songs in the night

“He said within himself-
Surely, if men be tried and troubled exceedingly,
it is because, while they think about their troubles and
distress themselves about their fears, they do not say,
‘Where is God my Maker, who giveth songs in the night?’”

~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon, Songs in the Night

Winter winds have returned recollections to me that highlight reminders of many late nights ago. In the process of becoming a self-possessed high school student in the early 1980s, I developed a habit of staying awake late into the night. Being the only soul awake in the house, I’d perch at my desk with school art projects spread on the surface- with the radio nearby. The volume was kept low, out of respect, as well as to enjoy the quiet. Even New York City tones itself down very late at night. My tastes have always tended to times long preceding mine. History and depth were always understood to be intertwined. After all, une histoire means “a story,” too. Elder teachers, family members, and neighbors had the most captivating stories with matching dramatic recitative voices. Coming of age at a crossroads was somehow clear to me, and I would ponder this during my midnight musings, already longing for more warmblooded times. In the graininess of night, books, outer clothing, and satchel rested still as granite, but the radio was on. Before AM broadcasting became fully infested with political pugilists, much of the programming gave airspace to local commentators. New York’s abundant airwaves were resplendent with stories, reminiscences, and musings- in between round-the-clock news stations and music. Perhaps the older radio personalities also thought themselves at crossroads.

Listening to calming tones eases the environment and creates an oasis in time. Indeed, as sound is involved, spoken and musical content must soothe, lest the frequency be changed to another station. In my farthest memories- and there still exists some of this today- I’ve enjoyed live broadcasts during which the radio hosts reflect with anecdotes, or converse with guests, or place verbal interludes among music selections, or address the audience as a counterpart. “How in the world are you?” was how King’s College president Robert A. Cook would begin each of his radio offerings. The more interesting commentators display a signature style. Some have been able to make their commercials into entertaining extensions of their shows. Art Raymond, on WEVD, would advertise sponsoring eateries and tell the audience what to order at these businesses.

During dark and solitary hours, the earth and all its life forces continue unceasingly. I knew this from my window, at my desk, with the radio on. Such diversions are able to distract individuals away from making life’s boundaries into something as narrow as a table surface. My radio imaginings would include picturing the sources of the broadcasts. Studios are ensconced in large downtown office buildings, with announcers and technicians awake through the night hours. Some of them tell us how cold it is outside, and about traffic patterns on the roads and bridges. Through all the textbook diction, I could detect local accents. I remember how I could hear Richard Gladwell puffing on his pipe amidst gentle narratives within his classical music show. To this day, I often look at the radio while listening; perhaps many others do this, too. The gesture is similar to that of respectfully eyeing the person speaking to you.

This Philips radio from France has the perfect home in my apartment, with a slanted back
that exactly matches wall's angle.

Among our treasures we find our own iconography: gifts, heirlooms, and the finds that for us mean more than their surface appearances. Indeed, material is inherently temporal, but meaning is transcendently enduring. Only through personal experience can the iconographic aspects of places, things, sounds, and even thoughts be discovered and realized. It is for each of us to comprehend meaning and grasp that which is solid in our spirits. Radio is at least as endlessly fascinating to me as it is to see a photographic image manifest in a tray of developer. Even after all these years. There are technical and scientific explanations for these processes, yet the magic of retrieving sound signals from the air exceeds rationalization.

A radio’s purpose is to clearly receive a range of frequencies, and it must be tuned and positioned to make reception possible. And the goal of the radio’s purpose is for a person’s ability to listen. Radios have no memory. They do not store their commodities. Like cameras, they are instruments designed to register the moment. If such objects are considered in an iconographic context, we can ascribe our personal memories to these instruments. You may see a Realistic Chronomatic 9, but I always see the 15th birthday gift from my father. He offered to buy a television for me, but I said I’d rather have a radio. Over the years, I’ve added a few antiques, and find it remarkable how well they continue to work daily- thus defying the culture of manufactured obsolescence.

Providing company at work. The G.E. radio (top right),
a gift from my lifelong best friend, has accompanied me
through schools, studios, apartments, and many workplaces.

