civilization

“We’re all mystics. That’s no observation.
It’s a demand placed on life.
No human being ought merely to spend the day...
For everyone, there ought to be places of free intentionality
where vision can happen...
The sentence, ‘we’re all mystics,’ contains in itself
the right of every human being to have beauty and vision.”

~ Dorothee Sölle, The Silent Cry: Mysticism and Resistance.

Unless you’ve been living an extremely uncommon worklife, you’ve surely come to know the perfunctory dysfunction that wafts through typical company meetings. Stiff and rarely efficiently or engagingly led, such experiences bring back indelible memories of school lunchrooms during adolescence. In some foundational ways, the sights, sounds, smells, and basic dynamics of the cavernous cafeteria in New York City’s Intermediate School Number 61 introduced me to what I’ve frequently encountered throughout professional life so far. Obviously, the cast of characters changes, but the patterns and archetypes became identifiable among cliques, rival gangs, bullies ringleaders, quiet followers, fighters, quitters, smirkers, comedians, caring personalities, rebels, competitors, self-destructives, arbiters of cool, and dreamers. Where I grew up, within the city, my friends and I would band together for safety- both physical and psychological. And we all either graduated or somehow transitioned out of these institutions. I saw all these types in summer camp, too, and surely thereafter in workplaces. Having been viciously bullied (always the youngest and easiest target), I’ve mused over the years about what those relentlessly malicious kids became in their adult lives. Age doesn’t automatically cure bullying. I know this. Did they wind up criminals? Politicians? Corporate executives? Maybe some repented of their cruelties? I guess it’s not for me to know. Inevitably, we all have to live with ourselves.

For the bulk of his career, my father worked as a principal in a major accounting firm with offices around the world. He was very well-liked and respected. As a kid, I couldn’t distinguish between his colleagues and his staff, seeing how collegial he was with everyone. I was deeply impressed by his egalitarianism, and I try to apply that as I’m able. Another trait I’ve inherited is Dad’s distaste for purposeless and protracted meetings. He used to tell me that “meetings are the most unproductive thing you can inflict on others.” I remember he had a wide ballpoint pen that had a digital clock built into the barrel- kind of a novelty. He called it his “meeting pen.” When he absolutely had to call a meeting, he kept them short, and would begin by apologizing to all present, while pointing to that pen-clock he’d perch on the conference table with, “Don’t worry; I’m watching the time.” He told me all of this, when I was about 16. Everyone, including me, found him inspiring and inevitably a leader worth following.

But that’s an exception to the usual. I’m among the too-many that know the ritual all too well: obsolete, aimless, self-congratulatory (reminiscent of the plights of Reginald Perrin of BBC fame), and anything memorable would be due to its egregiousness. In my supervisory roles, I copied something I’d picked up from a manager I had in a fast-paced photo lab. With a thick Boston accent, he’d say, “Keep talking with each othah, and do good work.” My version of that has been, “If we keep lines of communication open, we won’t need meetings.” This really works. I refer to how we innately wish to accomplish. And paths of least annoyance comprise brevity, purpose, the absence of jargon, and not forcing others to provide their “fun facts.” In my teaching capacity, I’ve developed the expression, “invited, but not obliged.” If there must be guiding attributes, let them be mutuality and informativeness. We do, after all, have work to do.

Workplaces that are also places of public service have to balance two general spheres: one is insular among staff, and the other is outward-facing toward recipients (customers). Distinct communities, with their respective, complex dynamics. Then there’s an off-duty life that occasionally sees the social circles converge. Admittedly, I’m hardly an exemplar, neither do I have any formulae, yet I attempt at consistency in all efforts. Among proving-grounds is the small city of the majority of my adult life, which includes a number of denizens that studied a variety of subjects with me, along with receiving research help from me, attended religious services I’ve led, and dined on pastries I’ve baked. And all have heard me cite “do unto others,” and the rest of the Golden Rule.

