quiet paces

“If we deal fairly with one another and practice the virtue of justice,
we establish the bond of peace.
This means that where silence is observed, the fruits of peace
are gathered as easily as fruit is gathered from a heavily-laden tree.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Holiness of Life.

In a serendipitous rarity, I was recently able to briefly liberate myself from my indentures with a week off. Coinciding with the Jubilee Year of Hope, designed to strike a strong contrast against all we see in our midst, the late Pope Francis published books and essays to go with his declaration, encouraging that we become pilgrims of hope. This entails conscientiously improving our communities as well as internalizing the theme, making physical pilgrimages to sacred places that are both conducive for prayer and accessible. Supporting articles, lectures, and broadcasts are directed as much to groups as they are to individuals. The concept of pilgrimage is surely ancient; for me, it’s been a way of life, growth, and stability since the mid-1990s. During this past year, I made my way to such familiar wellsprings as the Weston Priory (Vermont), Mount Saint Mary’s (Wrentham MA), Beacon Hill Friends House (Boston), and most recently the National Shrine of the Divine Mercy (Stockbridge MA). Earning time-off and finding salubrious ways to redeem those morsels takes shape as getting away from unsympathetic hardships- to welcoming healthful situations.

As studies can have their own pilgrimage aspects, I’ve nicknamed my years of ongoing and compelling Bonaventurian research and readings my Bonaventure Adventure- even developing a personal devotion to the saint, annually observing his feast day. Shortly before the sudden approval of the time off, albeit with little time to plan, I’d been reading Leonard Bowman’s book, A Retreat with St. Bonaventure. As the sojourn’s plans solidified, I saw on the calendar that I would be on pilgrimage for most of the novena leading up to Bonaventure’s memorial, as well as the days straddling July 15th. I took the book with me, of course. Amidst my studies, I read the Seraphic Doctor’s biography of St. Francis of Assisi. Bonaventure adored Francis, and when he subsequently found himself elected leader of the Franciscans, in 1257, the order asked him to write Francis’ life story- intending to prevent propagation of false rumors and folklore. As their generations slightly overlapped, Bonaventure interviewed eyewitnesses and colleagues of Francis, en route to the written oeuvre. In preparation for his new role as minister-general of the order, Bonaventure made an intentional pilgrimage to the top of Mount La Verna, the site of greatest importance to Francis. During his solitary time at the mountaintop while reflecting upon the legacy of Francis, Bonaventure experienced his own spiritual encounter, and began to compose what became his most celebrated work: The Journey of the Mind into God (also known as The Itinerary). Bowman’s book includes a commentary about Bonaventure’s writing in the silence at La Verna. In the solitude, “our efforts and achievements, indispensable as we saw them, look absurd.” “Pierce through the words, images, and thoughts,” added Bowman. “Now is the only simple recognition and wordless response.”

The idea of wordless response has stayed with me. While on the road, I tried imagining this manifesting as such pedestrian things like daily routine life, even breathing. Driving without the sound system gave me a small taste of wordless response. Bonaventure’s expression of contemplation was the stilled voice. I considered this, as well as the entirety of making a pilgrimage, to be a healthful distraction from the miseries I’d paused. Sanctified time. I took to the road earlier than I’d originally planned, having compressed a weekend’s errands into an overnight. Figuring on arriving in Stockbridge in the usual 3½ hours, intense highway traffic added more than an hour to my nonstop driving time, yet I arrived at the Shrine ten minutes prior to Mass. Being the 2nd Saturday of the month, the service was especially directed to Jubilee Year pilgrims; I was elated to have arrived in time, with the week still to follow in the peace of the Berkshires as guest of the Marians’ community.

Being so accustomed and conditioned to expecting large accomplishments and covering big distances, the wordless response of my musings began to take shape as quiet paces, meditatively absorbing the pilgrimage. Walking from place to place on Eden Hill and in Stockbridge permitted for an eased and reflective tempo. My paces through the woods and lanes were extensions of my steps along polished naves and transcepts. Among few things I brought with me for the week were ingredients for writing, reading, photographing, and my cherished rosary from the Sacré-Coeur basilica in Paris. Indeed, I arrived on pilgrimage, in the place that daily observes the Divine Mercy Chaplet in the presence of the relics of Saint Faustina. Looking at the inviting iconography throughout the shrine’s grounds and buildings, I remembered St. Augustine’s words: “Prayer is the raising and turning of the mind to God.” More than places loved and missed in our absence, spiritual destinations call to us. The pull of inspiration is met with an individual’s push forward, albeit in the quietest paces hidden within. Consequently, there follows an outward journey.