From my nighttime desk, the warmth of quiet music emanating from my radio aperch by the arching lamp, the new year stretches out before me. True to ascribed iconography, the small Grundig on my desk is understated yet far-reaching. It reflects this very instant, having neither past nor future. Yesterday’s news, scores, and statements are forgiven. Brightly through night hours, sounds of Mozart sweeten the horizonless abyss. Its life is a constant update; times and temperatures are always of the moment. The parable of the radio is one of receptivity and discernment, with static cleared away. Winter’s deeps remind us that above reportage and ads are angelic messengers bearing words of assurance. Mystery steeps our midst, and we’ve but to merely acquiesce.

A bright morning near the radio at The Palace Diner,
in Biddeford Maine.

on a string

“Look at the crowds bleeding with laughter
over the way you entertain at beckon call.
They don’t see behind the lights
or the painted background.
They just like to see you fall.

But you really don’t mind,
‘Cause you’re just wasting time.
You can’t feel anything.
Just a boy on a string.”

~ Jars of Clay, Boy on a String

for the road

“There is no real contemplation of God unless it is followed by a glance upon the world.”
~ André Pinet, Benedictine monk of Saint-Bénoît sur Loire, France

hidden and treasured

“Wonder will be the sign
that we are on the way.”

~ Monks of Weston Priory, Song of Creation


These days, I get home from work and land in a heap. Perhaps it’s the month-plus of damp weather; perhaps it was my struggle out of an illness a few weeks ago- or even routines both tedious and precarious. Summer is a rather uncharacteristic time to sense the relentlessness of the long haul. Even my car looked battle weary, especially as its alternator finally gave out- en route to the repair shop. Watching my faithful road-craft up on the garage lift caused me to wonder about maintaining direction. Not to mention its cost. Indeed, keeping inspired means more than focus. Even beneath the weight of tedium there needs to be an enduring sense of wonder.

By this, I am thinking of something more than surface curiosity. The water is wide, and this marathon continuum must traverse the most exhausting terrain. Oswald Chambers wrote how “drudgery is the touchstone of character,” referring to that state of affairs in which there is “no illumination, no thrill, but just the daily round; the common task.” We are enjoined to hallow the ordinary. By doing this my thoughts turn to questioning the sources from which I appear to live- and the sources that need more of my attention.

Somehow, in the face of this marathon’s trials, there seems a form of spiritual adrenaline. Yet, still, inspiration cannot be coaxed; it must be discovered- and not as a focal point, rather a beginning. And for those of us who write, we know the subtleties- even the elusiveness- of creativity. My end of things is left to alertness, flexibility, and motion. The insights invariably arrive, but ever reminding me they are not entirely of my powers. The less strain, it seems, the more pertinent. For instance, during a workday break, I decided not to write, but instead to enjoy a rare moment of calm weather to perch on a bench amidst the sounds and rainglossed colors of the weekly downtown farmers’ market. Witnessing the vendors’ collective relief caused me to take stock of the nuances that strengthen. Many smiles and servings of free samples. It reminded me that keeping aware also means seeking ways to learn anew. With renewed perspectives, the small notices become key pivot points.

If I’m going to keep from stopping dead in my tracks, it will be necessary to follow reminders I saw at the mechanics’ garage. A wise elder friend once taught me that although hardships are inevitable, misery is always optional. This line of thinking paves the way for a view that sees dilemmas as temporary. Stepping stones leading from one to another, simply as means of access. As my parameters seem to close in, there is useful intuition in simply going out- even for those fifteen minutes in the swirl of the open-air market. The trick is to never quit trying to find the energizing gems, the needed vitamins, the words of inquiry and of life, to keep my steps in forward travels. Living hope untethers from tedium, even well aware of the stepping-stone-shaped trials. In a simple exterior instant, my immediate sphere comprehends something new. But how self-centered to presume that which appears to revolve around me! More accurately, my being is an ingredient in the spheres of others. To what extent is not for me to know. The unknowing is more than satisfactory.

l'esprit consolateur

“Hold on
to what you believe is right;
Don’t let anyone turn your eyes.
Look ahead;
Don’t stop to look behind.
The past ain’t no friend of mine.”


