domine, ut videam

“When darkness falls; when nighttime is at its deepest,
and day seems far away; whenever we seem caught and blinded
by the powers and principalities of this present darkness,
there’s only one thing to do.
Turn on the light.

Many have said it across the years, in philosophy and stories,
in words of wisdom and song, and yet we are so quick to forget.
But there is a simple solution to the darkness of a room
in the middle of the night, of mind and heart,
of civilization and society. Reach for the flashlight,
for the word of hope, for the prayer.
Open the door to light, to grace, and to glory;
invite in the Light of the World, and allow that light
to chase away the shadows of nighttime fears.
Turn on the light.”

~ Carrie Gress, A Litany of Light

The paragraphs quoted above are reproduced with Dr. Gress’ permission; her text was given to me last April at the National Shrine of the Divine Mercy, when I spent a week there. That was my last significant time off from work. Such respite has not been possible since. Stresses and excessive fatigue have intensified my already longstanding insomnia. Not an easy topic, and I’ve been resisting any sort of permanency for a condition that must not last; just like a miserable housing situation. Let hardship generate needed motivation to transcend. Typical insomniac nights are restless. Imagine being at the conclusion of full and arduous workdays, yet unable to fall asleep- or remain asleep. None of the usual tactics help- from shutting down the lit screen early in the evening, to routines for bringing the day in for a landing, to reflective reading. I’ve always been told to walk around and have a glass of water, instead of tossing-and-turning in place. That doesn’t work, either. Listening to the radio is another repeatedly bad measure. The cast of culprits includes employment, housing, worries, regrets, frustrations, and other various obstacles. In this context, the Litany of Light I’ve quoted here offers a discipline to stem these daunting tides. “Turn on the light” is occasionally literal- so that I can write something down- and is more often metaphorical. As well, the discipline is not rigorous, but in forms of gentle reminders. Gentleness is surely not something experienced in daily life, not even in the boorishly cacophonous apartment building. Forms of gentleness worth my practicing include chaplets, prayers, and turning the light on- either by redirecting thoughts or by flashlight. This is to survive to see better days, and ahead of that to being open to seeing better. The biblical Bartimaeus miraculously received his sight by praying, Domine, ut videam, which means O God, help me to see!

The present state of my self-discipline is to refrain from fixating my sights far beyond the immediate. There is nothing easy about this, especially after pulling my own weight- and then some- for many, many vigilant years. But in rescinding my grasp, in modest increments, it becomes easier to sense the guiding consolations of saints and angels. It is essential for me to stay the course of good conscience, smart work, and responsibility- even though I’ve yet to see favorable results. I know enough not to expect favors, and I remember very well how my father would encourage me to keep at it: he’d say “Keep on stepping up and swinging the bat for the fences!” My wakeful and repeatedly fractured nights are riddled with reminders of how badly all my efforts are going, and I understand enough to consider my circumstances as an engulfing trial of as-yet-unknown duration. What I do know is the immediate, and the next right thing is what needs my attention; there’s nothing nebulous about that. Continuing to productively work is paralleled by continuing to network and search for better. Anguish serves to generate ambition.

Finding light in the darkness is a constant pursuit, yet paradoxically thinking about that very pursuit itself winds up helping me get back to sleep. I recently remembered something I’d do while on cherished travels such as pilgrimages: at the close of the day, I’d fall asleep while recalling the good things I experienced. With eyes closed, lying back, my thoughts would effortlessly return to the day’s scenery, people, sounds, tastes, and ideas. A grateful review of the day. Now under twin yokes of work duress and miserable housing, I try closing the day and gratefully asking, “what did I like today? What went well?” The temporary apartment is cramped, oppressive, and often invasively loud. When I’m wakefully clambering to look out from the windows, using a small flashlight to help me squeeze my way to pouring a glass of water during the midnight hours, I always notice the rare quiet. Working two careers that required the sharpest, clearest photo images, I marvel at the dusky, grainy, grey light of the hours long before dawn. My ache for better days and situations keeps me ambitiously working, and also keeps me awake at night.