Kindredship winds up being among the unexpected, yet consistent, aspects of pilgrimage. Destinations may be givens, but the sojourning experiences comprise the subtle and the serendipitous. Speaking with, and listening to fellow pilgrims gave me stories of those who travelled much greater distances than my 230 miles. I heard about burdens and gratitudes, afflictions and recoveries; all the anecdotes and sights provide perspective. And significant shared silence. In his work Holiness of Life, Bonaventure wrote that “silence begets compunction of heart,” and thus we are humbled. As well, contemplative silence shows we belong to another world. On the eve of the day which memorializes Bonaventure, I enjoyed a great conversation with one of the Marian brothers who also admires the saint. We meandered between talking about the Itinerary, and about our lives of interaction with the public. He said he had once been a short-order cook. Sanctifying our work was among our topics. He heard a little about my employment stresses, to which I added another gem of Bonaventure’s in Holiness of Life: “Perseverance is the crown and consummation of all virtues.”

During the week of quiet paces, I participated in all the liturgies- increasingly listening in silence. Because the large sanctuary was regularly filled with actively vocal attendees, I could as easily blend into the current, as to be carried along in focused silence. The impression of the entirety was that of swelling and falling back upon the solidity of the acclamations. Wordless response essentially transcends structure. Having brought many intentions with me, from friends and correspondents- adding my own, I became aware that my purpose for being at this extraordinary place of worship outweighed me. Paradoxically, the more substantial, the more invisible. This strong imprint has accompanied my return to work and to all the connected frustrations I’d paused. Immersed as I’ve been with St. Bonaventure’s writing, I can imagine him encouraging me with “Reach beyond self, and toward God.” While I’ve had to resume my “normal” vigilant paces, I’m remembering having been able to slow down. “From memory as fountain-source,” wrote Leonard Bowman in his book about Bonaventure, “there emerges a wordless sense. Intellectual recognition traces it and names it into Word. Then emotion and will connect it and claim it in Love.”

spes non confundit

“In the heart of each person,
hope dwells as the desire and expectation
of good things to come, despite our not knowing
what the future will bring.”

~ Pope Francis, Spes Non Confundit

1

A practice I created, patterned after Time magazine’s “Year in Review,” was to write my own version in my journal. Though I began writing in the late ‘90s, at the turn of the millennium, I recapped my experience of the entirety of the 1990s. I’ve since journal-written my years in review, along with parallel decades, always setting time aside close to New Year’s Eve to do this. Indeed and true to the concept of tradition, my Year in the Review is always to be handwritten. Suffice it to say, using this medium, 2024 has been a year that ran on fumes. But it was also the year of finding a vital measure of high ground in this region’s unrelenting housing crisis. Truly, “how precious did that grace appear,” albeit after twenty months of desperate, tireless searching and traipsing. Living in a safe and civilized apartment building is a blessing counted daily; “'tis grace has brought me safe thus far and,” inevitably I believe, “grace will lead me home.” This was a major development during a very, very hardworked year. And now the first quarter of the 21st century begins to give way to the second. In 2025 I’ll mark the 19th year of La Vie Graphite with pencilled gratitude. Being able to continue writing is itself cause for gratitude, along with loving to write, and I look forward to more ideas and adventures. I’m also thankful for the readership, while at the same time aware that my years of essays and imagery have yet to find their most receptive audience. But I carry on. Appropriate to these points, I’ve just serendipitously learned that Pope Francis has authored a year of observances and community action based upon the virtue of hope.