~ Mike Peters and The Alarm, We Are the Light

After work, I went back out for a walk. The outdoors, in such varied forms, can present the world to me as refreshingly greater than the constraints of workday routines. Perhaps some of you know those paradoxical occasions of being simultaneously saturated and drained. It happens; fortunately, not every day. Giving and doing require the counterbalance of reflection and release. So out I stepped, stoop to sidewalk and across my street in a westerly direction, away from busy thoroughfares. My feet needed to move, so that I could absorb fresh cool air and the panorama of the night sky. Mazes of shadowed streets, interspersed with green spaces, dissolved fine details into the night’s landscape. My steps slowed to notice a lit doorway here, a window there, and finally upwards to stars.

Intuitively, seeking a place to focus my thoughts, my steps brought me to a church courtyard with a very plainly sculpted statue and glass-encased votives planted in the ground. The stone carved outstretched hands gave me just enough detail to resettle my thoughts, in the darkness, and the peace of that moment became a reminder of the Spirit which calls from within. I remembered a recent monastic pilgrimage at which, upon my weary arrival, I could only gaze at a sparsely-lit icon. The sight was profoundly comforting, and my prayer that night- and for the following two weeks- began with, “what words do you have for me?” An unexpected dialogue. Just a few days ago, outside under the night sky in the small courtyard, that familiar question returned to my thoughts. “What words are there?” What might I learn anew of this hidden wisdom that impresses so deeply- this concealed knowledge that eludes contrivance?

Intermissions from repeated routines, such as the quiet brisk walks, bespeak a thirst for clarity of thought- and for assurance. Specifically, a state of being assured is to be certain in mind and confident in manner. When we are assured, we find ourselves free of self-doubt. In the obscurity of the courtyard, under a night sky, the word settling in my stilled thoughts was believe, recalling the context, “let not your heart be troubled.” Surely a consolation for one who strives relentlessly. Now I question whether outcomes and personal worth are results entirely dependent upon my efforts. Stopping to breathe and reconsider in that courtyard took more discipline for me than to simply persist in my usual customary uphill marching. With trusting steps, there will be less for me to unlearn and more to comprehend.

Cloaked in shadowy hues that blended firmament and ground, it came to mind that I have indeed known the soul’s ascent. And this brings me to reflect upon the wonder of submerging in God, rather than pushing myself to emerge with recognition. Little recollective tastes to remind me that I do know the source of spiritual consolation, and I don’t doubt the place of Divine friendship to which I’m called. There are apprehensions in fears of being forgotten, and that may be a basis for my powerful memory. As well, the motivation to preserve is to see to it that essentials of living and caring are not tossed away, but instead enshrined within. But why remember wrongs more indelibly than goodness? Memory is so unquantifiable a mystery, yet it instructs me to cease steering into dead-end roads and expect them to be passable. Considering reality without becoming jaded. In this Advent season, my thoughts turn to creative visitation of Spirit into sense.

Between scurrying and spaces of solace, a slice of Silent Night has appeared to me- in uncomplicated anonymity. The world can seem so small, when our slavish pursuits can set us into narrow trenches. Ascent and assurance follow aspiration- and an openness to the serendipitous present, rather than to assume all that is needed, with the exact forms these answers must take. Aspiring is much like dreaming, and I hope for neither to become foreign to me. If I am to revel in the sphere of dreams, then I do need to untether myself from derailing diversions and defeatism. Yesterday, I was remembering the report card comment for which I’m proudest of all: At the end of my year of second grade, my teacher filled in the comment box with, “he daydreams too much in class.” My colorful high-floor view of the swirl of 94th Street was far more captivating, evidently, than whatever was being taught from the blackboard. And I’m still learning the fine balance between disciplined structure and healthy sidelines. But we need not consider whether it is permissible to dream, or all right to look further than this week’s problem-solving. Perhaps no-one can remind us to pursue realms of hidden wisdom, above and beyond “the wisdom of this age.” We can, however concealed, manifest consolation, and be living reminders for others. Our prayers are surely not unheard whispers in the wind. Now to believe and to remember this.

tout cela

“Tu toucheras la terre
La mer porteuse d’îles
Tu verras les bateaux,
La barrière et le moine
Le château et le pont
Et tous les champs d’avoine.
C’est à toi tout cela.”

