sacred ground

“No cloister rivals with the open forest,
not only for bringing absolute peace and calm
to the disillusioned heart, but for looking up to God
with eyes that seek beyond the moving tree-tops.”

~ Jan van Ruysbroeck (14th C.)


asbury grove

Recently, I had the fortunate opportunity to spend a peaceful week in the wooded solitude of Essex County, Massachusetts. The generous invitation came from a friend who owns a small cottage at the edge of Asbury Grove. The rear windows of the cottage face approximately 10,000 acres of forests and ponds between Hamilton and Topsfield. One of my favorite aspects about coastal New England is how the Atlantic meets with forests of pines and maples. Asbury Grove is in the Cape Ann region, northeast of Boston, and at the southern waters of the Gulf of Maine. The village community dates back to the mid-19th century, though amidst settlements from the early 1600s. “The Grove” has its roots in the camp meeting movement within the Methodist church, and the community continues as such- though without denominational restriction. Asbury Grove is a living, historic site, including a chapel, library, social halls, a large tabernacle, and an outdoor sanctuary for community vespers. Every mid-summer, there is a week-long Camp Meeting of speakers and concerts. I arrived as the large meetings concluded and the Grove returned to its calm.






retreat

Exploring some new surroundings, in the context of personal retreat, is always enjoyable. In these stressed and unstable times, my steps are puddle-jumps between pauses for respite. Changing my environment, even if it’s barely 85 miles from home, is enough to recharge- especially if the destination is one of good company and healthful solitude.

The closer I navigated my way to the Grove, the narrower and more wooded the roads became. That’s a good sign. My last road on the way took a few sharp turns, before tunneling through intertwining tall trees. My abode for the week was a good fit, being at the forested edge of the Grove, providing enough solitude yet still moored to the community. The cottage has the look of a gingerbread house, with the basics for washing, cooking, and repose. I had to traverse sideways through the little doorway. The place was cozy and quiet by day, with vigorous accompaniments of crickets and owls by night. I got my wish of a good rainstorm midweek, and savored the sounds of a sheltered pelting.







cape ann

The best retreats include some wandering along paths and lanes, to accompany wondering musings. Taking to the circuitous roads of Cape Ann, I enjoyed loops of meandering lattices between small towns. From the Cape’s outer reach in Rockport, I navigated back to the Grove through Manchester-by-the-Sea, and Wenham- or through Ipswich. Between Rockport and Manchester is the old, famed fishing town of Gloucester.

Above: Memorial, in Gloucester.
Below two: Hammond Castle, Gloucester.

When a Mainer travels in Massachusetts, there is a combination of the sojourner’s admiration of difference, with a great sense of familiarity. My instincts understood the unmarked roads, and my tastes were at home with the pleasantly chatty greetings, strong coffee, and the malt vinegar on my fish and chips. I’d say that to really prize New England, it would help if you like things old-fashioned, such as drive-ins and railroad-car diners, grinders and moxie frappes, creaky houses and covered bridges, century-old ballparks, Shakers, camp meetings, and general asymmetry. If you don’t dare, as we say, well then you dassn’t.

A perfect coffee at Zumi's, in Ipswich.

light and air of late-summer

At one of the outdoor prayer gatherings, I met a fellow who is a 3rd generation resident of the Asbury Grove community. He recounted some regional history among his very interesting recollections, and introduced me to another elder gentleman who later concluded the meeting with an eloquently-worded impromptu prayer. From the tranquil woods near South Hamilton, the older man prayed for refugees, for children, and in his familiarly-accented voice, for the Grove.

With this sojourn now in the recent past, the late-summer is now evident. With the relief of cooler temperatures, the less-pleasant turbulence of ragweed pollen follows. But it’s that time of the year; the time that still reminds me of new school years and beginnings- even to this day. A great reward for graduates is to be able to continue savoring September and October as summer’s extra innings. Alas, the full time worker’s life is not divided into semesters or seasons, but I can resume seeking out retreats and sacred groves.







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postscriptum

Readers may recall my spring sojourn in the Berkshires, which serendipitously paralleled reading the adventure story, The Wind in the Willows. Massachusetts landmarks had similar names to those of the story, as I journeyed along the Housatonic River. To my surprise on Cape Ann, at the far opposite end of the state, I stumbled over a bookstore called Toad Hall!

change of pace

“If you don’t like how you’re feeling,
change what you’re doing.”

~ Fr. John Tokaz, Capuchin Franciscan friar, from Boston.

Over the years, I’ve absorbed friendly jabs for making round-trip journeys using two different routes. As an example, the outbound trip using highways is complemented by an inbound return trip using country roads. I do these worthwhile things without much thought. Another recurrent set of curiosities has to do with all those solitary retreats and pilgrimages I’ve made through the years. I use hard-earned vacation time for these travels, which continue to be very worthwhile to me.