2

The quarter-century observances will revolve around being Pilgrims of Hope, both as individuals and more broadly as communities. The basic idea can become constructive practices for anyone of any denomination,”looking to the future with an open spirit, a trusting heart, and far-sighted vision.” Pope Francis titled his document Spes Non Confundit (Hope Does Not Despair), applying words of the Apostle Paul (Romans 5:5). I prefer something closer to the Latin, the more persistent: Hope That Will Not Be Confounded. That’s a challenge to be taken head-on, as there are more than enough reasons to be dissuaded. That’s central to the point; hope is the way to holiness, but the way is rough, often ungratifying, and surely not passive. While steeply pitching my whole self forward into the torrents, I’m convinced the efforts are worthwhile.

Aligning personal renewal and outward generosity with the Resurrection, Pope Francis joined steadfast faith with expectant hope for healing and reconciliation. Not treated superficially, the profoundest expression of hope looks beyond things of this world: When wholeheartedly lived, this buoyancy can transform our vision of the future and produce a foundation upon which our lives can transcend the ephemeral. As you’ve been raised with Christ, wrote Paul, strive toward things above. Lifestaking confidence stands out from fingercrossing tentativeness. Aspiration is a very serious matter that demands all the strength of character I’ve got. Confident faith drives us to rise above our trials and difficulties, inspiring us to continue pressing forward in our vocations. Inward direction and a sense of purpose are benefits in a life that exemplifies hope- all of which bring to mind the vital attribute of mercy. Sincere, entrusting hope not only embraces divine mercy, it also seeks to be outwardly merciful. Rather than being an impossible idealism, the life of faith is entirely practicable. And expandable. Contemplation and action need one another; in fact they want one another.


3

“Let us be strongly encouraged to seize the hope that is set before us,” Pope Francis wrote, referencing the Epistle to the Hebrews; “We have this hope, a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters the inner sanctuary...” Holding fast to hope, actively keeping faith, is essential- all the more amidst the instability of troubled times. Pope Francis observed, “The image of the anchor is eloquent... The storms that buffet us will never prevail, for we are firmly anchored in the hope born of grace, which enables us to live in Christ and to overcome.” When we lose hope, our dignity is impaired. Confident trust inspires me to continue pressing forward and persevering. Profound hope is stronger than disappointments and setbacks- and this needs to be the case, speaking for my humbled self. And thus hope and aspiration barrel through hardships and exhaustion, because they must.

From reflection to application, hope is tied to intention, as pilgrimage is a form of motion through this world, with grace in mind. For many years, I’ve treated the entirety of life as a pilgrimage that comprises countless eras, scenarios, days, and steps. For the jubilee year, Pope Francis recommends the compelling balance of earnestly internalizing hope, along with the physical effort of moving forward. In the example of pilgrimage sojourning, the purpose is to rediscover simplicity, silence, and physical intention in the context of visiting sacred sites. Places of significance take many forms, and there is no set duration for a pilgrimage. My suggestion for those among us who must tirelessly work full-time is to make “working jubilee steps,” such as walking to an available sanctuary. Simplest is best, such as turning off the lit screens and finding a secluded perch. To sanctify (sanctus) is by definition to intentionally set apart something for the pursuit of holiness. On occasional research days in Boston, I’ll set down my projects, and navigate the congested sidewalks to any of numerous shrines and churches I know that are open. The immediate silence always strikes a beautiful contrast away from the city streets. Even the most pedestrian of pilgrimages are responses to the grandest of callings from eternal sources.

flourish in the desert

“At times, it is only possible to hold oneself in God’s presence in silence.
It can happen, too, that in arid places,
the deserts of prayer predominate...
When, in the desert of your heart,
there is nothing but the silence of God,
question yourself:
Is this the beginning of a turning-point to go forward again?”

~ frère Roger de Taizé, Fleurissant les déserts du coeur.

Though largely beyond the pandemic era, a depleted societal aftermath lingers. Always looking for clarity of thought, I try figuring out whether just about all of humanity is recognizably battle-weary, or if I’m merely projecting my experience. Recently, a colleague and I were talking about how we find ways to prevent from burning out. I suggested the few of us that were at our workplace five years ago- and are still there now, should receive a special survival medal. We’ve weathered a compounded crucible, and reaching some sort of high ground only to unceremoniously soldier on. But indeed we’ve lived to see another day; that is something of a reward in itself. A great many were not able to rebuild. The covid years not only saw compromised workplaces and institutions of every kind, but also severely affected economics and housing crises in ways that continue being felt. I’ve had first-hand experiences of these. Even my hometown has been reduced to a diluted version of what it was before the curtain dropped on the world. Indeed, these scenarios are everywhere, not just in New England.