During a recent sojourn at the Boston Athenaeum, I studied the 17th century text, Tender Counsel and Advice by way of Epistle, by pioneering Quaker William Penn. As always during my prized study days in the manuscripts room, I made numerous notes for my later reading. Providing his tender counsel, applying the Quaker emphasis to mind the Light, Penn bids the reader to walk in the holy Light of Christ, and thereby be preserved through all trials and difficulties on earthly life’s pilgrimage:

“For even Jesus was tempted and tried, and is therefore become our Captain, because he overcame. Neither be ye cast down, because the Lord sometimes seemeth to hide his Face from you, that you feel not always that Joy and Refreshment, that you sometimes enjoy. I know what work the Enemy maketh of these Withdrawings of the Lord. Perhaps he will insinuate, that God hath deserted you in his displeasure, that you must never expect to see him, that he will never come again: And by these and the like strategems, he will endeavour to shake your faith and hope, and distract you with fear, and to beget great jealousies and doubts in you; and by impatience and infidelity, frustrate your good beginnings.”

Reaching for light, along with recollecting positive experiences, help to uphold a sense of wonder to be able to look forward. As much as it runs against the grain of desolation, it is all the more essential to force the effort to stay hopeful. Trading consolations one morning with a colleague that is also a good friend, we compared how we wryly express our perseverance. In a comedic gruffness, looking up from a computer, my friend said, “I’m happy, dammit!” I replied with my sarcastic equalizer, “I’m being positive ‘til it kills me!” Even amidst austerity, there’s room for some kind of humor. Sarcasm, however, can detrimentally ingrain itself into one’s every perspective. I described catching and adjusting my own propensities as being similar to a car with misaligned wheels. With some focused consideration, I’ll steer my thoughts forward, preventing myself from swerving off the road. Balance and luminosity need one another, and all the more in dark and unmarked valleys. “For with you is the fountain of life,” wrote King David in the 36th Psalm; “In Your light we shall see light.” Philosophizing about the verse in the 5th century, Saint Augustine observed, “we are, and understand, because of divine illumination.” Have I got enough of this light of understanding, and do I obstruct the headlamps of guidance? As the matter of the heart is the heart of the matter, I try holding up my end of things with all I can provide. Sure, there’s grace, but typically it’s been costlier for me than it’s seemed to be for most everyone I know. Whether or not that’s true, with contrast being the mother of clarity, it honestly looks that way to me. Leaving such notions aside, and now insistently swerving away from them, the road ahead must include surrendering the failings and the incorrigibles. Living an ascended, resurrected life is needed for new beginnings. Let the way upward be lit by aspiration and gratitude.

expectation

"My library is an archive of longings.”

~ Susan Sontag, As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980.

At the beginning of this month, perhaps to parallel the start of winter, a number of wire news services published an article* about disruptive discontent. A study based upon the responses of two thousand survey participants reported that nearly three-quarters of this group sleep poorly and awaken unhappily. Referring to “morning madness” and a general sense of irritation among respondents, a third of the surveyed group cited anxiety and stress disturbing both sleep and awakening. Indeed, the article caught my attention, as I’ve been an insomnia combatant for over a dozen years. Had I been surveyed, my responses would’ve looked similar to those of the article. Having become so accustomed to fractured nights of semi-sleep, portions of these silent hours are offset by journal writing, radio listening, and reading. Penciling ideas on notepads. Not necessarily solutions, but accompaniment.

So many thoughts to assuage. The canvasses elasticize between present, past, and the unknown future, projects and words, stability in the tentative, should’ve and could’ve, then and when. Just what a mind needs to relax! Walking around my darkened apartment, the clatter silences as I look at the books and papers on my desk- the open satchel at ease. The still-life calms, as my thoughts are diverted by the quieted tethers and tools. What is normally animate has become inanimate. There is scant ambient light and no traffic noise, in the liminal between night and morning.

Through the window, it is good to see the nearly motionless outside world. Thoughts turn to expectations. Do you ask yourself about what you’re expecting? I’ve always expected great things: dreams, fruition, breakthroughs, open doors. From as far back as I can remember, I’ve wished to live up to my potential, putting all I’ve learned to real use. It’s a longlived emotion that has haunted me all through the years of schooling and employment, toiling in the concealment of stockrooms, basements, warehouses, darkrooms, and clenched stacks. Beyond thirsting for natural light, fresh air, and artistic freedom is a wish for opportunities to fully apply my skills for the greater purpose that other souls can be inspired. Hopes, attempts, and denials seem to repeat a leapfrog-playing pattern. But there remains the not-yet, a spirit solid enough to support ideals and ambitions. Even now.

