der blaue reiter

“Blue champagne
Purple shadows and blue champagne
With the echoes that still remain
I keep a blue rendezvous.”

~ The Manhattan Transfer, Blue Champagne


journey and journal

Gratitude increases with accumulated mileage, as my travels are accompanied by writing. Images and words gladly correspond with places visited. And I try to include sites that inspire the exploration of ideas, paralleling the places visited. The written continuum of journals provides a paper playing-field for the recording of locations, events, and gleaned words, drawn together from immediate environments. Like photo motifs and camera, wise words received require ready writing materials for their recording. Viewing errand as adventure provides an antidote to sameness. “Every day is a mini-project,” my father likes to say. Years ago, an elderly co-worker at a night-shift job I had used to tell me to vary my routes to and from work- to keep it interesting. My grandmother advised that I eat a variety of foods, “otherwise your intestines will get bored.” Such snapshots are enshrined in writing, woven through journeys of streets, workplaces, mountains, waterways, shops, and kitchens alike. Documentation becomes the abiding record of the journey.

discovery and treasure

Discoveries and treasures are authenticated by words and images. They are joined to our living histories. Collected gems remind us of where we’ve sojourned. And the returning individual is always- even subtly- changed by the travel, however humble it may have been. Ah, but to embark upon a journey of taking pictures and taking notes, some preparation is needed. Depending upon the extent and mode of transit, basics include notebook, pencil, pen, and camera. Then there are peripheral reinforcements such as extra ink, a sharpener, a tripod, a spare ribbon- when a typewriter is along for the ride. A few books, too: with every retreat, I bring The Cloud of Unknowing. When writing ideas are jumbled, that means it’s time to read. If I’ve just begun a new journal, I bring along the previously-filled volume. Our own words can also be worthy companions. A portable book or two and a pocketable Bible go with every adventure- even an average workday. This is simply to be prepared; provisions must not anchor. After all, some room must be left available for found treasure.


commerce and collegiality :

joon of new york

Although I brought sufficient sustenance for the journey, an enjoyable side of traveling is the ability to try new wares. New York has some great sources for the adventurous writer. In this era of anonymity, with the banality of big-box, it is refreshing and heartening to listen to experts in their retail fields knowledgeably discuss their wares.

My friend James works with the great folks at Joon of New York. Recently, James and I have been animatedly chatting about... ink. Yes, ink. But James’ descriptions of inks resemble those of a wine connoisseur. Our common ground is in the use of the tools- and our love of the written word. After regaling James about blue inks I’ve found through my travels, he offered some suggestions of his own. Blue shows especially well against warm-toned paper (just as sepia does with cooler and whiter tints). The boldest blue inks tend to be too thick for fountain pen use, and thus I’ve found two favorites for dip-pen writing: Daler-Rowney indigo- which I bought in Canada, and Winsor & Newton royal blue- from Bob Slate’s in Cambridge. Both are perfectly opaque, but their content would destroy the conduits of pens with plumbing. Fountain pen blue inks look weak and watery, compared to the pigmented calligraphy inks, and the best compromise I’d found was Aurora’s blue- bought in Maine. James patiently and jovially brought out a variety of blue inks, referring to saturation and boldness.

James helping me choose the right blue ink, using a dip pen.

Displays at Joon for Faber-Castell (note their salute to their graphite roots) above, and for Caran d'Ache below. Joon has been my resource for the Caran d'Ache fountain pens I use daily.

Sampling the Mont Blanc royal blue, which has the solidity of Aurora- though nicely on the violet side, I settled on this as the found treasure for the road. The moment James brought out the Mont Blanc bottle, I immediately thought of the Rocher Percé, which is in the peninsula region in Canada called La Gaspésie.

Above: Mont Blanc ink bottle.
Below: the massive Percé rock in Canada. To get a sense of how enormous the rock formation is, have a look at the photo I took below my long shot immediately below. I took the bottom photo during low tide; notice how tiny the people look!