Personally insistent upon progress and holding out hope, I’m continuing as a productive worker and thinker, digging a furrow through deserted times. For me, persevering through adversities must have purpose. Why ambitiously persevere, with contradictions at all hands? Because I remain convinced of being meant for better things, and that cultivated skills and knowledge must not amount to lights buried beneath bushels, but be applied to benefit others. That’s the point. Again, I know there are numerous others who ache in their undercapacities- and that returns this resourceful soul to flourishing where I’m planted. When taking stock of the present, my thoughts turn to gratitude for the caring souls who remind me about self-care. Exchanging our stories, we remind one another that we are not alone in this tumultuous era of unknown duration. Musing in his written thoughts, Pascal wondered why we put much more emphasis upon past and future- both of which we cannot control- and neglect the dynamism of the present which we can influence.

A few weeks ago, thanks to the two substitutes I recruited and trained, along with an extraordinarily supportive associate, I was able to take a string of days off for the first time in nearly a year. Another set of logistics providentially materializing was being able to be at the Weston Priory- my longtime favorite place of retreat. As with everything, the pandemic forced the Benedictine brothers to indefinitely suspend their usual accessibility to retreatants. I hadn’t been able to make a pilgrimage there in five years. We kept in touch via e-mail, but surely it’s nothing qualitatively close to the community experience. The welcome I received was all the more heartwarming, adding new strata to all that is familiar and endearing. Weston was the best place I could have gone, to try resuscitating and regrounding in a profoundly familiar environment. Naturally, everyone I spoke with had perspectives to share about the past five years. I heard about how the State of Vermont practically closed down during quarantining, and how damaging this was for their tourism seasons. I described how Maine had this, too, though not as devastating as in Vermont. Visually, the impact is apparent, seeing many empty commercial spaces, on top of aftermath evidence from last year’s major flooding in the Weston region. I heard about and saw setbacks countered by resourceful perseverance.

It was great to have been able to step back and to be among longtime friends, with the common threads of spiritual nourishment. Mutual recognition is especially something to cherish, having seen dozens upon dozens of my local friends leave southern Maine due to economics and gentrification. In varying manifestations, we’re all survivors. Indeed, notwithstanding the remoteness of central Vermont, the recent national election’s intensity was obvious. We all seemed to want to talk through our trepidations. Walking along the County Road with the brothers, while beginning to catch up with each other, I asked Brother Elias: “What are we going to do now?” Not surprisingly, he gave me the best and most monastic reply, “We remain faithful.” As I’ve been doing since my first pilgrimage to Weston Priory, in 1994, I still take notes during homilies. In fact, it was at Weston that I really began journaling, intent upon preserving the astonishingly lifegiving reflections I was hearing. It is all the more essential to exemplify being lights in the darkness, thus flourishing in the desert. Good words and reminders of promising horizons continue to be kept close to heart. My studies in philosophy, along with writing and creative expression, are examples of cultivating inspiration for application in the wilderness of this era. Dark times especially need torchbearers, those who nurture and convey light for the present and future.

tranquility

“St. Augustine’s language is rich and colorful,
but often lacking in precision. His was not a didactic mind,
and preoccupations of scientific methodology
were foreign to his outlook.
He wrote giving free reign to his thought.”

~ Maurice de Wulf, History of Medieval Philosophy, vol. 1, ch. 38

Maybe we have it in common that for a long time people have been telling you not to work too hard. Perhaps you’ve also regularly shrugged it off, when those around you tell you to get rest, slow down, and- perish the thought- “don’t worry so much.” And my habitual dismissiveness is automatic and reflexive, similar to waving off a gnat. But suddenly, between strings of tasks and obligations, fatigue brings all those friendly observations to mind. During those pauses, it becomes evident how slowing-down can be daunting. Striving and reaching for a day off, the result is a kind of reverse-inertia: instead of efforts to get moving, it takes focused intention to be able to stop. Within the pausing are detectable elements of fear, especially as the distractions are insistently pared away. Perhaps “don’t work too hard” can be recast as “make sure you listen to your thoughts.”

