march

“Set out on your way again now. I like the word ‘way’ very much,
because in God’s sight we are all wayfarers. We are viatores, travellers,
heading towards our Creator from the day we enter the world.
A person who sets out on a journey has a clear goal, an objective:
they want to get from one place to another.
Consequently, they do all they should to reach their goal safely.”

~ Josemaria Escrivá, In Dialogue with the Lord (112)

1

As serendipity would have it, I taught with historic material I’ve been preserving to junior high school classes, and presented to a conference group of archivists about preserving historic material- all within a week. All wonderful groups, and I treat all ages with the same careful respect. As always, a joy to be integral to learning processes. I’m assured enough with my topics to adjust how I deliver them, no two classes ever taught in the exact same way, and there’s always room for banter. Anything not to lose anyone. With all the groups I talked about documentation and narrative, then extended the practical by unabashedly asking each of the groups whether anyone wrote in a journal. I saw an impressively high percentage among the teen students, and not enough raised hands from the adult professionals. That’s fine; it means I have work to do, promoting the value of reflective writing. As well, I’m reminded that as our schooling dissolves from view, dissipated by complex pursuits, writing must become more intentional. Writing by hand has multiple benefits- even physiological. When journaling was new to me, I’d describe the action as parallel to doing the “long division” in mathematics, comparing the punching-up of using a calculator versus mapping out the why of an interior conundrum. Trying to encourage others via applied experience, I refer to reading back through my own journals as historic manuscripts. “While you’re keeping a journal,” I heard myself say, “it’s keeping you.”

For a long time, I’ve focused my thinking by journaling, writing down what I hear myself say, and this serves to inform my present, past, and future. Exploring the creation of writing prompts, I discovered“ I heard myself say” was peppered amidst my written pages, later deciding to make that phrase a frequent journaling starter. Though not exactly a prompt, I’ve noticed my recent and frequent use of, "Well, here I am” as a peculiar verbal re-set. It’s a bit like the apostrophe-like symbol in wind-instrument sheet music that indicates when to take a deep breath. I think my utterances and notations were going on for a long time, before “Well, here I am” rose above the surface at dark bus stops in subzero temperatures. The bus is late, and meaningful progress in the rest of life is nowhere in sight. Well, here I am; showing up as ever. Like a pawn on a game board, there appears no wiser choice than to advance along the paces en route to a weekend. Here I am, showing up, lest I miss my chances for a breakthrough. While the doldrums drudge on, it’s critical to be chin-up and forward-marching. As I try keeping things interesting at work, with successions of productive projects, I do something similar outside the workplace with studies, writing, and visits threaded between and around chores and sundry obligations. Indicators of low levels of intellectual fulfillment and strength tell me when replenishment is needed. Years ago, a wise friend taught me that “sometimes your guts take over, and that tells you to pay attention.”


2

Guts notwithstanding, and three months since my last string of days off, I managed to navigate the requisite steps and clearance so I could make a week’s retreat from the grind. I was especially grateful to find the time (and get it approved), just as winter had begun to give way to increased daylight. Quiet, contemplative time is surely the appropriate medicine. Getting on the road and away from such annoyances as persistent setbacks amidst the surrounding miseries of politics, economics, and widespread violence- gave me a hopeful distraction. Stupor and inertia have amounted to a dangerous combination adding up to societal paralysis. Setting positive examples and putting related ethics to practice compels each of us to take the lead as we’re able. All the more reason to seek out a rejuvenating place of peaceful silence and communion.

With an invitation to return to the Cistercian abbey in Wrentham, I took to the highways and trails on a grey morning. The drive is within New England; almost close enough to seem local. A friend from my workplace is from Wrentham, and he directed me to his favorite diner in the region- in the neighboring town of Franklin. After my few hours’ driving, I felt a little provincial with a few queries about Maine from people that saw my license plates- but all genial. When I walked into the diner and was asked where I was from, I mentioned my friend, and a waitress cheerfully recognized his name. The customers dining next to my table were also jovial, knew the abbey that was my destination, and added a convivial atmosphere to our lunches. Indeed, I had the parmigiana from heaven, and hearing that made the wait staff very happy. They wished me a good retreat, and with that heartening aftertaste, I continued my pilgrimage. We all commented about what a long winter it’s been, and how we hope for good things ahead.

The parmigiana from heaven, Franklin Massachusetts.


3

To be sure, winter remains with us enough that New England still sees more snow than rain, but spring is assured of the winning side. The liminal season’s upper hand is evidenced in lengthening evenings and visible horizon lines at night. The pull of pilgrimage includes a thirst for sanctuaries, along with an interior seeking for lifegiving words. The going-forth is a turning within, from a wilderness of barrenness, to a wilderness of wise silence. The human spirit longs for growth, for purpose, for depth- and such intensity responds to desolation through momentary breaths of solitude.

During one of my workday intermissions, too brief to leave the building, I looked out from the Archives window, cup of coffee in hand. I wrote something on a notecard about hacking away at a miracle. Working productively, reaching out, staying the course; that’s the tireless, restless, hacking-away. In the search for inspiring words, my note-taking is always at the ready. Open to helpful influences, I’m reading and listening. I heard an exceptional homilist read from the Letter to the Philippians, and speak about dealing with difficulty. He referred to Joseph and Job, then Paul, respectively in the Old and New Testaments- all having grappled with extremely difficult situations that thwarted their lives. Paul’s life and work were completely restricted by his imprisonment- yet, like Joseph, he found ingenious ways to inspire his jailers. The preacher I heard was saying that we can’t fully know the impressions we make upon those around us, that we mustn’t lose sight of our purposes, and that we each need the self-awareness to avoid self-imposed difficulties. What stayed with me was the statement that expectations relate directly to depression. Indeed, that’s a vulnerability to living, but what about ambition?