~ Félix Leclerc, Tu te lèveras tôt

la nourriture spirituelle

"To the one that overcomes will I give to eat of the hidden bread from heaven,
And I will give to each one a white stone,
and on the stone will be engraved a new name that no one understands
except the one who receives it."

~ Revelation 2:17


"For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.
And having food and clothing let us be therewith content."

~ 1 Timothy 6:7,8

Beginning again, as I am brought once more to see the ends of my own self, this has evidently become a time for rebuilding. Recommencements are not quite as rare as they might sound, especially in the espousing of a life that is in essence a succession of beginnings. Indeed, as no two starts are alike, so our reasons for rethinking our realities must be unique to our circumstances. Ideals are not produced by pre-made molds. Thus, personal renewals manifest in various forms and for different reasons. Our explorations and discoveries may bring us to new realizations- or- new reluctant perceptions seem forced upon us by the elements outside of us within which we play a role. Still, new insights, whether through challenge or welcomed gift, are for me to actively engage by perceiving anew and adapting my efforts. It is easy to lose sight of essentials when days become crammed with complicated demands and extraneous distractions that proliferate as weeds, winding around the cultivated vines of vision. As I continue to learn the disciplines of balance, I am not always tenaciously weeding the garden as I ought, and so eventually many of my restarts become something closer to excavation projects. When a renewal must become more of a resuscitation, not only is a rebuilding from one’s foundation needed, but also the alarms of exhaustion are implicit.

A sure way to change how we perceive and move in this continuum is to amend how we nourish ourselves- physically and spiritually. On this blustery and empty-handed day in May, memories come to mind that cause me to recollect how I’ve had to confront my life with fresh starts for the sake of my own constructive survival. One such occasion entailed making a leap of faith, leaving a university without another opportunity in sight for me to continue my work and learning pursuits. Leading up to the breaking point, each strand of my life’s situations had deteriorated to despairing extents. All that was left, it seemed, was my determination that there were better ways for me to invest my heart, soul, resources, and valuable efforts. Within the protracted anguish was a near-fatal accident which, of course, intensified the sum total of the experience. On the afternoon of the sole occasion in my life in which I had quit something, a job unfinished as it were- but more accurately having leapt from a sinking ship, I set every swirling and burdensome obligation down and made it all stop. While speaking to my best friend on the phone, those immense research projects suddenly looked like absurd piles of paper. My friend persisted in asking me about whether I had been eating properly; "brother, you need to rebuild," he added, giving me his version of a dietary prescription. Through the fatigue and anguish, I could just retain the advice, but putting down the phone, all things hushed, I went outside. No longer facing down, I noticed the late-April sun as I set my bicycle on the pavement and pedaled for the oceanside meadows of Gilsland Farm- a place I hadn’t seen in far too long. Setting the bicycle down, I reclined on a hillside and gazed up at the vast and clean-slated sky. The moment was a cathartic and unexpected gift. I had taken my journal and my tattered Thomas à Kempis with me, and before setting forth to find healthy food, I read a few wise words to begin replenishing my empty reserves and opened my journal to write. "I have come back to life," my words began, realizing I hadn’t written in five months.