Even as we cordon off our privacies- and especially so- there remains a universal need for healthful silence. This is to say settling those thoughts, and doing so without things purporting to be “smart” devices. It can be disarming, but I’ve found it to be worthwhile. The observation of contrasts serves as a good teacher, and in this case the classroom is aboard public transit. I saw the positive side of things during subway rides on the day of a downtown festival. Boarding an early Red Line, as usual with a book, the size of the crowd was noticeable. What was even more striking to me were the sounds of jovial chatting and laughter on the trains. Instead of siloed phone-fiddling, most of the riders were animatedly facing one another, many using their phones to take pictures. I really enjoyed seeing this. At my own destination, atop the Boston Athenaeum, I savoured both the celebratory commotion I witnessed earlier, along with the quiet of wafting treetops at terrace level. Reading and writing material in front of me, I still know to look around and just listen to my thoughts.

Nobody will dare us to be idle; we have to be self-aware enough to find opportunities around the busyness for tranquility. Finding opportunities means somehow finding parcels of time and making space. All too rare! But, essentially, the proliferation of resorts and spas demonstrates how so many crave some sort of therapeutic downtime- albeit at high costs. Valuable as stillness is, there needn’t be great expense to pause and reflect.

Being able to unplug the stimuli and simply air my thoughts allows me to perceive with a wider perspective. Before the pandemic, for many years I regularly made pilgrimage retreats, often twice a year. With the combination of compounded work commitments, being on a diminished staff, and various communities’ lodging limitations, I’ve had to be especially resourceful- sometimes succeeding to briefly get away to peaceful and contemplative surroundings. For the most part, aside from a few hours on a weekend, time to simply abide (as differentiated from the more active aspects of journaling my thoughts) happens between lines of reflective reading during my workday commutes. As philosophical historians go, de Wulf (quoted above) was much less admiring of Saint Augustine than Copleston. Well, I prefer Copleston- both as writer and historian. Admittedly, my own thinking is also much more speculative and metaphysical, and less mathematical. And I’ve never found Augustine to be “lacking in precision.” But I’ve still enjoyed de Wulf’s works nonetheless, and really relished his criticism of the great North African philosopher saint: “He wrote giving free reign to his thought.” This is indeed as the motto posted at the Maine Turnpike entrance affirms, “The Way Life Should Be.” Speaking for myself, I wouldn’t bother writing if I couldn’t give free reign to my thoughts!

I like to remind my philosophy students that we converge at the meeting-point of the ideal and the visible world, which is to say the conceptual and the physical. But in philosophy the ideal is solid in its own right. Giving free reign to our thoughts allows for understanding to accompany our perceptions. Let ideals be practical, even if simply in our musings. There’s more than enough to limit our aspirations; it’s for the individual to choose contemplative ways. Release the margins, as possible, and muse. Simply being is not so simple, as our scattered thoughts can over-occupy us, and need to be somehow directed. In his Breviloquium, Bonaventure described human capacity as “born to magnificently grasp great and numerous ideas.” With inspiration, grasp means we can calm them, too. Healthful silence serves to nourish, but we must each know to make the kind of space which is both physical and metaphorical. The Psalmist articulated the wish for a fully renewed heart and spirit. And the heart, Saint Gregory observed in the Philokalia, is the “shrine and chief intellectual organ of the body.” Not only can learning can reach our depths, in contemplative stillness, but as well our yearnings become most evident to us. “Less is more” surely has a spiritual application- if anything, as time and space fillers get cleared away in favor of unstructured attentiveness.

past and future

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

~ Saint Augustine, Confessions, Book 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

collecting thoughts

“There are three principal means of acquiring knowledge available to us:
observation of nature, reflection, and experimentation.

Observation collects facts; reflection combines them;
experimentation verifies the result of that combination.
Our observation of nature must be diligent, our reflection profound,
and our experiments exact.
We rarely see these three means combined;
and for this reason, creative geniuses are not common”.

~ Denis Diderot, On the Interpretation of Nature, no. 15 (1753).