Life as a thwarted messenger that upholds purpose is something very familiar to me. And among my foremost literary and philosophical heroes is San Juan de la Cruz, of 16th century Spain. I’ve written often about him, and quote his works regularly. Like the aforementioned, Fray Juan had to endure an unjust, brutal, and torturous imprisonment. Though jailed by enemies who intended for him to die in his cell, a prison guard who knew that Juan was a priest asked for his prayers and brought him writing materials. Night after night, for an unknown duration, Juan picked away at the prison cell’s lock with his fingernails until one night- the eve of the Feast Day of the Assumption- the lock fell off the door. Amazingly, the noise did not awaken either guards or other prisoners. Fray Juan persistently chipped away at a miracle. He quietly hoisted himself out of the tower with blankets tied together, then traversed the surrounding river in the dark. A piece of paper he took with him was a sketch for The Dark Night of the Soul. On the following morning, the guards found the cell’s open door and the knotted blankets tied to a nearby window ledge. By that time, Juan was already safely sheltered in a nearby Discalced Carmelite convent in Toledo. His works to this day are published and read around the world. The Ascent of Mount Carmel is one of the world’s great books of the contemplative life.

Reflecting about the 2025 Jubilaeum proclaimed by Pope Francis, with the focus upon living and fostering the virtue of Hope, “And what happens after the year of Hope?” asks Soeur Marie-Espérance, a Dominican Sister, in a recent article published in the French periodical l’Étoile Notre-Dame. Applying metaphor to being an embodiment of vibrant hope, she writes that as the human heart represents compassion, our eyes represent the virtue of faith, so our feet represent hope; she refers to the latter as “the virtue of the road: “Oui, l’espérance est la vertu de la route.” As a viator- a wayfarer- Saint Augustine wrote that our paths exist for the purposes of our paces and intentions. As hope is exemplified by our continuing steps, this is also the virtue that awakens us daily to our aspirations. While navigating the motions of commuting, work, chores, and- when I can- writing, I don’t really have any choice other than to continue. I would surely regret missing any opportunities, convinced the adventure remains unfulfilled and unresolved. For the moment, I’ll savour how I set down my backpack in my monastic room in Wrentham and without thinking, I changed my weary“Well, here I am,” with: “I’m here.”

from here

“A great thing is the soul:
in the soul, the whole world can be delineated.
The human soul is a microcosm of reality,
a microcosm of the macrocosm, an image of the world.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Hexaemeron 22,24

The proverbial barrier raises yet another notch, as we all step onto the new year’s playing field. In these times, consolation and refuge become more difficult for too many to find. We’re hard put to conjure up our basic needs. Somehow able to hold ground and persevere, I’ve witnessed losses of stability at all hands. And yet- as I hear myself say- I’m here. The daily choice persists, to live compassionately, and to pursue this with every transaction and endeavor. Occasionally, exhaustion can punctuate all the constant hard work, and I stave it off with slices of downtime and a periodical retreat. Scruples and strength must operate in even strength. Last year, having the good fortune of finding and studying two of the final published works by Pope Francis, I was naturally inspired by the idea of a year of intentional pilgrimages. I’ve made these, anyway, over the years, but this time my emphases came from his suggestion to shape my life as an ongoing pilgrim of hope. Being a fulltime worker, I found ways to fit these travels into weekends- some extended with my earned-time-off. All the while, as usual, my studies stitch the days together: during bus commutes, with my thirty-minute lunches (still referred to as “scribbles and nibbles”), and at night. Through the past half-dozen years, I’ve reviewed all the published works of Josemaría Escrivá- indexing and annotating them. These “digests” make for great on-the-go reading, especially while commuting, and for redirecting my thoughts away from detriments that threaten and persist.

At the start of the Advent season last year, I travelled to Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey, in southeast Massachusetts, for a week of healthful respite and reflection. I returned there last month- now a friend of the community- concluding the year which encompassed another half-dozen locations of sacred pilgrimage. In another essay, I’ll enumerate them. For the moment, it suffices to mention the balance that became vital for me to strike between general cultural and employment tensions- countered with prayer in peaceful settings. We all need to survive and progress, persevering intact. In the pursuit of spiritual health and intellectual increase, all for the cause of fulfilling service, in the midst of turmoil I noticed a whiplash effect making it daunting to relax and refocus. Indeed, this isn’t a self-inflicted hardship at all. Much as with my conscious practice of re-directing pre-occupations, I’m better able to identify ideas and ruminations that are best left in roadside trash bins. I’ll even veer away from thinking about what it took to get away from the grind. With the simple gratitude of here I am, subsequent thoughts are returned to the immediate: Look at the view! or- It smells so nice here! Arrivals are made of curiosities and the childlike hopes of open ends. My many years of retreats have all been unstructured, without rigidity or agenda. I always bring reading, writing, and photo materials- along with a small radio. The purpose is unstructured respite. That biblical still, small voice is too often diverted by the shrill and incessant. If there’s one thing (and there are many things) pop culture cannot handle, it’s silence. Even gas station pumps blare audio and sound systems. And thus, there’s some unlearning to do, when arriving at a place of retreat. And that should be the extent of the do-ing.