In Citadelle, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry observed, “Nothing have you to hope for if yours is the misfortune of being blind to that light which emanates not from things but from the meaning of things.” How things look and how things are- can be at contrasting ends. Blended in with clear-eyed expectations is an accompanying awareness of mirages. It is very easy to be fooled, a narrow margin dividing notions and facts. Social media certainly enhances the challenge to make these distinctions. About the first ten times I’d seen commercial articles, decorated with tropical seascapes, about “following your bliss,” my reactions were those of sarcastically looking on as an outsider and an unlucky have-not. These sorts of proliferating short pieces look like they emanate from people who can afford to blithely walk away from disappointing jobs. What about the rest of us that have to bite the metaphorical bullet? From a perspective that resists both cynicism and irresponsibility, I try to keep common sense in mind. Comprehension and aspiration are both highly complex dynamics. Turning away from self-defeat, and reaching for transcendence, Quaker author Rufus Jones wrote:

Every case of sense-perception is a case of self-transcendence. If we could not leap forward and grasp an object from beyond us, and know it as beyond us, all our experience would be doomed to be shut up in an inner subjective mirage. We could never have dealings and commerce with a real world beyond our inward seemings. We should forever remain victims of the ‘egocentric predicament.’ In a trembling flash, when we perceive things, we manage to leap beyond ourselves and know a reality that is not of us, but of a world beyond us. Nobody knows how we do it. It is another mystery- like sweetness and redness- but it is none the less a fact. The moment we know anything whatsoever we prove to be self-transcendent beings.
(Pathways to the Reality of God)

Another conundrum is the relationship between potential and fortune. Is one needed for the other? Can they exist independently of one another? I’m inclined to believe the latter: potential can be driven on the steel wheels of will. Good fortune is welcome, we can do plenty to draw it, but waiting around too long wastes precious time. Everyone has the potential to add positive significance to their places and times- perhaps beyond these contexts. I’ve always admired “unsung heroes” as I’ve made note of them in many spheres. They’re the ones who are consistently present, performing their good works away from spotlights and newsfeeds- or as it’s said in sports: doing the little things that contribute and make a difference. At hockey games, I like watching what’s going on at the defensive end- where the puck isn’t; this teaches me a lot about how the players work together in the flow of regulation time. I admire the ability of turning missed opportunities into fuel, and instances of tireless daring in order to realize potential.

At this season, the month of Advent leads to the threshold of a new year. Lighting is needed earlier in the day. The anticipation in Advent’s shadowed steps is essentially an expectation. I still expect great things- even in the night watches of wakeful insomnia. The turn toward lengthened days begins during the longest nights. Years ago, when I made my living in the complete darkness of color-printing photo studios, I had a wise, older friend who managed the film department. A true artisan. To this day, I’m thankful for all our long talks in the damp, lightless film-developing room. From twenty feet away, with the benefit of the slight echo, his voice sounded three feet away. Above the sounds of the E-6 processor, he would say, “Don’t forget that God’s hand is always opening to you, always opening for you. You’re meant for way better than this.” My coworker had a terminal illness and passed away, much too young. His words and wit live on with me. They are filed with care, in my spiritual archives, with the treasures poised for future use. The past, admittedly, needn’t determine the future, but it can provide a useful repository of references. I fully expect to tap into the best of all that has been cultivated. It would be, in itself, a living gratitude for the gifts received and knowledge retained. More than an expectation, a goal.








*Article here.

writing pilgrim

“Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage,
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage...

...Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.”

~ Sir Walter Raleigh, The Passionate Man’s Pilgrimage.

Optimism is an increasingly grave matter. By this, I refer to upholding an earnestly positive perspective. More than that, to do so, full on, through all circumstances- even in these times. With each day, there are more than enough current events stories to erode heart and hope. I try to limit my exposure to news media, and long ago gave away my television. With scarce time to write, I’d rather not be immersed in continuous streams of advertising and superfluous, avoidable noise. Not enough time for reading and writing; too many excuses that lead to fear and a sense of insufficiency. Claiming some safe space, at least enough for a good night’s sleep, takes as much vigilance as the simple- yet vital- will to be creative.