1

With year after year of completed projects under the bridge, with more in progress and up ahead, there remain personal goals yet unfulfilled. Amidst achievements and recognition thus far, I particularly cherish a remark in the Comments section on my 2nd grade report card, from Public School Number 13, in New York City. Rating 6-year-old me, Mrs. Berger wrote: “He daydreams too much in class.” I think that comment was meant as a scolding, and certainly my parents were not impressed. I remember feeling embarrassed, but characteristically undeterred by the reproach. Gazing through windows is something compellingly natural to me, and whatever was interesting below on 94th Street was surely upstaging whatever was being taught at the front of the classroom. I’m actually proud of that remark. And I’ve grown to appreciate that, perhaps inadvertently, Mrs. Berger implied that a bit of requisite daydreaming was permissible- but not too much. For artists and all other creative thinkers, musing is essential. Untethered contemplation is a surer way to make sense of life, than to swish away at a smartphone.

By observation, we can really grapple and reckon with insights, in order to advance to our subsequent steps. Too much precious energy and time get squandered in wheelspinning ruts. Peaceful and uncluttered headspace is neither freely given, nor valued, in this culture of competitive perpetual motion. But the daunting side of an intermission is in the awkwardness of decompressing- worthwhile as it is- to be better able to recollect. Significant respite time away from the job continues to be practically impossible, so I cobble what I can when it’s possible, noticing the difficulty of turning my off-duty thoughts away from the workplace. Decades of diligence and industriousness have kept me employed, but a compounded effort is needed to remain artistically and intellectually fit for creativity. Good thing for daydreaming too much in class. I recommend it.

aperch at the window, College Club of Boston

2

Hopeful and constructive dreaming goes a very long way in the direction of bringing goodness to fruition. If you needed yet another reason to write daily in a journal, now you have this. And write manually, keeping in mind the untethered and focused aspects of musing and aspiring! While in the liminality of overburdened undercapacity, I’m egging on those musing traits with writing, photography, and dreaming of better days. If anything, this helps my frame of mind, dealing with the here-and-now. All such pursuits are enveloped in the all-comprising everyday life of the spirit, which also includes contemplative reading.

Pursuing my studies in philosophy is replete with discoveries, and I’m further encouraged as I teach some of these topics to students. The readings for my personal explorations are selected with personal development in mind. In turn, because I’m often studying such rare materials, I produce my own annotated indexes. These are very useful as references which I later share, and the notebooks themselves are great for me to read. Indeed, and true to my profession, I also digitize my indexes and notebooks; these are my “preservation backups,” as well as searchable. These personal studies are entirely fueled by my own interests and discerned needs; philosophy consoles, as Boethius knew very well. In Love Enkindled, Saint Bonaventure wrote about how contemplation brings us to the spark of discernment, which he called synderesis scintilla. This comes to mind, when I’m conscious about redirecting my thoughts. Conscience is awakened, Bonaventure wrote, by moving from error to consideration of the human condition, to meditating upon what is good. Finding ways through hardships, I’ve kept to these studies, as well as spiritual health, staying intellectually active and away from burning out.

a floricultural cabinet

Among the many ways to identify my full-time work, I most often think of day-to-day torchbearing and pouring-out; preserving and explicating. Essentially, this is the joining of words with readers. Visitors, researchers, and classes think of archives as cabinets of curiosity. In this sense, cabinet as a synthesizing, thematic compendium. Perhaps they are, increasingly standing out in contrast to the electronics that promote content over substance. And this isn’t to denounce literacy’s numerous formats; I use and present them all. Indeed, my preference continues for the reflective surfaces of imprints and manuscripts. The physical items themselves have stories. As a conservator I’m acquainted with how they’re made, and as an archivist I’m making comparative references and metadata for all manner of seekers. My role also takes the form of inadvertent confessor: patrons from teenage to old age tell me about how they favor real books and want to handwrite. Well, go ahead. Don’t let me stop you. I’ll often ask, “Do you keep a journal?” Muse away and expand your mind. Be that person getting seated on a bus with a book or a journal, instead of catatonically fiddling with a phone. As you glance between daydreaming out the window toward the streets and reading, notice the gawking expressions as the entranced stare into their devices. The side of me that is still a skeptical little kid at P.S. 13 says, “I don’t want to be like that.” If your musing and observing is bold enough, you’ll be better able to make fun of your self.