Naturally, some form of routine can assist long-overdue decompression. Most of us are so ingrained with time that gets scheduled away from ourselves, that finding a way amidst minimal restriction poses its own peculiar conundrum. As it can happen, after plenty of first-day journal entries, by day 3 of my recent sojourn, I noticed myself looking for things to do. But I reminded myself that retreats are essentially in a different “time zone,” including liturgical days in monastic communities- surely dissimilar from the typical day-to-day. Something that deeply impressed me during my early and lengthy stretches at the Weston Priory is how days are as much wrapped around prayer as prayer is wrapped around the days. The adjustment from feeling there is “nothing to do,” becomes the “plenty” of easing into walks, writing, photographing, reading- all at slower paces- enjoying the company of those present, and devotions. Prayers manifest patiently focused and in silence. As well, there is the music of the community’s collective chant.

Before I took to the road, an older and wiser soul told me that “we are not what we think we are,“ but rather, “we are what we think.” This was said in the context of self-awareness and humility. I responded with, “we’re not even our own best judges!” Many of my thoughts en route to my week in Wrentham and since returning included making healthful realignments of obsolete notions- as I find them- in favor of calming and constructive thinking. Thoughts actually do matter. Journal-writing is as much personal documentation as it provides a forum for something of a “dialogue” between thinker and thought. For us writers, journaling is a lot of other things, especially when handwritten. When students ask about the “best way to write,” I always encourage them with, “just write true,” honesty always being the best policy. In doing so, and reading back what I write, there are surely learning processes.

In the spirit of neuroplasticity, I’ve become increasingly attuned to identifying and reckoning with negative and fatalistic thoughts. Adjusting to my circumstances does not mean imitating the toxicities that pervade nearly every sphere within reach. When I write about this in my journal, the idea is to try making sense of what I’m intuiting, witnessing, and absorbing- negotiating with the world and the workplace- all the while persevering in my pursuits of progress. At the heart of the adjusting is my insistence upon aspiration and improvement. Knowing and calibrating to self, situation, and vocation is to keep a balance of both limitations and ambitions in mind. Not compromising high standards, and in words from my profession- best practices, but instead resisting the mediocrity syndrome that too often prevails. Having studied, among other things, the notoriously astonishing Peter Principle in postgrad management theory sensitized me to recognize it in action all too frequently. Why perpetuate avoidable brands of passableness that we ourselves dislike from the barrel-end? How does that serve to inspire stewardship and the souls in our midst? Seeing the brevity of life and its very precariousness, it pains me to squander energy and time. Life is short. On that redirected thought, my navigational choice is to cultivate the mind, along with strengthening and guarding the soul. In his book called Furrow, Escrivá, provides some affirming words in his inimitable style:

We must not remain at the level of the mediocre, refusing to come to terms with mediocrity. We must enter all kinds of environments with a sure step. We’re called to be fully human in our actions, and at the same time reflecting the renewal of eternal things. That is why the apostle has to be a soul who has undergone a long, patient, and heroic process of formation.

A few days after the New Year’s holiday, washing dishes and listening to the radio, I heard the talk show host shift the discussion topic away from the interchangeable subjects known as societal miseries and politics. The affable Dan Rea, of Boston’s WBZ, asked listeners to ponder the prospect of the new year. He invited his audience to divert from editorializing, and to call in with their personal hopes for the coming year. It was easy to imagine Dan leaning into the microphone with his query, “Do you have any plans?” The large listening audience- made exponentially larger by virtue of being a nighttime AM broadcast- got to hear about travels, family reunions, going to ball games, graduating, and about the Tall Ships event in July. Now that’s some forward-looking. Hearing such a diversity of voices chiming in with their positive and lively aspirations was essentially what everyone needed. For all of you, my wish from here is for our hopes to exceed the movements of time.

forbearance

“The soul generates, nourishes, and increases:
generates as regards essence, nourishes as regards quality,
and increases as regards quantity.
By the sensitive power it apprehends sensible things,
retains what it has apprehended, combines and divides
what it has retained.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, The Breviloquium, ch. 9

Despite countless task-saving conveniences, we’re all navigating increasingly demanding paths. And it seems the manual projects and chores are made easier than before; the ramped-up, harder efforts involve the mind. Logistics and time-management require constantly adaptive abilities to rearrange priorities, even sharding away excesses. When it comes to intellectual and spiritual matters, the challenges of self-discipline only intensify.

The recent decade attests to a continuous barrage of violence, conflict, pandemic, recession, displacement, disaster, and fractiousness. That short list encompasses the daily experience for too many, enough to overwhelm. Much as the horrific school shootings of 25 years ago prompted sociologists and officials to finally regard bullying as something to take seriously (and as a badly-bullied adolescent, I remember the commonplace dismissiveness too well), current studies are informing us about how anxious and worried we are. As if we needed to be reminded. A new study ties rampant anxiety with equally rampant obsessions with smartphones- particularly among teens. I interpret this, in a broader generational sense, as being swept into ubiquitous, sensationalized, and constant newsmedia feeds tapped into by all our networked devices. Evidently, we need to know, during all our waking moments. I’ve had to create my own version of the proverbial ten-foot-pole, tempering my connectivity, reminding myself to get outdoors and experience life first-hand. Despite the cautious vigilance, I’m also amidst the pressure to be confident in hopeless surroundings. Trust and worry stand in opposition to each other. Many among the faithful commonly profess that we should not worry, as most of us do what we can to restrain ourselves. But is faith enough, and is that all I’ve got? Apparently, a mustard seed’s worth suffices.

