visible invisible

“I have turned around.
I’m walking back to join the choir.
Leaves are flying through the sky.

There’s a hidden life,
there’s a life that no one knows,
there are things that can’t be told.”

~ The Innocence Mission, I Left the Grounds.

Consider the meaning and significance around the idea of the non-monetary kind of credit. Getting the credit, taking the credit, denying the credit. If our memories serve us accurately, we can all remember how this thread plays through all the contexts of our days. It may have begun in the vicinity of a broken vase in a long-ago parental living room, if not in a grade-school classroom. There is credit that we want, and credit we don’t want. We want to be noticed at our best by team captains, teachers, and bosses- and by those we find attractive. But then we wish to be unnoticed by bullies, would-be muggers, and those casting blame- even if it’s justifiable. The attribution of credit, of notice, of credibility, is a great power that looms over our evolving years. Those whom we think own that power begin to look like interchangeable versions of the same few people. The quest for validation is something to be outgrown, despite ways our institutions tend to perpetuate their own versions of reward and blame. This meditation is not about the rights and wrongs of law, ethics, or decorum. Rather, it is about the human mystery that views survival as something between visibility and invisibility.

From childhood, we hunger to be noticed, but we also want to hide. Wishing for glory and credit fuels many a drive in the direction of self-preservation at any cost. Self-distinction may be a primal impulse, and thus one for which an individual must come to terms. But then, when notice comes upon us, we are often unprepared.

In my habit of closing a book or shutting off a media source when the loss of a vital thought seems imminent, one night while driving the roads, I turned off the car radio to save an idea. A radio preacher, whose delivery resembled that of a country auctioneer, asked the rhetorical question; “what would you do if you suddenly got everything you’ve wished for?” I cut him off then and there, because the thought was worth saving. I could predict he was leading up to something about ingratitude or our insatiable material appetites. Aloud in the car, I thought about payed-off student loans, perfect health, and a really good job. Afterwards I imagined walking through such idyllic settings, pinching my own arm in outright incredulity. Then I thought about being noticed. What do we expect- and when we are acknowledged, will we shrink back in disbelief? We long to be known, as much as we long to know. At the same time, wishing is more familiar than seeing a wish come to pass. If this is true, what is really expected? Perhaps the vital acknowledgment has already been made, and if this is so, there is no time to back away.

In the conflict between desiring recognition and anonymity, possessing the one, the other becomes more appealing. Thirsting to capture everything merges with the also very human trait of overwhelm. Imaginations are drawn by mystery and elusiveness, yet discovery can throw us off. Either we are diverted by expectation, or overwhelmed at the challenges of our findings. A nature accustomed to striving wants what it used to have, as well as what it cannot reach- yet rarely what is already accessible. Emergence and disappearance long for one another. Even the ancient Psalmist knew the exuberance of overt rejoicing, as much as the Divine presence as sheltering hiding place. Often, I hope for significance to my days and recognition- at about as many times as solitude, my steps drawn to concealing places that permit me to banish my troubles.

We do need our times of invisibility. An old friend for whom I once worked refers to the the jobs I have as my “tent-making” work. He reminds me of how the Apostle Paul made his living. Our paychecks help provide what we need so we can pursue our passions. I still believe in the juxtaposition of vocation and avocation. Indeed it was Paul of Tarsus who described with astonishing detachment how he observed another disposition in his baser self which waged war against the disposition of his conscience. Coming to terms with the inner conflict of striving with ignominy- while athirst for concealed space- begins by admitting too much of either is damaging. Means and ends mustn’t be confused.

In an understanding of the spectrum of living, knowing to be both abased and abound, the equilibrium of holiness is discovered. The realm of God manifests silently and discretely as grains of ferment that cause the leavening of bread. The Advent is gradual, at times difficult. Invisibility comes into being. But as with the magi, the Divine is perceptible to those who are sensitive to the signs. Yet still, there is little that we mortals can actually hasten.

Perhaps the elusiveness- even the hiddenness- of the sublime attests to the eternal as incorruptible and boundless. The Unseen Companion who briefly appeared to the Emmaus pilgrims, known to Paul as “the image of the invisible God,” taught his listeners to express their prayers in shuttered solitude to the One who knows the innermost heart. In this, invisibility is a necessary precursor to visibility. The tent-maker toiling in a deserted place, as all hard-workers enduring anguished isolation, must see such labors as preparatory ground from which to capably bear the gospel of compassion. Blessed are the overlooked, for they are lovingly recognized by their Creator.