Comprehending a lived sense of balance is to maintain steady strength and spirit, and not languish to the point of starvation. Revisiting old journals, I would like to think I’ve gained something. Amid currents of anxiety and instability, I am learning to balance my active involvements with a vigilant proximity to wellsprings of life. The call to pursue a contemplative road comprises a commitment to consistently cultivate a spiritual life. But, as I am finding, built into the pursuit is stewardship: care and repose for the earthen vessels that we are, as well as responsibly procuring spiritual food. Both kinds of nutrients not only strengthen and help us in our forward motion, but also build a resistance to the overwhelming threat of cynicism. Very late one night last week, unable to sleep and too distracted to read, I sought the consoling sounds of the radio. It never ceases to amaze me, when I stumble over one of these nightshift national talk programmes that serve only to stoke the fires of conspiratorialism and paranoia. And since we all know how misery loves company, long queues of listeners chime in and figuratively roll that snowball of destructive fatalism enough to prompt casual inquires to despair for their lives. Needless to say, hardly half an hour’s tales of impending doom, terror invasions, and space aliens were enough to produce a very disturbed night’s sleep. The next morning, I thought about the smokescreens of angst that I encounter at so many turns- including the social circles I daily move through- and could only hold fast to the precious confidence I’ve fiercely tended. Running some errands, my thoughts and my car paused long enough at a stop light for me to pencil these words in my notebook: "broaden the horizons and transcend the malaise." I remembered something I’d learned from the witness of monastic spirituality: to keep myself on the quest for supernal realities, or as Carthusian monks would say- the "superiorum appetitio."

With a few hearty meals and an accumulation of good words from wise and caring people, my prayers are accompanied, and I am looking ahead to some upcoming days of silent reflection. In my experience, a life of both active participation and solitude comprise two elements that nourish one another. Both are part of the rebuilding process, but in retreat, as Thomas Merton expressed in The Silent Life, it is possible to "discover the hidden sweetness of the psalms, the value of study and reading, intense fervor in prayer, the delicate sense of spiritual realities in meditation, the ecstasy of contemplation, and the purifying tears of compunction." Part of this stock-taking is to be reminded of my constant learning, and part of that is how I am informed through contrasts: craving solitude when encroached upon, authenticity when confronted with facades, and strength of faith when burdened by promulgators of fear. A great paradox that parallels the path of the spirit is how our ascending brings us to humility, while being brought low we are raised up to greater heights than before. Many of us recall old sayings about how the foods that are best for us are not always the ones that taste best. On the spiritual journey, a deepening sense of conviction and direction will subject a soul to face one’s own solitudes and even much disheartening disregard. Humility and a healthy awareness of context can help soothe the bitter taste of ignominy.

Being connected to this world (and not under the cover of a cloister), an awareness of my natural competitive ambitions cause me to temper the old desires for recognition, as they collide with the spiritual life of compassionate deference. The call to ascend sacred heights is intertwined with barefooted humility. How does a soul that aspires for holiness and the things of God make sense of a culture that is so propelled by such simultaneous conflicts as dismissive disregard and over-achievement? Admittedly, these are generalizations, and indeed there won’t be very detailed general responses. Matters of conscience are reckoned with, as they surface. Aspiring for better days and improved situations attests to our intrinsic properties as thinking beings. We advance to survive; the difference is in the spirit of our choices and how we act upon them (or not), and our considerations of others in the process. Those discretionary decisions bear heavily upon the human conscience and how we develop sensitivities to those around us.

For me, it is to always keep the sense of my life’s purpose in mind. Yet there remains the drive to excel, to do better, to make things work, and to bring goodness to others. To know that all the hard work has been worth something. To be known. Recognition, itself, is a topic intricate enough for many reflective essays. Sure, I’ve received some significant acknowledgments through years of toil- but is it sustenance? Is it nourishment, especially in this society of the five-minute attention span? How much is necessary, and in what forms? One wonders whether survival is the reward, especially with so much emphasis upon people outlasting one another. Perhaps the words and rewards are as precious as we deem them to be, as these represent encouragements for how we ply our resources- much as the biblical parable of the workers entrusted with their talents which were meant to be invested. Indeed, the good and faithful servants received the most meaningful kind of recognition, but that was after the tasks were done- after they had acted upon their motivation. Their principles were simply, yet poignantly reinforced. The treasures dearest to us are intangible, and thus unlimited, however vulnerable. Commenting on the tug-of-war between the extremes of humility and pride, Merton warned of, "the awful impulsion to throw everything overboard for the sake of fame and prosperity." Preparing to journey into some days of silence, I am taking comfort in the cherished hiddenness of consecrated life. Peace of heart is in proportion to our detachment from that which is fleeting in this world. My hope is to regain, again and again, a clear sight of what points to a good and peaceable future. For the time being, I shall endeavor to be content with the morsels on my plate and the raiment on my back- and to be thankful.