I heard a preacher say that life is 10% what happens to you, and 90% what you do about it. We may propose, but very few of us can even begin to dispose. With my granule of gumption, there are learned instincts to help me contend with obstacles. If anything, there is the cultivated skill of noting the limits- whether they are related to economics, practical logistics, or the behaviors of others. The discretionary tacks between forcing back the constrictions and steering around the incorrigibles. Unraveling the implications emanating from trust, my thoughts bring me to the healthful version of surrender. Parallel to persistently believing in finding better situations to fulfill what I’ve been built to accomplish, I’m also aware of immovable barriers. Thus I return to the vitality of trust- albeit in clouds of unknowing- all of which amounts to perseverance.

Perseverance needs a purpose. For what, or whose sake, do we persist with our efforts? Perhaps it’s to gain respect, or peace of mind, or to make an impression; perhaps it’s the fight-or-flight impulse to survive. Many among us are naturally competitive, driven to exceed, hoping to improve our situations. As with that “ninety percent” of the preacher’s comment, hardship can pry forth our ambitions. Beyond motivations to survive with strength, work, and housing- is to be convinced there is tangible cause for hope. Josemaría Escrivá, whose books have been mainstays in my daily bus commutes for two years, helps right my ship with his exhortations about living for the causes of service to others and devotion to God. “Think of nothing but of divine compassion,” he advised in The Forge, instructing preference for the pursuit of a life of generosity, over and above fear. “The immediate future is full of worries, if we stop seeing things in a supernatural way,” Escrivá added. Worry and anxiety can be motivators as much as detriments, though both are inevitably exhausting.

While responding to audience questions after a recent lecture, someone asked me “where do you get all that energy?” Not entirely a technical or theoretical question, I heard myself say something like, “There’s a lot that still needs to be done!” Creating archives often borrows the metaphor of bringing out sculptures that are within large stone blocks. Preservation and access resemble the nurture and promotion of a botanical garden. Very simply put, the energy comes from caring, and my forbearance incorporates stewardship and vision. Commitment to the profession’s many aspects is supremely important, wherever I’m working- and my hope is to continue improving. Many thoughts- perhaps too many- while working and seeking better work, have to do with the concept of “success.” How have definitions of success changed in the past decade (or two)? For whom is success necessary? Impressing my elders- whether parents, grandparents, or teachers- always meant a great deal; impressing friends was less of a priority, but impressing managers and prospective employers has been a longstanding matter of anxiety. Is sufficient the same as success? Having endured two layoffs in my working life, along with forbearance-testing threats and economic conditions, anxiety has long been tied to fears of the impending. Or perhaps not impending! That sort of tension can be formidable, as though a solid barrier. Years and years of trying, and very rarely succeeding, lend too easily to discouragement which must not obstruct a good future. Remembering what I heard myself say to that audience a couple of weeks ago, essentially in light of things and in spite of things, I have to just keep productively working. One who surely knew a rough life of fits-and-starts, Paul taught those in his midst- as well as his later readers- to insist upon gratitude and graciousness, and to “ let your forbearing spirit be known among all.” Fully agreeing with St. Bonaventure as quoted above, the soul must be nourished in order to be renewed and encouraging to others. Carefully-selected studies fuel my forbearance abilities, amounting to the most critical of life skills.

past and future

“How can the past and future be,
when the past no longer is,
and the future is not yet?
As for the present, if it were always present
and never moved on to become the past,
it would not be time, but eternity.”

~ Saint Augustine, Confessions, Book 11

The unrelenting marathon of professional life finds some redemption in the complexities of service and curatorial projects. Indeed, preferring productive and supportive work, I’m not in this for the palace intrigues or the ladder rungs. The prize at the unknown opening of the maze must lead to something much better. And the route has to tunnel beneath the careful consistency of relational and physical accomplishments. Holding firmly to my ethic of “bloom where you’re planted,” in addition to managing and facilitating a full-service department single-handedly, there is no shortage of projects. Just as well, the satisfaction in producing successions of positive results serves as both motivator and sanity factor. Josemaría Escrivá famously said that vocation is the greatest gift of grace, and a vocation surely has many related facets. I still strongly believe in the work I’m doing, bringing out unique archival materials that inform many- including me. In order to generate effective and accurate metadata, varying degrees of thoughtful analysis are needed- from basic verification, to skimming, to comparative reading. All the while, there’s always an eye on time-efficiency.

A project I pulled to the fore, amidst my complete overhaul of the archives I’ve most recently created (having set up archives throughout the State, over the years) is a large array of rare, local serial collections. As much as researchers love them, the service end of things is replete with indifference about newspapers and periodicals. I happen to really enjoy the writing styles and advertising graphics of eras past. To me, the materials are captivating- essentially history in real time. For each time I bring out digitized ephemera, I hear from grateful audiences who devour the contents. And with the researchers, I’m fascinated to see what was, leafing up to later dates, then back to earlier years and decades. Through all my inventorying and indexing, I’m better able to connect people with information. And it happens. About two months ago, I sought out and processed a unique run of a cultural periodical, printed on newsprint, from the 1970s. It had been locally warehoused. Shortly afterwards, a visiting researcher asked whether I knew of that exact title, as she and her mother had both published in it. Bringing out the alkaline boxes of flattened papers, my guest was elated. This sort of serendipity is not uncommon. I can merely glance heavenwards, wink, and keep up the good work (and the good instincts).