This G.E. Superadio has been with me since I was 19, pulling in broadcasts through concrete walls and steel structures.

In this world that encompasses the brutish culture through which many of us must navigate, I think a lot about civility and the disappearance of decorum. In my public-facing department at work, my portable radio is tuned to the region’s classical music station- at a subtly low volume. It keeps me company, and patrons tell me they like what they hear. There are even comments about the object itself: “Is that a real radio?” Collectors acknowledge that it’s a G.E. Superadio. I’ve mentioned how I’ve owned the radio since college, that it’s been with me, as accompaniment, in numerous art studios, archives, and apartments. Among my several, smaller radios is one that regularly travels with me. Even the nice hotels have ceased adorning rooms with anything other than large shrill flatscreen advertisement-players. And thus I bring my own version of civilization along with me. There are always public radio affiliates and soothing music for my listening. And I always bring my own coffee mug.

Productivity for the ages; careful and fast.
Radio in background; coffee thermos at lower right corner.

Maybe you have your own practices, determining your acceptable and portable civility, as you move through this world. As well, you might also carry various elements of your civilization with you. There are, indeed, the essentials of a workday, a schoolday, or an excursion: keys, phone (within which there may be some of your digital civilization), wallet, journal, laptop, et cetera. Don’t forget that elusive charging cable. It gets more complex with longer sojourns. In my example, the ubiquitous satchel includes extra writing materials, hand wipes, camera, granola bar, peppermints, rosary, and something to read on buses and trains. If a suitcase is involved, there’s a radio in it. And what about those aforementioned meetings? A memo pad and a pencil; ideas are hatching all the time, and I need to hold those thoughts for later elaboration. Time, precious as it is, needs to accommodate productive musing.

silent spaces

“For silence is not God, nor speaking; fasting is not God,
nor eating; solitude is not God, nor company; nor any other pair of opposites.
God is hidden between them and cannot be found by anything your soul does,
but only by the love of your heart.”

~ An Epistle of Discretion in the Stirrings of the Soul. (14th century)

The act of writing is as much tied to syntax as it is connected to context. And yet another factor for reflective writers is the essential attribute of observation. During my overscheduled years in graduate school, and in my overcommitted years since, I’ve made the necessary chore of laundry-doing into writing opportunities. The weekly wash is a constant. I’ve often said to Pam the laundromat proprietor, “death, taxes, and laundry!” And journaling. Though I’ve rarely seen others writing in laundromats, I’ve typically seen readers, crossword puzzlers, students doing homework, those who only appear for loading and unloading machines, and those who simply sit or stand with their thoughts. More recently, and today was no exception, I was the lone journal writer- surrounded by hunched individuals enveloped by their glowing phones.

Although this culture is a decade into the “smart phone” era, I’m still startled to notice that commonplace disjointedness which I refuse to espouse. Comprehension requires a mere conscious acknowledgment. Glancing around the busy laundromat, just like peering around any dining area, park, or train, I saw that everyone was engulfed by their little mirror-like electronic devices. Every last soul but me. Amidst the large room full of brow-knitted hunchbacks, I suddenly thought of the lost trait of looking up. Simply gazing upward, at least to me, is a natural motion: something of an interlude from whatever I might be reading or writing. Staring into space has its own healthful aspect, reminding us of distance, proximity, and context. Consider how cats like to watch life from windowsills, thoughtfully and meditatively. Or, perhaps not. Maybe the spacing-out in itself is a wise gesture from which we can learn.

When academic research was new to me, in high school, the idea was to pile up the source material; it was an additive process. With databases and boolean search strings, the conundrum became one of paring down to the relevant; it is a subtractive process. In a general sense, having everything to distract us, from every angle (including elevators, gas pumps, and between innings at ball games), the more conscientious among us must know to subtract. Instead of scarcities of amusements, the profounder rarity is reflective time.