___________________________________________________

arthur brown

Later in the week, I stopped in at Arthur Brown- another favorite purveyor that has kept me armed for the battle for a long time. Art Brown has a dizzying variety of journals- along with writing and drawing materials. No less than three of their brilliant salesmen brought out looseleaf books of ink sample swatches, and we pleasantly talked shop as though we were in a hardware store in New England. One of the gentlemen talked about the coverage of types of inks. “You can’t really compare pigmented calligraphy ink to fountain pen ink,” he observed. “Imagine pouring toothpaste out of a drinking glass, or dispensing water from a toothpaste tube.” He gave me some great pointers, but they will wait until I’ve emptied my new supply of Mont Blanc. Indeed, as the abundant opportunity presented itself, I purchased a few journals, adding to my found treasure for the road.


libraries and museums

Above: window at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Below: Tiffany ink-wells (and yes, that's a gold pen) at the "Met."

Beyond sources for artisans’ materials, large cities offer immortal works of art to reward the souls that seek them out. For the purpose of this writing topic, it will have to suffice to mention that sharing the Metropolitan Museum with ancient manuscripts and artifacts are enormous chambers filled with classical paintings, sculptures, and numerous extended structures to house the best-of-the-best of fine art. I call the Met “the Louvre of the western hemisphere,” and treat it as such: visits are targeted to specific sections, thus avoiding sensory-overload. Amazement remains inevitable, particularly among the Rembrandts, El Grecos, and Holbeins.


pierpont morgan library

Downtown, and a few blocks east of the New York Public Library, is the stately Pierpont Morgan Library. The Morgan has always been my favorite New York museum, with memorable shows such as Beatrix Potter’s original illustrations, Degas’ and Ingres’ sketches, music manuscripts of the great composers (including the original handwritten Messiah of George Frederick Handel), and their unforgettable exhibit of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s manuscript- with the watercolor illustrations- of Le Petit Prince. My introduction to the Morgan was through their William Henry Fox-Talbot show; with wide-eyes, I marveled at the glass-topped table displays of the first-ever photo negatives with their companion paper contact prints. Their collections, largely focused on paper-based works pre-1800, include medieval illuminated books and- not one, but three Gutenberg Bibles (1455).

Above: The East Room, (C)by the Pierpont Morgan Library & Museum, used with their kind permission.

Below: Since photography is not permitted inside the Morgan, I sketched Charles Dickens' travelling ink well. The ink well is included in one of their current exhibitions called "Dickens at 200," which is filled with manuscripts. The ink well has a glass chamber with a silver lid, and it pivots into a wood frame.

new york public library

The famous New York Public Library, guarded by sculpted lions, includes vast research collections, great reading rooms, and an unusual assemblage (2 photos down) of pencils and typed pages. Now there's a thought!

The front courtyard of the NYPL is a great writing-perch. I noticed how my sentiments are shared by others.

waystations

More writers- this time at the Caffe Reggio, in Greenwich Village. Indeed, I made the opportunity (below), with my Caran d'Ache "Ecridor" filled with Mont Blanc ink.

Reminding us that we are always upon our way, whether close to home or far afield, waystations are integral to the voyage. The French word relais explains this well, referring to a temporary place of rest. “Une étape entre deux points,” is a stage (as in a milestone, or a landmark, or a stopping-place) between any two points. If conversations, exhibits, and long walks represent reading, the waystations represent writing the connections between jots. We determine our relais, and- I hope- when they are favorable or necessary. These are the counter-forms among our typographic symbols. When the occasion arises that an étape can be along 5th Avenue, I can gladly recall such places when my midweek coffee breaks take place on the Portland waterfront. This surely works vice-versa, as my senses longed for Maine while I peered out for water views between the office buildings in Manhattan. With treasures to write with and upon, there is a winter for me to eagerly embark upon- and more anticipated travels.

