i’r awyr

“The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day,
So it must have been
after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place,
the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.”

~ Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill.


skyward (i’r awyr)

Menai Straits.

After having considered the elemental presence of the landscape and waterways in north Wales, this trilogy culminates with the skies. As well, this essay also completes the series of 14 reflections from my sojourns at Oxford and in northwestern Wales, this recent year. While hiking at a variety of surface elevations, I consciously noticed the skies and made sure to photograph changes over ocean and mountains. Texture and fluidity of formation caught my attention. Mountaintops and sky interlocked as form and counterform. At times, both sky and landscape appeared equally solid.

Snowdonia.

Along with these eventful skies, seasides and heights are accompanied by aromatic air. Being a Mainer, the assuring scents of pine trees and salt air have a familiarity equal to my home environment on the North Atlantic. The Welsh coast gave me plenty of reminders, with rain clouds and strong wind currents. Like the Maine weather, the skies above Wales are quickly changeable: rainstorms give way to brightness. Attuned to the subtleties of natural elements, and having time to appreciate them, it is possible to sense fine perfumes such as those of trees, earth, water, and distant woodsmoke. Even sunshine; the sky itself seems to have aromas. Moving air currents generate sounds, especially on windswept hills and mountaintops. An old favorite sound experience is that of wind currents sifted by tree branches; the effect can be astonishingly similar to the sound of ocean surf.

Snowdonia, near Penmaenmawr.

seeing the infinite

Noticing skies reminds me to exercise broader perspective. Matching the contrast between intricacy and vastness, the seen and unseen, is the distinction between lightness and weight. Gaius Glenn Atkins wisely observed how life’s course imposes “the immense burden of finding somewhere beyond its restlessness and contradictions healing regions of unity and stability.” As kindredship with the ocean and landscape helps provide context to my steps, gazing skyward gives reference points to finite paths. Ironically, the heavens give ground to our souls.

As expanse and proximate interchange, making note of sky and air finds a deeply personal connotation in that of one’s very own breathing. My deeply-embedded upbringing and life experiences in densely urban places has influenced the way I tend to perceive scenery. I remember an occasion during which I was able to see art gallery walls lined with my photographs. It surprised me to see the forest scenes and city views had in common vantage points between 2 and 50 feet from the subjects- looking straight or down. It seemed I had been recording motifs along the Appalachian Trail as though I had been looking across streets in New York. That amusing observation caused me to vary my angles of view. Over the recent years, I’ve learned to look upward. The skies are not to be missed. There is great value in seeing beyond our close confines; that is an abiding lesson demonstrated by the mountains and ocean. From very close and structured quarters, knowing to make note of the sky reminds me of transcendent immensity.

Isle of Anglesey

Looking to the skies, and knowing to do so, is part of my training to be undauntedly hopeful. And, indeed, perseverance is easier to say than to successfully practice. Steadfastly looking forward and upward, without seeing results, is hope’s trying crucible. The biblical apostle Peter bids the readers of his first letter* to look heavenward to blessed hope. He begins by referencing historic predecessors who aspired to holiness, guided and aided by the Holy Spirit. In poetic perspective, Peter adds that “angels long to stoop and look into these things.” He then returns to his reading audience, exhorting us to “fix our hopes calmly and unfalteringly” upon the grace that comes to those who hold fast by faith. In affixing our hopes deep within, we express certainty in finding purpose to our many rugged steps and days.

Above views: Isle of Anglesey,
Below: Blue Sky Café, Bangor (Wales).

Perhaps when we gaze skyward, we see the same skies the ancients saw. They noticed the same sun, spheres, and constellations we can see now. When I teach architectural history, I instruct my classes to approach historic buildings with interpreters’ eyes. “Look up for the past; look down for the present.” This is to say that by looking to upper levels they will see much about when and how the building was built, and by looking at the sidewalk level they will see today’s commerce. Many throughout history have considered wide open space as forbidding and empty of life. By contrast, when I look skyward to uncontainable vastness- even to the nighttime void- it is consoling to behold something so much greater and grander than the reach of a human being. Looking to the timeless offsets the habitual fixation with the temporal.


intimate vastness

Isle of Anglesey.

Bringing these elements together, my travels back to New England traversed land and water, via air. As with many westward transatlantic flights, my return trip spanned daytime hours, allowing for views above and through clouds. Iceland was damp and heavily overcast. The Gulf of Maine and Massachusetts Bay were calmly welcoming.

Above: Iceland.
Below: Massachusetts Bay.

From my busy Oxford residency to my retreat and return to north Wales, I understood among many things not to let my thoughts narrow or become too earthbound. The ancient Psalmist whose words** translate as “look to God and be radiant,” may as well have said, “look skyward and be assured.” To be awed by what is grand and unfathomable is at once fearsome and sustaining. Accepting mystery in the forces of creation remind us of our participation as mere ingredients in an immeasurable continuum, pursuing knowledge, beauty, and grace.

Bangor Cathedral.

Penmaenmawr, with Dwygyfylchi in the background.

Bangor Pier, on the Menai Straits.




_________

* 1st Peter 1:12,13
** Psalm 34

drawing strength

"Look to God and be radiant;
Let your faces not be abashed.
This poor man called;
The Lord heard him,
And rescued him from all his distress."