Along with the slivers of breathers I carve away from chore-filled weekends- and monthly sojourns at the Boston Athenaeum- about every 4 months I make time for personal retreats. In our obligatory frameworks, nobody instructs us to seek out healthful silence. It is for us to inevitably know to step back into respite... when possible. Earned time off is a rare benefit, and many of us must endure extended gauntlets en route to a prize of time. Increasingly, as I navigate this world, I notice my stealing away to find tranquility away from the chaotic dins of disappointment. As the encroachments intensify, so does the hunger for unfettered quiet. That very appetite, fueled by depletion, sent my steps toward a recent retreat. And for a week in Boston, public transit is the wisest way there. Busses are clenched and jostling- but they have a strict no-cell-phone rule. Trains are roomier and smoother- but passengers are the mercies of the behaviors of other passengers: this has become a woeful risk.

Sure enough, what could’ve been a tranquil mid-day train ride was an excruciating two-hour sandbagging between a couple of phone-yakkers. No amount of glaring or blatantly sticking my fingers in my ears while trying to read was of any use. I wound up listening to music through earbuds, via my netbook, trying my best to drown out the boors. There is a difference between the dulcet hum of passengers and coffeehouse ambience- compared to the shrill paroxysms of “cell phone voice.” Aren’t there enough of us wincing through such boundariless abuses? Amtrak personnel merely shrug, and that has none of the usefulness of creating and enforcing a rule- like the bus company effectively does. And thus our general culture further extends its unbounded adolescence. Many of us witness how self-obsessions supersede common respect for shared public spaces. Sadly, our defenses are relegated to plugging wires into our ears and turning up “neutralizing” sounds, metaphorically painting ourselves into corners. So much for calming respite.

Getting through the two hours intact, I kept in mind that I was on vacation, and would be getting away from the brutish Downeaster passengers. Navigating the streets and Boston’s subways, I found some refreshing civility. The trolley cars are loud, and instead of hollering into their little mirrors, people are swiping and texting instead. It was good to observe other people reading, as well. Moving through the adjustment from work and routines- to leisure and study, it was easier to notice things easily overlooked. While pursuing a week of reflection and quiet, I was pronouncedly reminded of the popular aversion to silence by the many who cannot (or will not) still themselves or detach from their pacifying devices. Sure, I see this every day during my downtown commuting and lunch breaks, but hadn’t really noticed how strange this looks. Before this current decade, it was considered “abnormal” to walk around in public, talking to oneself. Now we’ve all gotten used to the gesturing solo-talkers, contributing to the characters that surround us that make all the world a phone booth. (Remember phone booths?) I’ve learned to identify the white droplet-looking ear inserts, indicating “hands-free” yakking.

The quality of our civilization’s public settings rests very much in the hands of those who use these common spaces. “Sanctioned” quiet spaces, such as private enclosures and religious sites tend to comprise some expectations and rules. But when the common space is public transportation, a dining place, a building, or even a park, it’s really up to the individuals’ consciences to uphold the qualities of these spaces. Recently, and enjoying the continuing mild weather, I sat in a city park to write. Portland has a no-smoking law posted in all parks, yet there were smokers scattered throughout the place. I chose the least downwind part of the park, to avoid the fumes as much as possible. Each gust of ocean air made the park that much more enjoyable. Then, sure enough, a well-groomed man, that I assumed should know better, appeared in the park. He was pacing in circles, never more than ten feet from me, yammering into his glossy phone about schedules, restaurants, and various domestic trifles. He was so loud and obnoxious that other park denizens and I began exchanging disgusted glances. I could hardly think my next line of journaled text; so I began writing about him. Every time he’d walk one of his “laps” of his nervous circles, I’d think I was rid of him, only to hear the circular yelp get louder again... until suddenly and thankfully he pushed off to sully some other unfortunate part of town. Upon the man’s exit, I looked up from my books, and a park bench sitter and I swapped collective sighs. Even the universe celebrated the boor’s departure, as a busker appeared in the park, playing baroque music on a portable piano. The music was twinkling in its mellowness, blending with the composite din of passing traffic, non-phone chatting murmurs, dogs, and the occasional jetliner in the clouds overhead. This evenness allowed me to listen to the park.