Invisible though apparent, God’s presence is treasured deep within. Earthbound as we are, the cravings remain for the visible and for visibility. While scribing some notes the other day, the newspaper under my journal revealed one of the society pages. Those celebrities of fathomless abundance cannot blend into subways and restaurants as I can. Perhaps they wish they could. Many non-celebrities among us make efforts to be “seen.” A local paper used to poll readers about the “best places to be seen” in this small city with a “scene” of its own. A school friend used to say, “maintaining façades is too much work.” Many of us do wind up deciding what’s necessary and what’s worth our energies and time. And that brings us to consider what is of greatest value to the inherent, invisible self. And in that consideration, reinforcement is found.

Do we ever really know our strengths? It is easy to forget the powers and potential we have. That intrinsic fortitude is often threatened by what a lot of us have had to endure en route to and through adulthood. We brave through exclusions, judgments, and threats long before we can ascribe clear and forceful words to our attempted refutations. But indeed those who survive must never forget their voiceless crucible times. Today is for potentials to unfold, even if portions will remain invisible.

Now a reckoning. Conflicts may be identified and explored, but without some resolve, the terms remain barely more than if they stayed unspoken. Recording a life as it develops, my thoughts begin by taking stock in the learning experiences, being able to apply some retrospect while looking ahead. Come to think of it, the idea of blogging a personal journal is in itself a paradox of seen and unseen. Definitions of “visibility” evolve away from preoccupations with crowds and myself. I see the extremes a bit more reconciled, more content to stand apart from self. Part of that unification is in reckoning with the value of both recognition and retreat, along with a realization that reward is less and less a driving force. Outdated self-views become stale and burdensome. Possessions I no longer use are only good to give away or throw out, resembling old, recurrent, and outgrown frustrations. As with perspectives, tastes evolve. Back in high school, my father once told me that tastes change as we get older, “you’ll see,” he said; we start craving more salted and bitter things than sugary sweets. It’s a great metaphor, but he was comparing an adult’s beer with a child’s strawberry soda. Indeed, I see, as I often relish obscurity. But I innately know that I’ve also been very gradually called forth out of that obscurity. Venturing to predict the future’s details would not be worth the trouble. There are things that can’t be told. It seems wiser to temper the striving against prohibitive currents, and gratefully engage the settings I’ve got to work with- however modest the results. The hidden life takes root, and living roots are rarely visible at the surface.

wishes wanting

“I prize the cloudy, tearing sky
for the thoughts that flap and fly.
For staying in and reading by.
For sitting under.

This is a day for hearing bagpipes
somewhere playing.
This is a day for hearing sarabands
and hiding away.”

~ The Innocence Mission, And Hiding Away

Writing, when as a quiet verbal witness to each day’s living, bears some valuable review. If our written lines parallel the course charted by personal experience, then a functional archive is subtly being constructed. That archivist’s sense, abiding on and off the job, continually reminds me of the vitality of authentic documentation. An archival document needn’t be of any particular age, neither should it originate from any particular quantity of material. Of far greater importance in manuscript records is their authenticity and connection to their provenance- or source. Our most honest and accurate documentation can reveal actions and emphases. A study of documentation strengthens comprehension and informs present and future.

Within the context of narrative documentation, journal-writing finds its place. After all, for personal journals to be effective, the writing must be honest and as uncensored as possible. Whether an entry takes the form of a task list, a clipped criticism, or a lengthy reflection, the writing stands as a recording of a thought process at a specific time. Several years ago, I began the regular practice of indicating the time of day, as well as the date, of each journal entry. The tones of writing will differ from 6am to 10pm. Preserved thoughts belong as much to their author as to their time of writing. Having made these observations, I must add that I surely spend far more time writing than reading my journal entries. Yet as life’s rhythm warrants, I’ll remember my noted thoughts as both sounding-board and mirror to my state of affairs. Realizations tend to form and solidify between intense stretches of time, when there are bits of space to make notes. Being in full-time service to employment, I’ve long found ways to own thin slivers of my own time for the cause of creativity. Of late, I find that I must interrupt myself so that I can write what must be documented. Of late, as well, I’ve noticed quite a lot of enumerated frustrations. I occurred to me that in my daily written musings, wishes are left wanting. There isn’t enough wishing going on. At least, not as usual.

remember

Informed by my own archival record, I was able to see my own aspiration deficit. Along my persistent quest for what I need to know, I found myself reaching through some matters I’d already acknowledged in writing. Often, I hear myself say that “I want to know what I don’t know.” What is being overlooked? There must surely be explanations for my lack of success, yet in spite of that, through a combination of the air and light of early spring I saw the absence of wishes in my words. This is to say hopes, wishes, aspirations; essentially an active transcending of earthbound limitations. And thus, a distinction between the longings of the spirit and material ambition arises. As much as the latter aspect remains a motivation, I found the former neglected and unfocused in recent months’ entries. With my attention drawn, while writing under windblown skies, it was evident to me that we are prone to prevent ourselves from aspiring beyond today’s trenches.