While in the throes of sifting and sorting piles of antique newspapers which had been migrated from one library building’s attic to another’s basement, I found several items that I knew would fit perfectly in another city’s archives. It so happens I had created their archives more than twenty years ago, and remember their contents very well. Eager to deliver the gems, I carefully reinforced the 19th century broadsheets in a portfolio, and made a daytrip of my errand. En route, it occurred to me that while I had maintained some contact with that particular library, I hadn’t been inside the place in a long time. A life of continuous, hard work leaves very thin margins for respite. Trying to offset exhaustion with journaling and unstructured Sundays have provided ways to continue puddle-jumping, refraining from looking too far. Indeed, I brought the historic items to grateful recipients I’d never met before, in a building I hadn’t visited in twenty-three years. The place still looked the same, and it was heartening to see the calligraphed sign still displayed which I had made for them back in 2000. The last time I’d been in the place, I had completed major projects; it was shortly after my completion of graduate school. This time, I crossed their threshold after having achieved and endured numerous professional scenarios and challenges. My impression of this brief visit wasn’t an experience I expected- at the same time both strange and familiar. After quietly leaving the building, I walked to a nearby church to reflect, knowing the doors were open.

Again, I thought of Escrivá’s words- whose books I’ve known only in recent years- and how he told his readers to ask themselves who they sought when they approached the Sacrament. He said, “Are you seeking yourself, or are you seeking God?” That hour of contemplative intention, immediately following my strange visit with a past place of employment, was just the right instinctual balance. As much as archival work serves here-and-now access, and conservation for future use, the interpreting of raw material magnetizes our compasses toward the past. This week’s projects send me back to earlier projects in earlier places quite easily. All the jobs we’ve had, with our schools, communities, our various adventures dotting our timelines- good and bad- illustrate each of our personal histories. These stages along our pilgrimages form our perspectives. An individual is essentially a living time-capsule, replete with ethereal archives. Life and art mirroring each other amidst my wakeful hours, I wonder at the human version of deaccession and preservation. Tireless work makes for tireless thinking about work, especially all the pending projects. Insomnia tangles with my strategizing of the department I manage, and that slides into when I report to work, so that I can implement the ideas. And with my cultivated and critical senses and skills, the work always gets done.

Integral to the processing of historic serials is their preparation for longterm storage, retrieval, and future digitization. I’ve been doing all of these things, including a lot of the scanning, after flattening and even very gently repairing torn newsprint. No matter how disciplined my adherence to tasks-at-hand, it’s impossible to avoid reading from my discoveries. Indeed, the more informed I am of the content, the better my analyses for researchers’ queries. And, admittedly, the narratives and illustrations of bygone eras- be it the 1990s or the 1790s- are compelling in their vocabularies. Newspapers, in particular, are frozen moments with commentary. The paper strata themselves have distinctive stories, in their very ingredients and manufacturing. Handling and reading really go together.

There are embossed textures in pre-1840 cotton rag content paper, retaining an impressive amount of strength. Latter 19th and early 20th century newspapers were largely very cheaply made, using bleached wood pulp, resulting in thin and highly acidic surfaces. Depending upon how the paper has been stored, I’ve seen darkening that has the appearance of having been burnt. Scanning this type of material saves the content. Rewrapping the deteriorated pages, with enormous care, the telltale rattling sound attests to the papers’ embrittlement. The other day, while checking my work, it occurred to me how a computer screen can give digitized, antiquated text a similar look to present-day electronic text. Past and present become easily juxtaposed this way, but the genuine article has the intrinsic aspects of authenticity. Artifacts carry memorable content, but also the physical objects also have memory. Among my regular patrons is a researcher who writes about religious communities and biographies. Having just flattened, repaired, boxed, and inventoried a run of regional newspapers beginning in 1822, I brought him several early issues as a sampling for perusal. He was clearly impressed and inspired, spontaneously reading various paragraphs to me, from the cotton-based 200 year-old newspaper, in surprisingly good condition. We took turns reading to each other, talking about what we read as archaisms. A moment worth remembering in the life of doing this work. This fellow was astonished at how close these unique papers were to being discarded. Past is pulled to present, and projected ahead to future endeavors, in the search for knowledge and context.

liminal trails

“Cultivating hope
means strengthening the will.”

~ Josemaría Escrivá, Furrow (780)

The liminal season I call winter-into-spring is often more striking than a New England autumn. But subtly, those housepaint skies are atop fifty-degree middays as well as ice storms. These extremes happen hours apart. Liminality represents threshold space, margins between paragraphs. If you can find yourself the luxury of pausing between obligations and demands, there you’ll find those mental spaces to muse. I remember a professor from graduate school, a brilliant lecturer, who would occasionally stop speaking and look out the window. I admired that, realizing he was reflecting in mid-flight. Because the constantly streaming media in our midst obstructs our natural musing tendencies, misconstrued as unproductive, threshold thinking becomes intentional.

Within the mercurial fluctuations of this unpredictable season, I’m amidst moving my household across town to a better abode. Two extremely difficult years of apartment-searching while tolerating an intensely oppressive and nightmarish place became impetus to make a sudden, cold-weather move. Transition is itself a jarring, liminal circumstance- yet it is much better to make a move by choice than to be forced to move (as with two years ago). The move will get its written due, but for the moment I’ll express liminality by noting how the past month has straddled two apartments. When I needed a sponge-scrubber or various tools in one place, having left them in the other place, I took to using my car as a kind of trolley for cleaning and packing material. At least the distances have been just a few miles apart, and true to the transitional the straddling is short-lived. The reward is a more peaceful place that I can better afford. Though I know all the neighborhoods of this small city, it’s threshold life nonetheless, having to find my bearings between the known and the unfamiliar.