(a little further reading, "blue ink and blueberries.")

beacon hill

“The reach must always exceed the grasp.
The heart must forever be throbbing for an attainment
that lies beyond any present consummation.
It is the ‘glory of going on,’
the joy of discovering unwon territory
beyond the margin of each
spiritual conquest.”

~ Rufus Jones, The Inner Life


Each day is unique and should be a fresh start. This morning’s front page is not yesterday’s. But do we have distinguishable news items, and is it fair to expect and find ameliorations to our daily stories? Yes, it is; and it is also well worth cultivating a discipline of observation. The way to work has only so many variations on the basic route. But in a real sense, just as the day is unique, it is not the same way through the same places. During the lunch hour of noting words in my journal, I chose an old familiar perch. But the day varies context and backdrop. From the second floor window of the coffeehouse, sheltered from the rain, pedestrians’ umbrellas appeared as twirling spoked mushroom caps. Varying my vantage point permits perception practice. The street below revealed textures I hadn’t noticed at ground level. Looking north between office buildings, I recognized a steeple four neighborhoods away, standing at the horizon.

Discovery isn’t simply finding something entirely unfamiliar: it’s also noticing newness in the usual. Surely terra incognita is immediately in our midst. Perhaps you, too, can pinpoint some of your own historic realizations. Our discoveries are for us to store in our hearts and fuel our fires. Last week I enjoyed the double-privilege of residing with the Quaker community in the Beacon Hill Friends House and studying the 17th century works of Richard Baxter at the Boston Athenaeum nearby. The Friends live in the same building as their sanctuary. When I had my first look at the space, with sunlight and verdant colors streaming in from the back garden, my impression halted my steps. I was immediately reminded of my first-ever visit to Taizé, France- which followed two days of traveling, preceded by months of planning: from dusty summerbaked roads, I entered the Taizé monastery’s church and was swept by the combination of beautiful colors, the ambience of the space itself, and the fact that I had really arrived. Discovery has ways of finding us. The Friends’ environment has a similar eloquent simplicity, however in a much smaller and purposefully unadorned space. A new lived experience in a very familiar place.

A week of new horizons in well-known worlds provided respite and insight alike. Between daily visits to the Athenaeum I could stroll the hilly streets unencumbered, having a neighborhood place to leave bags, books, and typewriter. And I could visit with friends, without calculating a same-day return to Maine. There was plenty of time to listen well. Even my handwriting slowed down. The Athenaeum’s rare books room, open only on weekdays, was yet another place of discovery in a library I’ve known for a dozen years. After reading all I could borrow of Baxter’s in circulating collections, it was time to meet the treasures he published in his own lifetime. Requesting to use the special reading room paralleled my query for staying with the Quakers.

More occasions of quiet wonder, with tomes opened for me by scrupulous curators revealing pages printed more than 350 years ago. From the London printer Thomas Parkhurst’s hands to mine, a 21st century bookbinder from Maine, I could barely imagine the readers in between. And could those writers have imagined what New England would become? How about a Quaker Meeting House sharing a neighborhood with Congregational, Catholic, and Episcopal churches- and a synagogue? All this, and a separation of church and state. Baxter would’ve marveled at that. The books- and a 17th century style of protracted-sentenced English- filled many of my daytime hours. I took numerous notes in permissible pencil. A few of these books are also accessible in scanned form, but I found the originals so much easier to navigate. I could glance quickly between prefatory notes and texts. The paper itself gently reflects light. Another area of fascination is the marginalia; little markers to confirm steps in the forest.

Serendipity manifests in ways such as when we realize new acquaintances share similar friends and affinities. Simultaneously our worlds draw nearer while doors open. The serendipitous can also find its way into the bookbindings of printed words. After a solid week of Baxter’s writing- and sensing more of the spirit in the words- I signaled for the last of the books I’d requested. Recognizing the tome as being a bound collection of pamphlets, I looked for the contents list as a finding-aid for the volume. On my way to the Baxter item, in this bundle of random 17th century items, the item immediately preceding Baxter caught my eye. It was a captivating polemic by one John Alexander, something I’d never have found if not for the serendipity of perusing books. With special permission, I photographed the title page. In fact, Alexander’s words, along with how I began imagining Alexander as a person, upstaged the last Baxter piece, and my last few hours were absorbed by this personal discovery.