3

aboard a trawler, in winter

Integral to doing everything I can manage in order to stay mentally healthy is perseverance in seeking and exploring ideas. Yes, there’s the musing I’ve mentioned here. Plants need water and natural light to keep growing. My observing intuitively turns to words and imagery. Often, both turn up during a good stroll. An expression of mine from my teen years, which I still use when taking up a camera on the way out the door, is “I’m going out to look for photographs.” There are few things more sensible to me. Noticing the trawlers docked along the Portland waterfront reminds me of how I wind up pulling ideas from the depths. The nets on those boats drag down deep and far enough to bring up all kinds of shellfish and groundfish. Maybe our minds have their own microscopic versions of trawling pulleys. Similarly, I trawl for ideas- unforced and all quite naturally. Something seems always to remind me of something else. Moving through the day are gleanings of thoughts. Bus and train rides, lunch breaks, and laundromats provide scenarios for the culling and recording of ideas. Part of that is my making sense of changes, disappointed expectations, hopes, and things I witness. And ironies. As I’ve done for many years, the idea jottings are in pencil, and the elaborated thoughts get their due in pen-and-ink. Navigating by instinct implies a certain amount of individual roadbuilding. The voyage is not an end, but surely a means. Creativity, learning, and helping others learn broadly serves as an itinerary.

trawlers and ideas

within

“The Spirit moves the faithful to plead
with sighs too deep for words by inspiring in them
a desire for the great and as yet unknown reality
that we look forward to with patience.
How can words express what we desire when it remains unknown?
If we were entirely ignorant of it we would not desire it;
again, we would not desire it or seek it with sighs,
if we were able to see it.”

~ Saint Augustine, The Spirit Pleads for Us.

Maybe you’re a bit like me, and your morning routines include tuning into the news of current events. If you know better than to do this, you’re much smarter than me. An old habit of mine for many years has been to wake-wash-dress-caffeinate with the radio tuned to the news. Added to the ensemble is online news and checking for messages. In recent years, the “ensemble” is more like a barrage to me. Invariably, I’ll glean just enough to know what’s happening and something about weather prognostication, increasingly choosing to begin the day with writing and reading. Indeed, lit screens are integral to each day- especially at work- and can be very useful, if not essential for connectivity, communication, and construction of resources. After all, I’ve been a blogger for 17 years, gratefully authoring essays, and the results have opened doors to extraordinary writing opportunities and fellowships. Simultaneously, considering the internet’s persistent abundance, controlling even a limited stream is equally essential for clarity of thought. Especially at the start of the demanding day. The pandemic era revealed to the isolated many that it is left to the individual to manage their own mental and spiritual health. And develop an intellectual, artistic life. Without such pursuits, it becomes even easier to be lulled into digital complacency. Days flow into months and years. “We have only so much time,” said a pastor friend of mine, “to gladden the hearts of those who make the journey with us.”

As I try experimenting with apportioning my sparse, unsold slivers of time, I’m minimizing media to make space for unfettered constructive thoughts. Making a few written notes in my journal, the words are re-read and built upon later in the day. Thoughts at daybreak seem as unimpeded as any I’ll have. Extending to my uttermost reaches to improve a desperate situation, I’m repeatedly writing about hope. A soul that hopes is one that aspires to see and inhabit better days. And persistent hope does not cease to seek ways to succeed. A living hope somehow generates its own adrenaline supply: a saturated strength, especially as it’s captivated by the unseen. Ideals may seem abstract, but conceptually striving efforts toward better work and housing are tangible motivations. Hope’s objects may be out of view, but these intentions are solid. Many individuals want to talk about their hopes, sharing them, even assisting others with theirs. Unfulfilled hopes drive many to the extremities of their abilities, becoming pleas for assistance, and further as outpourings of prayers.