My father gave me this radio as a birthday gift when I was 15.
Now it's perched on a red formica kitchen counter.

Through all the shuttling between living spaces, employment, and errands, I’ve maintained such constants as journaling- and a beloved icon of the transitory: radio. A listener all my life, and in this part of the country I know where all the frequencies are. When I’ve test-driven cars, I’ve always checked to make sure the radio can at least pull in AM1030 WBZ. Having several radios, plus the one in my car (and another at work), I’ve subconsciously maintained such threads of continuity. From the basis of the familiar, transcendence springs. Drowsily dozing among boxes in the soon-to-be former place, my radio was tuned to a commentator talking about the implications of contemplative prayer. It is subtle, understated, yet far-reaching. When he said, “ten minutes can reverberate into eternity,” I made sure to write this down. From liminal vantage points, horizons are abstract at best. I particularly liked the radio commentator’s remarks- simple and unostentatious, unlike that which too often dominates the airwaves. Many know the unpronounceable simplicity of enduring faith, and how it often seems unsubstantiated. But perseverance in the liminal is vital. My several-times-daily journal entries represent perseverance, as well as provide private space to express frustration. Much of the writing really is about hope, tedious as the repetition might be, it’s as critically necessary as air. Or a sane living space. I continue to consider writing to be my documented pilgrimage into the future, longing for better living and working situations. This current move is an intentional step in the right direction, while fully aware of the need for improvement and how there is nearly nothing left of the “old life,” or the city I used to enjoy so much. The liminal trail from winter into spring, combined with new slants of light, must lead to renewal. A life of hardworked prep must give way to practical application. A life of readying is ripe for followthrough. Why this has been taking so long is beyond my comprehension, thus it is necessary to believe better times are ahead.

Getting the place clean enough to move in
(and unpack my philosophy books).

furrow

“An apostle must not remain at the level of the mediocre.
God calls that person to be fully human in their actions,
and at the same time to reflect the freshness of eternal things.
That is why the apostle has to be a soul who has undergone
a long, patient, and heroic process of formation.”

~ Josemaria Escrivá, Furrow


crossroads

Journaling steadily for a number of years invariably leads to something of a personal encyclopedia. I’ve also found the notebooks themselves amount to forms of portable refuge, with my written words constructing a unique, personal lexicon. It’s been as vital as ever to continue exercising my imagination, against such scarcities of opportunities. Envisioning and aspiring are both outworkings of faith, pushing against narrow confines in employment and lodging situations. These are also vantage-points from which I’ve incidentally developed expressions and ambitions. Alongside all hoping and criticizing are streams of nicknames and inventions. Deep-seated creativity simply cannot be held down. Speaking as a lifelong visual artist, imagery is essentially my first language which subsequently gets translated into words. And then there’s metaphor: that expandable world of allegory and multidimensional definitions. Inhabiting this present-day spartan culture of “smart” technology, subtlety is nearly extinct. As we’re lured away from lives of untethered thought, our abilities to understand become dulled. Blunt literalism thwarts the adventurousness of synthesis and musing.

the entirety of Woodfords Corner: Portland, Maine

Take, for example, the word crossroads as a concept. By definition an intersection of two roadways. Or maybe even paths. Perhaps more than two trails. Now we’ve already begun playing with words. In my region of New England, there are five-way and six-way intersections, often known as corners. That doesn’t really make sense, but those names- as we say here- are older than dirt. For me, a crossroads has as its primary definition a merging precipice of life direction. This past year since having lost my housing, due to the abrupt change in the building’s ownership, only intensified already-existing career and income tenuousness. At widened crossroads, the present finds itself in a watertreading context. Determined to rise above dead ends, I’m daily pondering and posing questions such as What don’t I know? and What should I recognize? Crossroads attest to limitations, but may also point to throughways. Rather than to regard crossroads as destinations, I’m considering them as points of decision to be followed by action. One may choose in favor of a direction, or choose away from other furrows. Carvajal described the path to holiness as passing through the way of the Passion, and that it is the basis of the Christian’s vocation. “If we want to rise up with Christ,” he wrote, “we have to accompany him on his journey to the cross.” If one is brought to a crossroads, vulnerable as that is, it has the potential strength of any starting-place. San Juan de la Cruz, in 16th century Spain, wrote of the soul choosing to join in the Divine work of creation, albeit “not yet fully as in the life to come, but nonetheless even now in a real and perceptible way.” Pleading with his very being in the Spiritual Canticle, Fray Juan asked:

“O my soul, created to enjoy such exquisite gifts, what are you doing, where is your life going? How wretched is the blindness of Adam’s children, if indeed we are blind to such a brilliant light and deaf to as insistent a voice.”