A wise friend once advised that, given the choice, it is preferable to “write what you want to write, not what you have to write.” Often, in my mind, the two are the same, but the context of our banter had to do with the idea that repeatedly writing about abiding troubles may not be the most enjoyable thing with which to be occupied. Well, indeed, and duly noted. Writing about the uncontrollables runs its course, and a world of prospects must follow suit. So, I set about trying to articulate my wishes. Easier said than done. Day followed day, with the final task at my desk being a procrastinated, unwritten list. This is supposed to be easy to do- especially for a dreamer. Finally, my journal entries began to include wishes for places to go, and ways to be. My wonder turned from an incredulity at the absence of wishes, to yet another puzzlement at my reluctance to articulate wishes. With some pencil-twisting, I returned to recording some wishes, some aspirations with hopes of fulfillment. Some were smaller and simpler, to balance the hopes for better days, fruits of persistent labors, that aspirations may come to actuality. My experience has been to aspire and then to act. Yet, a beginning comprises the speaking forth of wishes- even in simple written words, or in wordless prayer.

aspire

In this gradual learning, across trackless time, the appreciating value of self-discipline cannot be overestimated. Part of that is to pray unceasingly, and not lose sight of wishing. Arid and dark deserted stretches must be lit by hopes. Paths and chambers are to be decorated with found eloquence. While trying to determine the controllable elements within reach, there remains great worth in wishing irrationally. Pascal once commented that wisdom sends us to childhood. He was quite right. Children are generally the ones preoccupied with trusting wish-lists, fantastic stories, and magic. I must know to not distance myself from such virtues. Respect and love toward neighbor as to oneself must surely also mean wishing goodness to oneself equally as wishing the best for neighbors. Wish for goodness, and do so with irrational generosity.

To aspire is to reach from the depths of memory, as well as against its tidal currents. The reach requires strength, as well as ability to distinguish matters of past, future, and present. When hopes are hindered by leaning back upon past events and notions, it becomes too easy to become entangled by incomplete histories. Past unsolved matters remain too close to the forefronts of thoughts. When wishes fixate exclusively upon the future, it is a revolving meander into air-wrought castles that neglects today. But the present, inadequate as it may be, does provide crossroads for memory conduits and future prospects. Temporal links such as intersections and highway ramps are inherently transitional and liminal. These are not dwelling places. Temporary passes permit for the collecting of thoughts. Incongruence can be rerouted from embittering to emboldening, as discontent fuels the reach forward. And in that sense of direction there must be a grounding in the immediate, a tending of rooted plants of this day. Progress, as it presently appears to me, indicates a composting of past to fuel future efforts. The ongoing written record continues in its role as creative witness, and as my evolving cartographic documentation. Fulfillment remains to be written. Or perhaps it is slowly forming, and cannot be seen in this present perspective. Nevertheless, with instruments and pages at the ready, the pilgrim scribe attends.

brave

“Oh I know it, I know it, here is God beside.
I meant it. I meant I’m sure of that.
But the sky is tall and heavy,
when I could be brave.
Brave.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Brave.


The enormous housing project in these photos, which I’ve just made, show the place that nobody in my family will talk about. Our eight years there coincided with New York’s darkest years of urban decay and violent crime. Those eight years spanned age 5 to age 13 of my life. As I transitioned from elementary into junior high school, as a ten year old, the neighborhood’s quality of life had deteriorated into a ceaselessly nightmarish world of uncontrollable hostility. Today’s city, even with its present problems, is a world away from the war zone years of the late-‘70s and ‘80s. Life as a young child amidst America’s largest privately-owned housing project was one of tense attempts at survival. Within the 20 high-rise towers of 18 storeys each, comprising more than 16,000 residents in more than 5,000 apartments on 42 acres- are countless alleys, stairwells, elevators, garages, twisting corridors, and basements. Vivid memories of menacing dangers, being pursued, beaten up, and mugged in that monstrous project seamlessly intertwine with my parallel experiences in the district’s streets and schools to which I had been bound.