But it is good to change the pace. This culture incorporates more than enough unquestioned repetition, especially the endurance-contest life of multiple and full-time work situations. The better employment settings allow for some healthful variety. When it does not, the sanity factor depends upon what can be done during time-slivers between shifts. Early mornings, earned-time breaks, and late-nights offer some opportunities for diversions. These have taken shape among the simple forms of writing, reading, observing by camera, and thoughtful reflection. Routines repeated over a protracted period of time cause things in general to lose their tastes and stagnate. Stagnation is the enemy of creativity. The long-haul challenge is to blend changes of perspective into the desert stretches that dangerously devour precious time. It can’t all be about punching the clock with time cards. And though it may seem counterproductive, when it comes to fitting activities in between blocks of obligations, my preference is to slow the pace that I’ve interrupted. Reflective quiet is a replenishing change of pace. Silence and savour actually help me re-enter the frenetic fray. Though the passage of time cannot be slowed, our tempi can be changed.

While I was working my way through art college, one of my jobs was a graveyard shift from 8pm to 8am in a newspaper printing pressroom. The best part about that job, aside from all the free blank newsprint paper I’d use in my drawing classes, were my benchmates. I worked with a father and son, both named Tony. Tony senior, a military veteran and single parent, was a walking trove of wise aphorisms. With Tony junior, the three of us had a lot of laughs, even amidst the roughcut brutishness of the factory-like workplace. We kept each other sane. I’ve committed some of Tony senior’s wisdom to memory, such as his advice to walk to and from work different ways. He would tell me to change sides of the street, just to shake up the daily routine. The spice of life is found in variety. My grandmother used to tell me to vary my diet, lest- as she said- my “intestines would get bored.” Those little reminding shreds are road signs that I continue to see in my mind’s eye. A memorable colleague used to tell me that, “hardship is inevitable, but misery is optional.” This is to say there are some margins for choice, even under limitations.

Baseball uses the term “change-of-pace,” to describe a kind of throw designed to confuse an opposing batter’s expectation. As a pitcher, you would throw a change-up, making a slower pitch seem like it’s advancing faster and straighter to the batter. But, by surprise, the ball’s velocity slows and its path curves, thus amounting to a changed pace. Diversion has the element of surprise; even the force behind the decision to divert will experience the unexpected. A collegial friend, with whom I keep in touch, likes to refer to his innovations as “troublemaking.” Essentially, he’s a creative thinker among bureaucrats, and he says that stirring the waters keeps him motivated. “I get up in the morning,” he once told me, “and think of what kind of trouble I can cause. Otherwise, it’s not worth it.” This fellow is something of a bureaucrat himself, and when he says “trouble,” he really means something more like changing the paces and perspectives of entrenched ideas.

We know how the elements in our midst can cause us to change our pace. An obvious example is the weather. Simple errands on frigid winter days require armor made of improvised clothing layers and heavy footwear. Vehicles must be exhumed, chiseled, and warmed for use. As spring sets in, the novelty returns which allows us to skip outdoors in shirtsleeves, start the car, and just go. More subtly, our social environments and influences weave into our paces. How about the other way around? Can our interior evolvement effect exterior change? Can an individual’s response to an unsatisfactory status quo hasten tangible, positive change?

Contemplative and active dimensions intertwine, in the expansion and acceleration of our paces. The liminal season between winter and spring provides some reminders. Appropriately, A.W. Tozer offered a description of the human challenge in keeping spiritually alive and what he called “personal renaissance.” In Winter Experiences, he wrote of the flagging soul as “going under for a winter.”

“In other words, something happens to you, little by little, until you get snowed under and frozen over. There is life down there, covered up by the frost and ice. It may be hidden; it is there somewhere.”

How can interior affect exterior, bringing the forces up through our frozen ground? Still further, what happens when new growth joins with old routines, after changes of pace? After all, neither dimension exists in isolation from the other. Far beneath the metaphorical frost-line is Ruysbroeck’s Vale of the Soul. The 14th-century contemplative exhorted his readers not to think too highly of themselves, but rather to see themselves as reflecting vessels. Ruysbroeck’s vale, stark and austere, is lit by the sun at its apex, as well as light cast from surrounding mountains. Implicit here is the necessity of the snowcapped heights as means by which we navigate the recesses. In this recognition, a person recognizes their own humility, “marking their own lowliness,” and “making of themselves a valley of humility.” Proceeding forward,

“This valley, the humble heart, receives three things: it becomes more radiant and enlightened by grace, it becomes more ardent in charity, and it becomes more fruitful in perfect virtues and in good works.”