The text reminds me that perhaps something within my control is my willingness to see and hear beyond what is at the surface. Time is of the essence, and I’d be wise not to think much about what has already been lost.


resisting mediocrity

When I began teaching photography in a local art college, I was 22 and a fairly recent graduate myself. Having previously done some mentoring, I thought it would be a good idea to study the principles of art education. Learning plenty about preparation, lesson-plan creation, and outcomes, I got right into creating my own curricula. In response, my instructor told me that my lesson plans were too challenging. “Dumb it down,” went the criticism. I had never heard that expression before. What? People come to learn and go forth with new skills. I’m teaching for excellence. From semester one, I only designed lesson plans to train, edify, and inspire self-sufficiency for all students of all levels. It’s gone very well over many years, for legions of students; I’ve received service awards and recognition from multiple academic institutions. Instead of dumb down, I prefer smarten up, having too much respect for those I teach to cheapen the experience. And they have all responded with accomplishment and gratitude. There’s more than enough to water down our intellects; I’ve never wanted that for my own self.

at the Boston Athenaeum, with St. Bonaventure

Indeed, the pursuit of perfection is the enemy of what is good. That’s an axiom to always have in mind, aware of things such as purpose and practical limitations. The extreme opposite of appropriate completion is perfectionism. Between both extremes, there is elusive and subtle ground which demands patience. While not daring to consider myself exemplary, slipshod and slapdash have been anathema to me since childhood. Even in my adolescence, I was aware of how I’d bristle at the sight of neglect and sloppy work. Before my mature vocabulary, I’d call it “not caring.” At a job I had during college, a coworker used to say, “good enough for the government,” referring to the barest minimum to get something done. I had to ask him what that meant. Hearing expressions like that showed me how little I knew- and how suspicious I’d get when it came to principles that were strange to me. Though slightly less naïve now, while speaking with an old friend about job hunting, I heard myself say, “I’m not here to be mediocre.” Without some explanation, this might sound presumptuous. Simply put, it means I’m not putting in a halfhearted effort. I haven’t survived for the purpose of incompetence. The oft-cited Peter Principle which just about everyone has seen in various strengths, throughout their work lives, asserts how employees rise to the level of the mediocrity in their midst. “Dumb it down” to the status quo, is an example. Too many managers misinterpret leadership as the management of things and tasks, instead of the pastoral coaching of people. In his book, Furrow, Josemaria Escrivá exhorted that his readers must “refuse to come to terms with mediocrity.” Often, ripple effects play out in the idolization of meetings and placing statistics above service. Granted, numbers have their place, though I’m very far from being a technocrat. In helping professions, human aspects are of the greatest consequence- and the most memorable.


vocation

Many that struggle- including me- have seen our adversities intensify with the covid era. My working conditions remain in pandemic mode, as a department of one. The hypergentrification of southern Maine during the past four years has permanently altered the region. Dense enclaves of homeless encampments mushroom next to elite hotels and exclusive, gated housing. The ground I stand upon thins with every passing month, as city officials continue looking away. Treadmills point to crossroads.

the National Shrine of Saint Anthony: Arch Street, Boston

Over the years and to this day, I’ve been visiting the Saint Anthony Shrine during my writing and and reading days at the nearby Boston Athenaeum. The Franciscan brothers are always great to speak with, always welcoming. Coincidentally, for the past few years, I’ve been extensively studying the life and work of 13th century Franciscan philosopher Saint Bonaventure, developing a kindred devotion to him. Members of the Franciscan community invariably introduced me to Saint Anthony of Padua’s life and legacy. Anthony knew and worked with Saint Francis of Assisi; the former is nicknamed “the miracle saint.” True to form, this summer I’ve been reading biographies of Saint Anthony which I borrow from the Athenaeum, while continuing to study Bonaventure.

Saint Bonaventure medal, from the Franciscans.
An angel is delivering his hat.

The saints are standing with me at the crossroads. Two weeks ago, while awaiting the usual, perennially-late Metro bus en route to work, page 96 in Mary Purcell’s Saint Anthony and His Times beamed up to me, as I found the decisive moment in his life. The young Anthony chafed from misemployment to underemployment, yet never losing the vision of his vocation. The turning point happened as Anthony arrived at Monte Paolo to help with the community’s chores. There his path crossed with that of Friar Graziano, the monastery’s superior, who evidently listened and recognized something in Anthony’s demeanor and insight. The paragraph is pictured below:

from the book, "Saint Anthony and His Times," by Mary Purcell.

“Evidently, Graziano reasoned, God never meant this light to be hidden under a bushel.” Anthony was far from “just a dishwasher,” that his prior managers deemed “worthless.” Graziano today would’ve been called a “talent recruiter,” having identified and promoted the burgeoning future saint of Padua revered around the world. There was much more to savor than my lurching and lumbering bus ride lasted. I shared my scan of the book’s paragraph on a career social media page, suggesting it as reading for managers, recruiters, and human resources professionals. Everything depends upon connections, and the most meaningful, productive results are borne from such human aspects as perception and active compassion. I’d love my own version of a Graziano, and maybe you would, too. It would be as fulfilling to be a Graziano for others. I’m reminded once again of how it was said of Escrivá that he would arrive at gatherings of his community and say, “I am here to listen.” These studies and devotions add substance and fortitude to these harsh times. Reading and writing, always in tandem, as I navigate the day’s furrow; each day a restart from where I am.

accidental and transitory

“At the very moment when everything seems to be collapsing
before our eyes, we realize that quite the opposite is true,
‘because you, Lord are my strength.’
If God is dwelling in your soul, everything else,
no matter how important it may seem,
is accidental and transitory,
whereas we, in God, stand permanent and firm.”