After my parents finally moved us out to a safe neighborhood, none of us ever returned to Corona. We did not talk about it, either. Going on to high school and young adulthood in Manhattan, I had plenty of immediate concerns. I also fulfilled the promised I made to myself to leave the city in favor of peaceful shores. Yet for many years- regardless of distance or age- those crepuscular labyrinthine hallways and cement trenches, along with lingering recollections of helpless subjection to merciless thugs- continued to violate my thoughts. Wishing for these cyclical nightmares to end, I began to ponder an extraordinary pilgrimage. Aware of the potential of words and images toward healing, it became a pressing necessity to see what these places would look like now. Now, as an adult; now in the post-Guiliani law-and-order New York of what I call The New Maintenance; now with notebook, camera, and car. Suddenly, I dreamed of visiting the places of so many nightmares. I needed simply to see.

My walks to and from school still look the same as they did years ago. Imagine this at night.

It became increasingly necessary to go, so that I could see how present buries past. Years ago, I met a Mennonite pastor who described a great metaphor to me. His family farmed wild rice in the upper Midwest, and they intuitively knew precisely when to harvest. This was based upon weather, humidity, and factors they could sense- even at night- and the harvest needed to be prompt and swift. He called this “wild rice time,” and indeed there was a theological application to his expression. Making this particular travel, not just to New York but to revisit the high-rise project, found its “wild rice time.” Musing was not enough. My pilgrim steps longed to recover those left behind long ago. There were deep imprints to verify as well as to dissolve into the mists of obsolescence.

With the approval of my time-off request from work, I arranged a visit at my elementary school, and proceeded to prepare for the historic portion of this journey. Anticipating associated emotions, I planned the tough parts for the first day, with a week of city favorites and comforts to follow. This proved to be a good idea, as thoughts of seeing the streets and buildings of Corona haunted me into insomnia. I was able to tell myself that art museums, good food, and pleasant neighborhoods would reward. Before setting forth from Maine, I gathered seashells and decided I would scatter them in each of the important childhood places. Somehow this added more purpose to this strange pilgrimage. Tiny fragments from my home of choice have been left in the places I’ve survived.

Portland, Maine(above), my elementary school yard, New York City (below).

Counting down to the journey steadily unnerved and distracted me. It was as though a mental journey preceded the physical one. Very late one night, I tuned my radio to a broadcast in which a preacher quoted the biblical Paul’s advice to Timothy, his student, with a reminder that the Spirit of God is not one of fear but rather of strength, compassion, and a sound mind. Fear must not paralyze. My journal entries began describing what I called a “crumple zone” of hesitation, and a “Crucible Monday” to be endured- and with that I stopped writing and set aside the journal for several days. “Buildings and streets,” I heard myself say; “these are just buildings and streets.” The memories are not there. Though I can put them there, I can also erase them from present and future pages. It’s graphite. Yes, this called for bravery, but it seemed the greater courage was in the decision to set forth and fulfill- even more than the bravery to walk the pavement. Standing down the nightmares began with prayers, and somewhere between the highway voyage and parking the car with camera and seashells in hand, things had already changed.

Above: My junior high school, I.S. 61, at right.

As anticipated, the massive housing complex looks as unwieldy as ever, but enough years of neglect and street crime evoke a general sense of shopworn weariness. The surrounding streets are startlingly narrow and congested. Iron bars cover more than just ground-floor windows, doors, and driveways, but even upper-floor windows and balconies. Inhabitants’ gazes from windows must be filtered by wrought iron bars. This is the polar opposite of life in northern New England. Rather than to see the streets and buildings as evil, I could only feel a respectful empathy for children whose early impressions of the world must happen though barricades cemented into pitted streets. But I was thankful to be there to see everything- and for an elementary school visit that was joyous beyond my expectation. That is for another essay. Past horrors have been converted into my gratitude and a recognition of goodness. With this visit, recognizing everything I’d remembered, I could also identify the changes in these places and within myself. It was an experience of corroboration- with teachers who remember what kids like me had gone through- and contrast; of distant memory and greeting the here-and-now classroom children. My prayers are with those who struggle in crowded schools, dangerous housing projects, and through iron bars. And for those who survive, interior reconciliation and the dissolution of fears.

Below: I.S. 61 schoolyard.