Time passes astonishingly quickly on sojourns like these. It seems there is a special time zone we inhabit when we are enthralled, and it runs quite opposite to the ones that prevail in schools and employment. As the week drew to a close, I brought a mutual friend of the Beacon Hill Friends House to visit me there, and another mutual friend back in contact with the Athenaeum. And I took a good long walk, finally away from Beacon Hill, my thoughts filled with all I’d intensely read. Back Bay, the Public Gardens, Copley Square, and Commonwealth Avenue- all well-trodden by my old steps- were suddenly easier to enjoy with my leisurely paces.

Beacon Hill has sent me back to the fray with some new strength. I’ve learned how Valley Street can wend up to higher ground. Places of respite are way-stations. These are places in which it is possible to stop, gather, and rejuvenate so that the pilgrimage of trust on earth may be taken up again. Intermissions seem all-too-brief, but it is consoling to know of many refuges that are easy to reach. Last week reminded me to notice discoveries in all forms. The Quaker community, through many spirited conversations, reminded me of kindred spirits. When you think you may have become as jaded as this culture appears to be, you can discover that it is still possible to experience wonder, and that is helped by seeing wonder in others around you. I’ve found myself reading and writing in silence more than before- and to write more slowly. On the northbound return train, my thoughts turned to friendships, newness and excavated finds in the old and familiar. New directions on the old way home.

measures

“For in the realm of the spirit
heaven is as near up as it is down,
behind as before, to left or to right.
The loftiest and surest way to heaven
is measured by desires
and not by miles.
The one who longs to be there
really is there in spirit.”

~ The Cloud of Unknowing, chapter 60


Two beachcombers stopped to talk, as I busily wrote aperch on a rock. “Is that your journal? Are you writing poems?” “It is,” I answered, “but I’m just making notes about the day.” “That’s awesome,” one of them said. In response I asked, “do you write poems?” “I did when I was young,” replied the girl who looked no older than ten; “now we draw lots of mermaids- like this!” They proudly displayed one of their notebooks. “Definitely awesome,” I said, later remembering myself as a ten year old that used to say, “when I was young.”

With time and distance, there are increasingly more complex things of which the mind must make sense. Measures and increments. We refer to how many years ago, or jobs ago, or who was with us- and the places, tasks, titles, and names apply measure to time. Interacting our lives with time and space leads to the necessity of comprehending their quantities.

In the midst of desert wilderness, ends are not within sight; if they could be, an interminable trudge would seem more a definable sojourn. Alas, we cannot know the duration of a temporal condition. Using the standard measures of time when referring back to, say, the time between completing grad school and that first serious full-time job, the words three-and-a-half years roll forth with an ease that dishonors the countless miles, missed meals, hopeful presentations, and nerve-wracking poverty. And those rejection letters: I’d made a rule for myself that no rejection letter was to cross the threshold into my apartment. Spans such as three-and-a-half years are lived in hours, days, weeks, and blurs. Measuring devices provide some degree of command over the portioning of areas and amounts. It is for the individual soul to determine scales of importance, thus using personal significance to establish proportion. Having this in mind, perhaps there is asymmetry in our measuring of time- and even time itself. Consider how ages 12 to 17 covered five years; so did 25 to 30. Five years is five years. Well, perhaps not as simply as that. There are proportions, experiences, and what we archivists call enduring value. These defy measurement.

With time lived, and distances experienced and navigated, comes a reckoning with procedure. Progress manifests in steps. Structures are constructed in phases. Foundations precede roofs, a chassis is built before an interior is detailed. When conserving a book, I don’t encase gathers of pages (called signatures) before binding them first. I had to learn to patiently wait out an adhesive’s curing process. By contrast, it requires precise rapidity to be able to carry out paper repair procedures. Part of the continued cultivation of patience is through appreciating sequence. An increased comprehension of progress helps develop perceptive abilities.