~ Josemaría Escrivá, Friends of God, 92

1

Until at least this past decade- with refinements in wireless communications- those who appeared to talk to themselves were generally regarded with suspicion. Urban streets being arenas of assessment, stereotypic self-talkers tended to be written off as rumpled shufflers conversing with the air. Now, stereotypic bluetoothers tend to obliviously stride around, conversing with the air- except for the occasional crackling voice in response. For an observing pedestrian, I’ve gotten used to seeing individuals sauntering around to their own speaking voices. Negatively, the loud talkers in public spaces are intrusive. Positively, I get a great excuse to keep on talking to myself as I might while driving or working. Journaling gives me space to preserve ideas and experiences, as well as making sense of observations and ideas in writing. Speaking to my thoughts while in transit or at work also helps me distill observations and decisions. Thematically, my self-talk and most of my journaling -and photography- are parallel strands along the same streams of absorption, reflection, and creativity. These are extensions of consciousness. But like expression and the life of thought, self-talk wields enough influence to determine how we operate within as well as outwardly. Working alone as a self-propelled and consistently accountable one-person department for 36 months and counting, I’ve been my own voice of assurance. That’s a formidable discipline for me, unceasingly working through the depths of pandemic, personal loss, desolation, and gentrifying displacement, while rarely able to dispel my longrunning streams of verbal self-condemnation. Indeed, surviving present hardships only becomes more difficult amidst harsh self-criticism.


2

Small devotional booklets I've made which also hold my transit pass.

Gesturing with thumb and pointer finger about an eighth-inch apart, I hear myself exclaim, “I’ve got this much margin for error.” Unreasonable as it may sound, there are deepseated reasons beneath this, with a lengthy catalogue of failures, missed opportunities, and comparisons. And yet the hard-driven efforts and persistent hopes continue. Self-talk clashes against the challenge of faith. The equation of oppressive conditions at all hands has forced a necessary straightening out in the form of “Let’s get through this,” and “We’ll get there.” (Oddly enough, I naturally default to the plural- but only interiorly. It reminds me of King David asking his own soul why it was downcast.) In recent months while standing at city bus stops in subzero cold as part of my daily commute, I’ve been reading the wise homilies of Josemariá Escrivá. His essays join my special category of books that seem to have been written for me. I think every reader has their own equivalent bibliography.

A captivating reading, like going out photographing, really gets me out of my own way. Escrivá’s words are notably welcoming. Between the lines of his theological reflections are plenty of his personal anecdotes about his poverty during the Spanish Civil War, and especially his experiences as a university chaplain. As it was for college students in midcentury Spain, present-day individuals struggle with existential angst. It is dangerously easy to believe that what we see is all there is, and that each setback is an unrecoverable blow. But Escrivá asked his listeners and readers to question the perspective that considers denied opportunities to be earth-shattering and perilous. Such things, as he said, should be viewed as “accidental and transitory,” which is to say incidental and temporal. He emphasized keeping in mind an all-essential thirst for the eternal, for the Living God. Escrivá wrote in his essay called Humility, “Why do we become dejected? It is because life on earth does not go the way we had hoped, or because obstacles arise which prevent us from satisfying our personal ambitions.” Of course this speaks to my ill-fitting and uneasy predicament. “Don’t be frightened; don’t fear any harm,” he insisted, “even though the circumstances in which you work are terrible, worse even than those of Daniel in the pit with all those ferocious beasts. God’s hand is as powerful as ever and, if necessary God will work miracles. Be faithful!” Sanctifying the everyday is a theme that manifests throughout his writing.


3

I wonder how many of us, when we graduate from school- brimming with catharsis and ambition- say, “my life’s goal is to be humble and lowly.” Who does this? Not me. Academic and professional work are pointed toward achievement, success, and prominence. As many of us commendably aim high, many of us are frustratingly brought low. The former is in our nature, the latter makes us chafe. And the rub is in the transcendence of setbacks; not once or twice, but persistently countless times. Indeed, it is humbling to consider standing straight in defeat as a measure of success. With my philosophy students, we regularly take up topics in axiology. In one of our Socratic forums my question to the class about the definition of value became a discussion of how we determine value. It was a great discussion, and a parallel thread about the widespread societal concern called success led to how each person defined stability. Engaging in philosophy, we balanced such concepts as implied in material and moral ideas. As we step back to see the fluidity of the present as incidental and temporal, borrowing from Escrivá, an antidote for dramatic devastation is found in the sanctification of understated tasks.

If we regard the present as provisional, rather than as helplessly irreparable, we can freely admit that everything is subject to improvement. That ubiquitous self-talk (for those among us who care to listen to their own thoughts) is also worth improving. Proofreading the inner script is a form of healthful detachment, essentially an untethering from living as though momentary deficiency is some kind of life sentence. Even if momentary amounts to years, and even if the years are saturated with rejections. Resilience has an upturned chin, an affirmative step, and conscientious manners. Things won’t always be like this, I tell myself, even at this late stage of the game. The pearl of great price is the open door in the wilderness labyrinth of barricaded passages. It is imperative to trust enough to hold with insistent certitude that supplications are not spoken into an unattended void. Prayers are surely not self-talk; whether or not they are granted does not mean they are not heard. Grace must be met with courage, and trials must not have the last word. I’m holding to this, as I navigate this throwaway here-today-forgotten-tomorrow culture. It’s easy to believe the immediate is everything. But it really isn’t, and such tempting mirages must be bypassed and resisted at all turns. There is much for me to learn these days about the fine differences between humility and humiliation. Fulfilling the daily obligations, under miserable living conditions, it consoles me to confidently keep its very temporariness in mind and to interpolate dashes of creativity when possible. And continually telling myself to keep faith, look upwards, and never cease searching for better conditions. No doubt, I daily join my praying voice with all who struggle with housing and employment. Fortitudo et spes.