Now at home, I took the first opportunity to walk across Portland to a favorite perch on the Maine State Pier. Bracing air, clear skies, circling seabirds, and old friends remind me that I’m back. Pilgrimages historically always include the return travel and the re-establishment. That is because no matter the journey, pilgrims return as changed souls proceeding to reconcile road and routine. I know that I saw more than “buildings and streets.” But today, as I write these words shortly after unpacking car and bags, I am still in the aftermath. Throughout this past week in New York, words gradually surfaced and with a small notebook I jotted them down in the subway. A couple of mornings ago, on an E train, I pencilled, “even if I’m not home yet, I’m already on the other side of this.” That night, after a full day of visiting, walking, errands, and photographing, I awakened from an unusually deep sleep, and wrote down some words: “3:20am - the closure is in realizing that what lived on so vividly in my memory is no longer going on.” To say “not going on anymore” is to deeply recognize how the chaff of bygone years ceases to exist; fears cannot dominate when they are superceded. Such proofs must be lived, it seems I’ve just done that, and will continue to proceed.

clear joy near

“Some clear joy is coming
on some slowest trains.
Do you hear
that it’s coming again.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Some Clear Joy is Coming


With the beginnings of lengthened stretches of daylight, dovetailing winter’s last breaths, scenery changes again. Circumstances remain as they’ve been, but ways in which they are perceived may represent the difference. A season’s transition directly affects sightlines, as it does the landscape itself. Early spring reminds me of how much less needs to be expended in order to be mobile. No windshield-scraping, or path-shoveling, or garment-layering required. Bold heel-landing strides supercede iceshuffling babysteps. And to go with that, roads and trails become more inviting. These familiar conduits are the same as before, yet now more passable, more seasoned by another round of elements.

The view is a peculiar one of hopeful prospects in a sea dotted with barriers. Trying to perceive beyond passthroughs and valleys, an incalculable gulf between now and the way-yonder lies before my steps. Where the present is immediately going remains as uncertain as before, yet it seems not to matter so much today. Following an uninterrupted six-month span of continuous work, a few days of rest are upcoming.

An instinct that visualizes open-ends must often do battle with the immediately tangible. Naturally, I want to know what to expect and how to be prepared. Between fulfilling quotidian obligations and connecting all the points, I try to get outside to simply notice the change of air. Through the old samenesses, wider and brighter skies draw burdens upward. As much as intuition informs, sense without consciousness mystifies. Some days, grace seems out of reach; on other days, goodness is innately imminent. Which is the mirage? Looking forward without straining ahead, perhaps the clear joy is seen without staring.

Some respite time is near. Admittedly, it’s good for morale to run the daily gauntlet with a vision of relief within reach. Now as each day arrives, thoughts of the woods, ocean, and winding roads increase in their prominence. Traffic intersections and hallways are already resembling trees and trails. To simply reach ahead is sufficient, and that is clearly felt- in the short run. In doing so, I continue writing as though my handwritten lines and rollered typing paper pave toward the future. Preferring the promising over the prohibitive, forward-looking is an impatient pursuit. But that’s no reason to wish away time. Now to muse the maps and gather provisions for a retreat.

in visibility

“I have turned around.
I’m walking back to join the choir.
Leaves are flying through the sky.

There’s a hidden life,
there’s a life that no one knows,
there are things that can’t be told.”

~ The Innocence Mission, I Left the Grounds.



Consider the meaning and significance around the idea of the non-monetary kind of credit. Getting the credit, taking the credit, denying the credit. If our memories serve us accurately, we can all remember how this thread plays through all the contexts of our days. It may have begun in the vicinity of a broken vase in a long-ago parental living room, if not in a grade-school classroom. There is credit that we want, and credit we don’t want. We want to be noticed at our best by team captains, teachers, and bosses- and by those we find attractive. But then we wish to be unnoticed by bullies, would-be muggers, and those casting blame- even if it’s justifiable. The attribution of credit, of notice, of credibility, is a great power that looms over our evolving years. Those whom we think own that power begin to look like interchangeable versions of the same few people. The quest for validation is something to be outgrown, despite ways our institutions tend to perpetuate their own versions of reward and blame. This meditation is not about the rights and wrongs of law, ethics, or decorum. Rather, it is about the human mystery that views survival as something between visibility and invisibility.

From childhood, we hunger to be noticed, but we also want to hide. Wishing for glory and credit fuels many a drive in the direction of self-preservation at any cost. Self-distinction may be a primal impulse, and thus one for which an individual must come to terms. But then, when notice comes upon us, we are often unprepared.

In my habit of closing a book or shutting off a media source when the loss of a vital thought seems imminent, one night while driving the roads, I turned off the car radio to save an idea. A radio preacher, whose delivery resembled that of a country auctioneer, asked the rhetorical question; “what would you do if you suddenly got everything you’ve wished for?” I cut him off then and there, because the thought was worth saving. I could predict he was leading up to something about ingratitude or our insatiable material appetites. Aloud in the car, I thought about payed-off student loans, perfect health, and a really good job. Afterwards I imagined walking through such idyllic settings, pinching my own arm in outright incredulity. Then I thought about being noticed. What do we expect- and when we are acknowledged, will we shrink back in disbelief? We long to be known, as much as we long to know. At the same time, wishing is more familiar than seeing a wish come to pass. If this is true, what is really expected? Perhaps the vital acknowledgment has already been made, and if this is so, there is no time to back away.