Lest more time and opportunities elude my reach, I hope to better perceive my context. How else to arrive at a cultivated sense of vision, between impatiently desiring this trait- and by incidental endurance? To envision does incorporate a perspective that refers back to the times and lives of enterprises and projects, as well as looking ahead without encumbrance. Balancing between the jaundiced pitfall-knowing eye and seeing open-ended potential as it presents. Remembering archival principles, when faced with massive quantities of unorganized records, we archivists must first establish intellectual control over the material. This means to get a sense of the documents we’re to preserve and for which to create access tools. If there’s no discernable order or provenance (origin), we must impose a coherent classification, with respect to the sources (or roots) of the records. In a similar sense, it is for the perceptive soul to size up the overabundance, and apply principles of context appraisal, provenance, and ascertain evidentiary value. With perspective, I can appreciate confluences of terminology and import them freely into my own context. The impulse to organize and preserve must be checked, however, lest there be an unnecessary strain to uphold obstructive and stagnating notions.

Even with a sense of my roots and a remembrance of the providential, I often wonder how to look forward. The unknowing may be just as helpful as the corpus of all that I do know. Though having a sense of direction, the course to chart is of unknown measure. And even by making notes about the day, recording them with written words, it is a one-way travel. With shoulder to the plow, there’s no heading back- certainly not beyond reflection through historic record.

I’d like to think there is more reason to prefer the future to the past. It’s still a good idea to look forward, even with no apparent place to go. The time being is of an unseen duration. There remains the near, the manageable future, which has some delineated measure. This evening after work, having fulfilled my obligations, I’ll have time to write. A modest and attainable goal. Indeed, there are the grander ones, too, providing plenty of bucket list lining material. “Bear well in mind,” wrote Saint-Exupéry in Citadelle, “ that your whole past was but a birth and becoming.” For him, the desert represented the mind. This occurs to my thoughts, as so much around me appears as deserted places. The adventures we all live contain lessons, and perhaps mine at present is to see what I can create in a persisting desert. The past is definable and can be analyzed. The present and immediate future are the waters now plied. Their distant extremities cannot be measured or defined. Without grasp, comfort must then be taken in the Unsearchable and Immeasurable.

primary sources

“Always remember this luminous gospel reality: ‘it was God who loved us first.’
That is a light for your life.”

“What is the source of this hope? It is in God, a God who simply loves and no less, a God who never stops seeking us. Our hope is renewed when we entrust ourselves humbly to God.”

~ Brother Roger of Taizé, The Sources of Taizé


Continuity encourages me to look ahead, yet with a sense of the past. An invitation to venture to the Source is simply too good to resist. A long-anticipated travel was a night away. One of those simple journeys with an overtly spiritual purpose. Regularly traveling like this for some fifteen years now, I routinely stop to write just before leaving. Journal jotting is as necessary as packing provisions. When they occur, launch moments are times to cherish- and that includes a pause upon the return trip. Both ends are points of embarkation, and enough experience has shown me how clumsy it can be to write in transit. Moreso than to write, a time to absorb. Collecting written thoughts before heading out I can preserve impressions to read later that describe how I was before the experience. Preparing for a pilgrimage provides an example for the preparation for life’s journeys of any duration. Part of the readying is the anticipation.

Even after arriving, there is preparation and anticipation. More arrivals will follow, and they will be welcomed by us. By preparing for the event by decorating shared spaces, music practice, setting out and serving food, the welcomed become providers of welcome. Amounting to an instant spectrum of reciprocity, it is yet another privilege to be included. The present becomes a shared home for a vast diversity of pilgrims, seekers, and the boldly curious. We are all bound together in a festive current.

