye in a storm, buying a tiny bit of time to find some bearing, take stock of the present, and look ahead.

Memory makes demands that are not unlike looking forward: as progress is intently expected, so memory expects time to stand still. In a sensation very similar to how we anticipate, we are often incredulous with the ways things change from past to present. As an archivist, I notice this daily among my clientele. Passing by places with which I have lengthy and vivid personal histories, it’s easy to be astonished at how they have changed over the years- irrationality notwithstanding. Memory iconographically freezes objects and people in place, registering images as a camera might on film. For example, my mind’s eye recognizes a school, a house, or a past workplace, but none of the people now are familiar to me, and I am merely an observer with a memory. Missing a person, a place, or a situation amounts to much more than people and physical surroundings, but what they represent for us. Remembrance revisits deeply registered pictures and footage, intensifying contrasts between past and present. It is often a reluctant realization that prized and enshrined memories were also fleeting instances of just for now. Still, we continue to preserve, to expect, and to be startled. Bereavement, another example, is a just for now of undefined duration, and the losses are of those who should have been permanent and unchanging. Of course that’s unreasonable, however real the pains and wishes can be. Just for now cannot be more than temporal- and paradoxically the just for now is integral to healing and continuity.