Knowing to change the pace is a more complex discipline than mere vigilance. This is more about cultivating ways to intuit the need to vary one’s vantage point. Shutting out external noise is one matter, but it’s quite another, and more transcendent still, to keep from generating one’s own interior noise. Being right where you are, is already a way to change things up. Regarding the as yet unknown, the view might be more interesting from a country road, or the other side of the street.

See also: Valley Street.

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.

senses sharpened

"When we speak, in gestures or signs,
we fashion a real object in the world;
the gesture is seen, the words and the song are heard.

The arts are simply a kind of writing,
which, in one way or another, fixes words or gestures,
and gives body to the invisible."


~ Alain (Émile-Auguste Chartier), French philosopher, 20th C.



Some of my close friends have graciously and sympathetically heard my grousing about the major household purging process I have been satirically dubbing The Big Dig, after the infamously protracted reconfiguration and modernization of downtown Boston’s traffic conduits. If my faltered attempts of fits-and-starts at downsizing years of accumulation have frustratingly persisted, I honestly cannot remember the city of Boston without trenches in the pavement and unpredictable detours. One week I couldn’t find an entrance to a Red Line T station, because it had been moved to another street corner! And when I descended the freshly-minted cement steps, I felt that odd edge of recreating a sense of direction- much as tourists experience when feigning a familiarity with an entirely strange place. It had been unnecessary to read signs before the upheaval. And much like the South End, my own Big Dig had been many times stalled by such factors as limited living space, the need for daily traffic flow, and an unusual abundance of archaeological discoveries beneath the detritus of excavated substrata. Watching (and hobbling over) the city’s peeling layers returns to mind as my wry determination to complete my own material simplification finally reaches its grossly overdue concluding phases. Inevitably, the process began to manifest as far more than sorting, giving-away, and tossing-out (a neatly-kept household conceals accumulation only too well); it has been a spiritual exercise no longer to be procrastinated. To finally carry out this project is to tangibly welcome the new, and solidly separate myself from outdated tastes and general things past.


Evaluating physical space, like the pursuit of spiritual clarity, is a reckoning with the passage of time and its accompanying transitions. We would surely prefer to house and haul around things (and perceptions) that are pleasant and useful today and tomorrow, than things we used to like and use. Further, it’s an assurance to consider that how I was "then" matters much less than how I am now. Admittedly, there is a strong temptation to resist change and grasp what is considered safe and predictable. The desire for stability is both persistent and frequently misunderstood. We long to move from strength to strength. Transition is in the nature of living this life, and like the passage of time neither can be held back. This is a season of sharpened senses. New prospects alert us to the differences between maintained status quo and openness to possibilities. And in this part of the world, at this time of the year, autumn avails us to a physical harbinger of change: the air, land, and sight-lines. We’ll be walking on noisy leaves and snow, before green grass reappears. Soon enough the season will give way to the marking of chronological transition. Perhaps the penchant for holding on to things formerly useful, but not anymore, is better understood in our roles as self-styled historic curators. This season’s message is for me to simply admire the tides when I walk the waterfront. To clear out what is no longer relevant, making physical and spiritual room for treasures yet to be perceived, makes way for what we find dynamic in our presence.


"On this stone a new name will be written, unknown to everyone except for the person who receives it." This fascinating phrase, from Revelation, inspired Jan van Ruysbroeck (in the 14th century) to elaborate upon what he called The Sparkling Stone, given to every contemplative soul. He wrote,

"On it is written a new name, unknown to everyone except the one who receives it. You should know that all spirits receive a name when they go to God- each an extraordinary name in accordance with the nobility of its service and the depth of its love."

Ruysbroeck wrote much in this treatise about how the offering of our selves and the work we do, can be an eternal gift of gratitude. Later, in his mystical and poetic fashion, he continues that we proceed by transcending even these gifts as we become immersed in the Spirit. That sparkling stone of transformed identity may yet hold still more metaphors for us, as in solidly realizing who we are, offering our works as our gifts, the invitation follows to simply let go of the grasp of such things- unbound by obstacles of our selves and our trappings. When a new horizon calls us to broaden our understanding, perceptions are shaken, and such challenges draw us to finer- even thin- places of vulnerability. Such exposure sensitizes us to the subtlest of sea-changes. While becoming susceptible to the grandeur and grace in our very midst, the double-edged paradox rounds out in the form of enhanced empathy toward lives parallel to ours. In the presence of greatness, sustainability is found in the humblest reception and reciprocity. In this perplexing exercise of shedding baggage, I do not wish to replace the material with a rotation of more, but would rather abide with less and transcend past with the bareness of being unburdened. With the unseen is found the sublime.