Turning a corner, traversing a borderland, and recognizing a new passage is to discover a season. Distances covered become paths reached. The pilgrim road directs human steps toward the source of the Spirit within. Though material conditions appear unchanging, it is for me to actively detect transition by observing my perspectives. A season, such as the Lenten weeks, can be one of expectation that is itself anticipated. At the culmination of the Lenten season is the intensity of Passover: a looking forward to an extraordinary span of time, including a change in daily life, house-cleaning, and even in what foods to eat or be stored in the cupboard. As though preparing for a voyage, there is a similarly expectant air. Ordinary days can present numinous journeys, windows to our sources. A stretch of eight days, within forty, inside a year is an example.

These short seasons remind me of my acquired taste for the savor of gradual successions of days- or process- more than the single-day emphases. No day is an island. More than to hinge times of renewal upon a season, invitations and beginnings are inherent with daily experiences. Our continued interactions and prayers can lead to a mindfulness of God's presence, to our extension of that presence, and hence a closeness to the source of what is life-giving. As I’ve come to understand, the monastic expression going to the source is really a reference to prayer- and thus continuing to commit one’s life to openness to God. But the action of advancing in steps toward holiness becomes something of a resource itself. A setting forth that remembers the source from which I’ve known goodness in the past and through which I comprehend.

A thirst for advancement becomes intrinsic to an aspiring soul. The clearest expression of this for me- which even encompasses actively helping others- is life as pilgrimage. This is motion especially dedicated to fulfillment, encounter, and expression. Inward harmony to manifest as outward harmony. It implies ever drawing- and remembering to continue- from the wellsprings of trust. Just two weeks ago, I had the privilege of participating in an unusual Taizé gathering- also known as a Pilgrimage of Trust- as a musician. This was my tenth year of traveling to do just this! As a result, with each year, city, and country there are more and more friends to recognize- and vice-versa. The venue this time was a large Eastern Orthodox church in Montréal. For the music ensemble, this was something very new and thus every impression was a first. We were given very little time to tune in advance and get settled. Walking into the expanse of space my first impression was one of quiet wonder, absorbing the bright iconography and the dry aroma of incense. Life-sized frescos and the increasing numbers of gathering humanity amounted to a sum of glowing colors in the grey dusk of the sanctuary.

Pencilling notes on my music sheets, between songs.

Acclimating to the space, I began to notice more nuances. Beneath this, my thoughts were occupied with the idea of the sources of trust. The front of the sanctuary had the appearance of a lit settlement with something of a skyline. Numerous shimmering icons populated the area around all of us, and the space around the altar brought to mind gates of prayer. The Brother of Taizé who was with us gave a talk about rejoicing in the thirst God has placed in us. This concept, from the ancient Psalms, was reflected in the chant and music we continued with. De Noche Iremos: “by night we seek the living waters; only our thirst lights us onward.” Following the days together, we all dispersed to resume our lives- in so many different places. Yet it was an advancing forward in great company, each continuing their pilgrimages in new strength. With sore left fingers, I clutched the handles of my guitar case down through the chilled subway. But it could hardly have been more wonderful.

Returning home and to my job, and then looking at the work itself, I thought further about sources. We refer to primary and secondary sources: original manuscripts and published editions. Primary and secondary; destinations and way-stations. The adventures of prayer, gathering together, and divine words become the presence we carry with us. The Source of all life does not draw from yet another source, but creates resources. On the road back, I asked my traveling companions about how their gleanings become sources. We traded stories about artifacts we’ve admired. I remembered seeing Longfellow’s manuscripts- complete with the very pencils he used for writing his epic Evangeline. My flute-playing friend talked about how he owns his grandparents’ engraved tea set which they received at their wedding, and imagined what the festivities might have been like. What do sources look like? What sounds do they create? Indeed, there are the created who can create, as well as created matter that cannot. Experiences of God form our approaches to the Source. Directed to the Source, the voyage is a life’s pilgrimage reaching beyond limitations, driven by thirst.