~ Psalm 34

For those of us whose lives find their contexts in cold, northern climbs, we can undeniably acknowledge the unambiguous departure of winter. Without overt contrasts between interior and exterior temperatures, moving from place to place resumes an effortlessness and a lightness not experienced since last year. A new season invites new views, even in old places. New energies that result from surmounting transition are often counterweighted by the exhaustion of having made efforts needed in order to arrive safely in a new place- or a new mindset. Usually, by this time of the year, I retreat for a spell of days or weeks, and my clear response to this being long overdue is to find strings of hours to help offset my hunger for regathering time. By comparison, one might imagine periodic cups of coffee between sporadic meals, or the way many of us can just occasionally close our eyes during those draining flights and travels before finding that elusive soft bed. Endurance challenges our abilities and drive to sustain our physical paces, but also our spirits are put to the test. Caffeine can help keep me in motion, but with each day’s arrival I must continually draw from the source of faithful, confident trust. Tiredness need not mean disinterestedness, and of late I have witnessed the effects of societal factors that grind spirits right down.

Stopping for a moment to reflect, even if just for brief distant views of the big picture, I realize how many people’s eroded aspirations I listen to, in the course of an ordinary day. Sometimes I hear overt discouragement from those who speak candidly about their employment, the political process, their churches, or other struggles in their lives. Other times, disenchantments are unspoken yet pronouncedly evident, apparent between what is said and how the words are expressed. And for justifiable reasons. I feel the same things, too, catching myself under the weight of similar ineptitudes, spite, and carelessness everyone else notices, responds to, and carries with them. Counteracting such burdens takes some conscious perseverance. Although most times I am unaware of my vigilance against apathy, occasionally the concerted need for an infused effort surfaces. And as with any spiritual venture, antidotes come in forms such as friends and reflection. But to recognize diverting currents before they can poison cultivated ideals is a conscientious endeavor. Conscience is the voice of the soul, it is what Karl Barth described as, "the interpreter of life." When our forces and creative reserves run thin, or appear set back, we can conscientiously take stock of what is around us and within us, and proceed. Perhaps an incident which only you have noticed sticks with you, or that your voice is solitary in a figurative wilderness. But, still, you search your conscience and explore both the disenchantments and the gratitudes alike. In defining and delineating the source of an emotion, I am applying some of the approaches I’ve taught in art criticism: first determine the appeal of an image, and then follow by articulating the basis of my response. Through that discourse of asking and seeking, we can find an assuring sense of self-confidence that we will surely need when conscience must be our spark of celestial fire.

Perhaps it may also occur to you, as new strengths noticeably begin to undergird your words and actions, assumed limits consequently follow as dissipating banks of dense fog. More road becomes visible, and the landscape widens. Many presumed impossibilities start evolving as the attainable, in some form or another- shedding old preconceptions. Last week, I asked myself about my perceived limitations- outside of practical and material constraints. What outdated ideas and goals need to be challenged which had been long deemed out of reach? As we grow and advance, so must our expectations and hopes. Reflecting upon the concepts of what I expect- even the words "goals," "aims," and "success," though representing necessary practical matters, also attest to the lexicon of these times: "what can one amass for one’s own self-aggrandizement?"

Throughout the 1990s, and a bit since, I’ve had to sit through a lot of bulleted and powerpointed lists of whatever flavor or method or series of habits and steps promised to make for a better person and a more productive workplace. Everyone had to conjure up and declare an altruistic "mission statement." Even the company that sold me bicycle parts by mail made a mission statement. These are really shadows of motions, neatly wrapped with a bow, that essentially changed nothing. Formulas, apparently, are easier than to simply profess working together and respecting one another, and follow it up by solid implementation. If there had been an upshot, it was the way many launched from the empty words into thinking seriously about living life authentically, more deeply than the perfunctory verbiage. When aspirations come to mind these days, these are honestly more about what I hope to accomplish alongside those around me. If realizing how the small and sporadic measures of encouragement have been as rare gems to me, then it is for me to be respectfully encouraging to others. To do this well implies a real desire to understand, and that means letting go of limiting mental structures and universalizing my comprehension.


Drawing strength, I aspire to run the race without regret. Reaching forth in an open-ended progress requires that I challenge and refine my perspectives. Sufficient for the moment, while reflecting upon ways to conscientiously persevere and dislodging presumed limitations, I would like to reconsider long-used vantage points. In photography, part of the skill of compositional dynamics is to vary your angle of view. Try to portray your subject from differing trajectories, and not constantly view from the same standpoint or always the same distance. Surely, and for so many of us, writing allows for a variety of ways of observing- as does listening and participating in the world that is in our midst. In the search to see afresh in this new season, especially along the journal-writing road, I am reconsidering the lenses through which I’ve been looking back and writing my history. Of course, there are the historiographic elements of accuracy and genuineness, but that is just the foundation. Reflection, by nature, is a patient voyage without deadlines. Plumbing the depths of recovery, resurgence, and rebuilding after past times of loss and brokenness- finds its fulfilment in an abiding thirst for the spirit that traverses the waters of discovery into involvement. I ponder how it is possible to regard afresh- even without the excess baggage of memory.

The other night, after helping to serve a joyous meal to a group of very dear friends, I dreamt about two places from my past that- in the dream- were in adjoining rooms. (Of course, in real life, that would have been geographically impossible.) In the dream, I moved from the staff room of a studio in which I’d worked for many years- to the office I’d had at yet another job more recently- as if walking between two next-door spaces. Both were in notably egregious disarray. My presence was unnoticed in the hum of daily operations and ringing phones. In one of the rooms, while instinctively stopping to pick up some of the mess- I stopped myself and said, "Leave it alone; you don’t work here anymore. Just leave it be." The next morning, I mused about the imagery of the presence of my absence- and enjoyed the way I did not interfere with what had lost its relevance. It all left the same impression as that of turning a street corner and discovering the first flowers of spring.