As always, the Boston retreat was a week of salubrious respite. I was welcomed by many friends, and my studies at the Athenaeum were brought together by themes I created around the strengthening of character. Conviviality, collegiality, and kindredship- all threaded together by the leafy streets of Beacon Hill. On this occasion, I was hosted by the College Club of Boston. They’re situated in a grand Victorian town house near the Boston Public Garden. I was offered the writer’s room, which has a stately drop-leaf desk near a window. The house is a retreat in itself; no two alcoves, or rooms, or views are alike. My hosts were heartwarmingly kind to me. Then there was the quiet. Upstairs from the parlors and dining room, the large house was cushioned in a consoling hush that creates space for reflection and rest. I marveled at the difference between the bustle of Newbury Street and Commonwealth Avenue, compared with the muffled interior of the house. I believe that I’m not alone in my cherishing of tranquility and recognition of stepping away from unnecessary noise. Yes, retreats are great and healthful things, but ironically it takes some major effort! Current advertising seems to have caught some of the current: hotels market themselves to resemble spas; vacation getaways include the trappings of “peace and quiet.” These venues all look very expensive and dauntingly stress-inducing. Still, there is a detectable, general thirst for contemplation. Much less exotic, during a walk through Copley Square, I saw ads for public events called “The Big Quiet,” one of which to be held in the Boston Public Library. We can all use some recollective silence.

Richard Rohr, a Franciscan author, recently published an article called "Finding God in the Depths of Silence", in which he wrote: “Probably more than ever, because of iPads, cell phones, billboards, TVs, and iPods, we are a toxically overstimulated people. Only time will tell the deep effects of this on emotional maturity, relationships, communication, conversation, and religion itself.” He added that although silence may come across as a luxury, it is inevitably a decision. Striking a very familiar chord, Rohr offered this succinctly-articulated observation:

We are all forced to overhear cell phone calls in cafés, airports, and other public places today. People now seem to fill up their available time, reacting to their boredom—and their fear of silence—often by talking about nothing, or making nervous attempts at mutual flattery and reassurance. One wonders if the people on the other end of the line really need your too-easy comforts. Maybe they do, and maybe we all have come to expect it. But that is all we can settle for when there is no greater non-self, no gracious silence to hold all of our pain and our self-doubt. Cheap communication is often a substitute for actual communion.

Indeed, the soul needs silent space, in some accessible form. We must procure it for ourselves, even if it is at our expense. Even if it means a few less enslaving gadgets, apps, or activities. Even if it might mean sitting with our thoughts as we decompress in laundromats and on trains. There is more to be missed than to be amassed.

The week of retreat and reflection happened as late-summer transitioned toward early-autumn. A liminal season of noticeably changing light and air. Being in Boston, I’m unavoidably reminded of the annual return to school for the new academic year. Added to the city’s usual intensity are the swarms of arriving students. I saw reminders of this time of the year in all my places of community and study, through the week. But I was in the city for the contrasting purpose of respite. Ancient pages of text reflected up to me in the Athenaeum reading rooms, while muted sounds of traffic audibly reminded me of where I was- albeit on my own schedule. As with the moments in which I saw common spaces upheld by a shared sense of sanctity, I was able to savour the sounds of the environment. Finding silent space of any duration, amidst our chaotic swirls, is essentially our developed skill for identifying counterforms between our time structures. During work weeks, morsels of respite, discovered between rigid forms, can serve as windows through which we can admit light and air. Just as in graphic design, the ability to delineate counterform leads to improved perception of solid form. In the life of thought, this would be parenthetic quiet. Surely not a rule for every person, as we must each determine whether or not some grasp of our consciousness is being denied. Beneath this realization is an awareness of a deficit to be transcended.