In the conflict between desiring recognition and anonymity, possessing the one, the other becomes more appealing. Thirsting to capture everything merges with the also very human trait of overwhelm. Imaginations are drawn by mystery and elusiveness, yet discovery can throw us off. Either we are diverted by expectation, or overwhelmed at the challenges of our findings. A nature accustomed to striving wants what it used to have, as well as what it cannot reach- yet rarely what is already accessible. Emergence and disappearance long for one another. Even the ancient Psalmist knew the exuberance of overt rejoicing, as much as the Divine presence as sheltering hiding place. Often, I hope for significance to my days and recognition- at about as many times as solitude, my steps drawn to concealing places that permit me to banish my troubles.

We do need our times of invisibility. An old friend for whom I once worked refers to the the jobs I have as my “tent-making” work. He reminds me of how the Apostle Paul made his living. Our paychecks help provide what we need so we can pursue our passions. I still believe in the juxtaposition of vocation and avocation. Indeed it was Paul of Tarsus who described with astonishing detachment how he observed another disposition in his baser self which waged war against the disposition of his conscience. Coming to terms with the inner conflict of striving with ignominy- while athirst for concealed space- begins by admitting too much of either is damaging. Means and ends mustn’t be confused.

In an understanding of the spectrum of living, knowing to be both abased and abound, the equilibrium of holiness is discovered. The realm of God manifests silently and discretely as grains of ferment that cause the leavening of bread. The Advent is gradual, at times difficult. Invisibility comes into being. But as with the magi, the Divine is perceptible to those who are sensitive to the signs. Yet still, there is little that we mortals can actually hasten.

Perhaps the elusiveness- even the hiddenness- of the sublime attests to the eternal as incorruptible and boundless. The Unseen Companion who briefly appeared to the Emmaus pilgrims, known to Paul as “the image of the invisible God,” taught his listeners to express their prayers in shuttered solitude to the One who knows the innermost heart. In this, invisibility is a necessary precursor to visibility. The tent-maker toiling in a deserted place, as all hard-workers enduring anguished isolation, must see such labors as preparatory ground from which to capably bear the gospel of compassion. Blessed are the overlooked, for they are lovingly recognized by their Creator.

Invisible though apparent, God’s presence is treasured deep within. Earthbound as we are, the cravings remain for the visible and for visibility. While scribing some notes the other day, the newspaper under my journal revealed one of the society pages. Those celebrities of fathomless abundance cannot blend into subways and restaurants as I can. Perhaps they wish they could. Many non-celebrities among us make efforts to be “seen.” A local paper used to poll readers about the “best places to be seen” in this small city with a “scene” of its own. A school friend used to say, “maintaining façades is too much work.” Many of us do wind up deciding what’s necessary and what’s worth our energies and time. And that brings us to consider what is of greatest value to the inherent, invisible self. And in that consideration, reinforcement is found.

Do we ever really know our strengths? It is easy to forget the powers and potential we have. That intrinsic fortitude is often threatened by what a lot of us have had to endure en route to and through adulthood. We brave through exclusions, judgments, and threats long before we can ascribe clear and forceful words to our attempted refutations. But indeed those who survive must never forget their voiceless crucible times. Today is for potentials to unfold, even if portions will remain invisible.

Now a reckoning. Conflicts may be identified and explored, but without some resolve, the terms remain barely more than if they stayed unspoken. Recording a life as it develops, my thoughts begin by taking stock in the learning experiences, being able to apply some retrospect while looking ahead. Come to think of it, the idea of blogging a personal journal is in itself a paradox of seen and unseen. Definitions of “visibility” evolve away from preoccupations with crowds and myself. I see the extremes a bit more reconciled, more content to stand apart from self. Part of that unification is in reckoning with the value of both recognition and retreat, along with a realization that reward is less and less a driving force. Outdated self-views become stale and burdensome. Possessions I no longer use are only good to give away or throw out, resembling old, recurrent, and outgrown frustrations. As with perspectives, tastes evolve. Back in high school, my father once told me that tastes change as we get older, “you’ll see,” he said; we start craving more salted and bitter things than sugary sweets. It’s a great metaphor, but he was comparing an adult’s beer with a child’s strawberry soda. Indeed, I see, as I often relish obscurity. But I innately know that I’ve also been very gradually called forth out of that obscurity. Venturing to predict the future’s details would not be worth the trouble. There are things that can’t be told. It seems wiser to temper the striving against prohibitive currents, and gratefully engage the settings I’ve got to work with- however modest the results. The hidden life takes root, and living roots are rarely visible at the surface.