recognition

Writing Award

To my surprise, and with much gratitude, I have received a writing award for La Vie Graphite, called
A Roar for Powerful Words.
A great thanks to Lissa, of Just Write

Such sweet news comes at a time in which I have been taking stock of how important writing has become to my life. Now I have a chance to encourage other writers. I’ve been asked to list 3 necessary ingredients that I believe to be necessary to make writing "good and powerful." Of course, in the open-ended world of journaling and creative writing, there will be many ways for very many writers, but here are just a few:


1. Authenticity.
Write what you have to say with your most honest voice. If you are remembering something from childhood, try to recall your points of view from those times. Describe places, textures, light, air, and feelings as accurately as you can- to the degree that you deem important. Details and emphases are up to you, but authentic representations and responses let you move further across your themes, times, and places.


2. Passion.
Take a strong position about your subjects, whatever they may be. Even if it may be unglorious or despairing. Stand your ground with your written voice; that is far more important than grammatical scrupulosity. Write as though if you left your page blank, the bricks around you would cry forth. You are writing what must be written- and it can be about absolutely anything. You are in charge; you are the wielder of words.


3. Internalization.
To go with writing authentic descriptions of what you’ve seen and felt- past and present, try and take what you are learning to heart. To your deepest heart. Surely not to harangue yourself into a paralysis of analysis, but to simply write your situations and challenges in such ways as to invite the possibility that you are recognizing a new experience. I find that I can "write through" a hardship, and emerge from it with more clarified vision. Yes, it’s a process, and so we all keep on writing because so many of us make this part of our lives.


Now I am pleased to recommend five finely-written and well expressed blogs:

Wonderwall of Words

Everything Needs Rearranging

A Priest's Musings on the Journey

Incarnatus Est

People Reading
(which includes Dogeared )

"There are in all of us
certain thoughts which seem to have
a character entirely different from others."

~ Novalis

open hands

Deep water
Black, and cold like the night
I stand with my arms wide open
I've run a twisted line...

I could not see for the fog in my eyes
I could not feel for the fear in my life
From across the great divide
In the distance I saw a light...


~ Daniel Lanois, The Maker

My steps along roads and through woods had brought me to a captivating river. It was just the other day. Strikingly bright light and saturated blue expanses drew contrasts against flowing ice, breaking away from the riverbanks. I needed to climb down to the water, and establish a clear memory of warming sun above stinging icy currents. Amidst a voyage, even a personal exodus, arriving at the side of a river represents the accomplishment of having covered some rugged undetermined distance, however this is but an encampment. The river must be traversed. The arrival is but a departure, and my crossing-over is with gratitude rather than regret. So I go.


With open hands, my intention is to release and not grasp at what was, or is incalculably yet to be. But this released grip is not a rescinding of my responsibility, rather an embrace of the moment and to look forward. For me to extend an openness- to others and to this springtime- there must be an unburdening of all that encumbers my being. And further along, surpassing roads and rivers, must come the recollection of maintaining the true meaning of the open gesture and not to be brought down by the weight of what is past. For me to let go is to make room; not for more self-defeat, but for the presence of those I encounter, as well as for the present that is given.


On my work-day breaks, when I can collect my thoughts, a sense of what my inner vernacular calls "losing the silence" becomes troubling. And that seems to me as something contradictory. Experience is now reminding me how silly it is to worry about not wanting to worry! It is rather like Meister Eckhart, in the 14th century, pondering the notion of the feeling of God being far away. He wrote that when feeling a "loss" of the Creator's presence, one should return to doing what they did when they felt the greatest spiritual consolation. It is as if to say I must retrace to where I knew I left off, along many miles of travel. Even if that might be in the simplicity of sensing of my own breathing.