A conscientious, focused suppliant turns the mind and thoughts to God. Contemplation essentially entails immersing the mind into the heart. Ancient wisdom as recorded in the Philokalia refers to prayer as “conversing with God, in reverent respect and hope.” Saint Dimitri wrote, “Collect all your thoughts: laying aside all worldly cares, direct your mind towards God.” As worries reflect fears, prayer reflects a driven hope. An aspiration that is anything but passive demands a paradoxical combination of persistence and surrender. And it must be lived, much more than observed. To be thwarted for many years at every turn is exhausting, yet still I counteract the weariness with increased striving. Navigating a careful balance between coasting and full-throttle intensity is a discipline in itself. A mystery, indeed, that is neither vague wishing nor obsessive grasping. Intent upon improvement, what lesson is there to be gleaned? Hope is essential, but perhaps one mustn’t hope too intensely? Wishing and hoarding are sentiments than run in opposite directions. We’re all susceptible to overthinking, particularly when straining to overcome deficiencies en route to goals. I surely know the dangers of the paralysis-of-analysis, yet I fall under them nonetheless. It’s a long, long haul and if improvements are merely incremental, they’re still positive factors.

Outside of such things as archival documentation (speaking from many years as a professional archivist), all that is past has ceased to pulsate: At best, it informs, whether we choose to look back a day or a decade. Trying to steer away from anxious wakefulness, my efforts are to channel thoughts to the immediate. Aware of juggling several unsustainable continua, I warn myself against pondering this. Just pursue and tack toward calmer waters. Endure and trust. I’ve witnessed countless friends burn out, and notwithstanding how much I’ve had in common with most of these fine souls, thus far I’ve avoided such straits and fates. Navigating as such by my wits doesn’t mean I’m better; it means I’m intent upon surviving to see and to live improvement. Competition is at all hands, and the last thing I’d ever want to do is damage my chances. Inevitably, the finest of hopes grow amidst discouraging, fruitless, and inhospitable thickets. And thus, the words hope and must are twinned by necessity.

Admittedly, treacherous shoals are far from limited to those offered by such outlets as those announcing what’s wrong and what’s deficient about us. There are parallel dangers in perfectionism, trend-chasing, and lack of compassion. “We’re human, all likewise God’s children,” wrote Josemaría Escrivá, “and we cannot think that life consists in building up a brilliant curriculum vitæ or an outstanding career. Ties of solidarity should bind us all and, besides, in the order of grace we are united by the supernatural bond of the Communion of Saints.” I read Escrivá’s remark while shivering at a deserted bus stop, admiring his big-picture view that inspires individuals to look beyond themselves. Has my manicured résumé really helped to pave a road for me? That’s the desired result, but so much of this entire odyssey reveals the limited control one person has over the critical complexities of living. Roadblocks attest to what cannot happen, but as with swerving away from dangers, these denials can become prompts toward magnanimity. One recent pared-down early morning, my gratitude came to mind that I’ve arrived at the impulse to ceaselessly look to God, and for the grace of perseverance. Manifestations of this type of grace, wrote Theophan the Recluse, “show itself on a person’s side in a yearning and aspiration towards God, and on God’s side in good intention, help, and protection.” At the very least, I am certain that God is. Perhaps there is more to that conviction than I’m able to comprehend now. In his work, Collations on the Hexaëmeron, Saint Bonaventure beautifully observed:

“The soul has to learn how to be willing and consistent. Grace lifts the soul above its own nature and effort, when grace elevates it to receive direct illuminations from God, which then become the subject of spiritual reflection and theological speculation.”

Considering the sanctity of the soul, and trying to remove as much that is deleterious as possible, mental and spiritual refuge must be carefully and judiciously replenished. Winnowing chaff and pursuing advancement, I’m reminded of the first Johannine epistle. To me, John is the archivist’s apostle, peppering his letters and his evangel with terms such as the record, that which he witnessed, and that which was written, as one connecting historicity, his younger audience, and his personal experience. “Test the spirits, beloved,” he wrote in chapter four, so that we can discern what is authentic and confirming of the gospel. He encouraged his faithful students with, you’ve overcome cruel spirits, because greater is the Holy Spirit within you, than that which circulates through the culture in our midst. A popular American financial institution advertises its credit card by asking, “what’s in your wallet?” Over two millennia ago, John asked his listeners and readers, “what’s within?” What’s enshrined in your sanctuary? Applying some language from the archival profession, “what’s your collection development policy?” and “what are your appraisal criteria?” Like stewarding multifaceted archives, being the curator of one’s soul implies confrontation of deciding what warrants preservation. At the same time, I’m maintaining room for growth on the shelves, leaving space for worthwhile acquisitions.