June 30th

“We have saved our days the whole year.
We will wear our summer clothes.
Walk for miles in the sun
and remember every one,
and say we know this place,
we know.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Geranium Lake


Growing up in New York City, June 30th always had the connotation as being the last possible day of school. It was so liberating, despite the nervousness of report cards and averages. Today’s sundrenched cool air reminds me of those annual sendoffs from homeroom (and even the earlier elementary days when all subjects were covered in one room). All that was necessary, on June 30th, was to show up. There was no more homework left to cough up.

We’d report in for the last day of school sans heavy book bags. School itself- the institutional hallways, the grey window-filtered diffracted light, and even the vague acquaintances outside predictable circles of friends- all suddenly endeared. It’s when one steps onto the docks of terra firma that the decrepit old boat gathers fondness. During the traversal and those endless stretches of distance, abundance is ascribed to curses and divisions among the crew. Many of us see similar templates far into our adult working lives. We’ve always known we can’t influence much of anything beyond our reach, but we rarely give up trying. June 30th of this year, yet another calendar’s round-trip away from asphalt schoolyards left behind, hasn’t got the air of ammonia-scrubbed floors and desks but instead the aromas of my Atlantic harbor home.

One thing of which I never grow weary is to write in the openness of fresh air. Even in winter. Sounds of seagulls and scents of the ocean precisely call to mind where I am. The old things are past, and behold- this morning all things are become new.

striving and striding

“Walking around,
You know I’ve had enough of this trouble
following me high and low.
Now it can go.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Walking Around


As with most weekday mornings en route to work, the postmaster and I exchanged greetings. “How’s it going,” I asked. This time, Jim replied with “I’d complain, but I won’t.” My immediate response was, “we each have a place to go.” A bit of work is a slice of sustenance. Having a place to go draws implications beyond the utilitarian trudge. As one’s work is a destination, so is a walk. Some people tell me going for a walk with no purpose is pointless. I must differ; indeed a meaningless stroll has great purpose. Less is more. From carefree jacketless jaunts to heavily-equipped winter expeditions, I remain deeply grateful for my mobility. Rather than appearing as obstacles, weather and terrain provide ingredients for the adventure. The paths of my upbringing wove through large, multidimensional cities. As a child, my grandmother and I would promener (go walking) together through our Arrondissement (the 17th); she would soften day-old bread with water for us to break off morsels to feed the birds.

Going for a walk, of any length, is a break out of the box. A taking to a trail away from the rutted roads of repeated routine. A means of escape? Perhaps; but if so, this is the necessary kind to re-engage the marches of time. A good walk comprises motion to slow things down. Just as going out with a camera to create a sense of a scene that draws your attention. An observation stops the pace, changes vantage point, and preserves an image. Teaching photo students, I’ll often say, “be a tourist in your own town.” Notice places familiar and changed. Turning corners and traversing roadways, thoughts will change- even opinions. As the mind diverts, what is cherished comes to the fore. Simmering the questions, strolls test and revise perspective. Blending the mind’s ingredients, an outdoor walk resembles the randomness of dreams. Notice how birds glide from tree to tree.

With paces preferring manageable paths, balance comes to mind. Striding and striving, often forcing matters becomes counterproductive. To strive, in this context, is to unnecessarily struggle and overattempt. To walk is to entertain patience. Aperch on a bench, amidst a city thoroughfare, the elements remind me to not be irritated by things removed from my control. Excessive striving is no friend of a good effort. We get accustomed to being so compelled as to force every detail into shape- and then to vigilantly guard these interests. How about an endeavor not to excessively exert? “Be paced, poised, and avoid burnout,” I mused while waiting to cross a street. Varying views change frames of mind.

There is middle ground between leaving things to be as they are (or as they develop), and constantly looking to adapt them (even compulsively). The latter viewpoint fixates upon the next thing. I’d be the last to advocate complacency; at the same time there is a worthwhile awakening in the consideration that one cannot get blood from a turnip. The preferable path sidesteps resignation, yet knows repose. The ancient gem, “study to be quiet,” originated in Paul’s criticism of materialistic and empire-building emphases among elites of ancient Greek society.

“Our dignity is tied to our ability to be thinking beings,” wrote Pascal. For me, this translates as the capability of conscientiousness. To think for oneself is to do so unabashedly- without façade. Technology and tools to be as gladly used as put away, giving priority to simplicity. Getting outside, away from the “virtual,” encourages continuation of cultivating skills that require thought and dexterity. When it can be done, easing the pace opens a view to observe treasures immediately at hand- and the trove may be that very midst itself.

beginning the world

“Always the same underdog stance
under the same happy-sad sky,
eternally crying. Am I still shy?

I am always beginning the world
beginning the world.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Beginning the World


Only in the last couple of days I’ve resumed journaling, after more than a week’s hiatus. A week without assembling words is in itself indicative of a disruption of life’s pace. But with the resumption of narrative is a persistent questioning of the meaning of progress. What are the determinants of the soul’s advancement?

The mystery of real progress is akin to that of time. Mile markers along roads indicate linear distances, yet it is common in many lives to repeatedly pass by the same signs. Even with experiences of bicycle marathons and pool-swimming laps, I wonder if there’s been any tangible progress in the grand scale of my continuum. Or enough. Such pre-occupations become off-putting to me, and I’d prefer to deflect them. The big world is rife with human hardships, revealing an absurdity to worries about the small spaces beneath my feet. They are fleeting, and recognizable by their contexts and connotations. Trying to define self and success is, alas, unavoidable. And if thoughts are to be documented- albeit in passing- even the expressions of obscurity have their places, especially before a re-launch.

Momentum. A fair share of days seem to begin by just showing up. In an effortless perpetual motion, my multitasking flows among objectives, interactions, connecting points of due dates, and even the unscheduled interruptions. Tasks can even be accomplished while other projects are being done. In the broader sense, work demands can weave between reflection, leisure, memory, and aspiration. One motion feeds another. Knowledge from one school or job adds to the sum and solution of an application in another. Sometimes things actually work this way, as though decades of rollers and gears have effortlessly and purposefully joined.

Inertia. Stubborn weeds among the fruitful time periods are those spells of overcoming resistance. Moving out of inactivity (or too much of the same activity) seems to require rebuilding. It’s as though the world must be recommenced from its foundations. A few dependable systems falter, or perhaps become obsolete, and suddenly all seems thrown backwards. A “system” may be mechanical, or internal, or ethereal. And the breach can be mild and unapparent, or overt and stagnating. Stagnation can be so profound that energy must be consumed just to be able to stand- let alone imagining a sustained posture. Navigating through and out of inertia puts the soul in an unusual sensitivity that takes nothing for granted. Through the dark night comes a surrendering of unproductive drives for control, despite the unknowing. While sensing what appears a very fine thread holding everything together, there is a parallel challenge that this may be an effect of impaired perspective. Though it is easy to admit to knowing very little, it is equally difficult to be convinced that nothing essential is lacking. Wondering about being “behind in the game” only invites defeatism. Especially in these times. Inertia and resistance can be overcome with a beginning as basic as counting the blessings of what is good.

A recommencement can retrace the remembrance of momentum. Chroniclers can retrieve journals written in brighter days and revisit the old fighting form that made reaching these shores possible. In yet more adventures of trust, my thoughts must repeat as often as necessary that the unseen Holy Spirit will always hold my footsteps firm. Looking forward through unknowing and material uncertainty is an act of faith. Holding to it is a continuous exercise of trust. There is one direction to go, and that is forward. In so doing, that tension must give way to savored paces that reclaim the airspaces connecting being with environment.

Only a few days ago, I exercised a decision I did not fully realize I had. Hurtled forward by salesmen and financial experts, I very nearly bought a house that I didn’t really like- and could barely afford. Indeed, habitations can be investments, but they must also be worthy places to live. Though a valuable learning experience, the whole episode was one of helpless despair. It began to resemble a perilous conveyor belt rolling my misgivings to a distribution dock of no return (and no savings). In the faces of financiers, I followed the forceful intuition I almost suppressed. If I can possibly help it, faith in the future will trump fear and fatalism. I stopped a process that began in trepidation and the ensuing peace has been palpable.

In my gratitude, few things are taken for granted. Something has indeed changed, and by continuing on I’ll find out. I paid the building inspector, adding a thank-you letter (written on my cursive typewriter), and will pay February’s rent with a relished relief. As I came to see it, all those I met in the process were fine souls. It is in weakness that strength is discovered. I ponder the immortality that happenstance causes me to brush against. It is the heart of God that connects all of us. With this surprise of the freedom already possessed, I happily donated to a few charitable causes. The ability to give is in itself a gift presented to me. I know my steps are guided- even to a threshold of my own some day. But for now I will have to “begin the world” to some extent, though it needn’t be more than simply reconnecting to all I love best.