There are many plausible reasons to just give up the effort. During a recent lunch hour’s journal scribbling, my recorded thoughts included the phrase, “why persevere?” Later, that evening, the philosophical discussion forum which I moderate elected to use the question as the shared topic. I listened to a variety of definitions to illustrate the meaning of perseverance. In the usual Socratic fashion, the discussion moved from the human will to live, to continuity, to whether altruism exists. Philosophy tends to beget more philosophy. Hearing so many insights spiral out of the idea of persevering was much more interesting than expressing my own doubts.

Going to work every day, with an insistent drive to see better days, has been my unworded answer to the question. Of course, persevere. If I don’t, I’ll be out of a place to live (if gentrification doesn’t strike first), or employment (if budget cuts don’t strike first). There’s no standing still. That’s a persistence related to survival, and at second thought seems rather shallow. Shouldn’t there be grander goals than water-treading persistence? The great work cannot merely be an ascent to the surface; baselines are not suitable destinations. An enduring image is brought to mind from my adolescence, when my father would take me on long walks. I loved doing this, just tagging along and absorbing his observations. Sometimes we’d stop for a breather at park benches, during which he would tap the bowl of his pipe, to shake out the old tobacco in order to replace it with new. When he’d do this above an ant hill, we would watch how the ants furiously dug out from under the ash. It never mattered how frequent, they would always upwardly clear away their places and paths with the same persistent urgency. I found this really fascinating, and the memory of this has visited me at many of my jobs, and when I have to exhume my car in the winter dark of early-morning.

It was no less than a seasoned monk (in a monastery) that called me a “cockeyed optimist.” Maybe he saw something that I couldn’t. Persevere? Well, of course. Why not? Making some measure of progress, however modest, is vital. When there are no through-paths in sight, looking forward is a foraging for escape hatches. Keep aspiring, stay productive, and continue reaching for a better situation, despite the dead ends in sight. Beneath this activity, within all the improvement attempts and hopes, is the pilgrimage spirit. Reach forth without the solidity of reward.

Excessive thought can become an obstacle to action, especially when it comes to weighing justification for not trying. Blind faith is, admittedly, quite unreasonable. As a pilgrim soul ever explores and navigates, it seems to me that hope often defies reason. And amidst reasonable hopelessness is some kind of unreasonable aspiration. You may not understand this. It doesn’t really make sense, when considering what little is immediately visible. And that’s just it: we have to size up and interpret what we can see, against what we cannot. Consider the contrast between an after-midnight sleepless gaze upon motionless and darkened streets, compared to the same window view to a sunstreamed landscape hours later. To my ears, it seems rather absurd when an athlete on a last-place team says something like, “we’re making great improvements, and with a few adjustments we’ll succeed.” But absurdity, in this case, is in the ears of the beholder. By contrast, how does the athlete perceive their own situation, and the way upward?

There is much to overlook, in order to see straight to the horizon. I have to visualize past numerous daily reminders that are capable of convincing me to simply give up. It is a struggle in itself to protect clear and well-intending vision from exhaustion, resignation, and anger that can easily harden into cynicism. There is a life-threatening, cavernous drop from such a steep precipice. Still more perseverance is needed, as if there’s an endless supply. But how much and how far is unknown, and that is an uneasy dimension of pilgrimage. On this hard journey, perhaps I’ve accomplished much, but admittedly I haven’t done a tenth of what I’m well prepared to do. Time does not stand still, and neither does my patience. Should I see the present as the start of what is yet to fulfill, or as the point from which to measure my time remaining to try correcting my failings? There must be good enough reason to soldier on, better than meeting creditors’ deadlines, making the digging out of the ant hill worthwhile. Without a tidy conclusion to these dilemmas, work commitments demanded that I close book and pen. Retaking the crosstown pavement, I chose to walk along Pleasant Street, and to think about that.

Several evenings ago, while waiting on a long line at a supermarket, the customer in front of me noticed my lapel pin. “Love that typewriter pin.” The next comment was memorable: “Are you a writer by trade, or is it your passion?” Much is implied in a question like that. Sometimes avocation and vocation do coincide. Because I don’t punch a clock as a paid, professional author, I balked in my response. “Oh, it’s a passion, all right,” I replied, righting myself. Within these little interactions is another illustration of the life of a pilgrim of trust. Pilgrimage, by definition, is a one-way voyage through unknown passes, en route to an eternal destination. The way is indefinite and unpredictable. Incorporated into the grand voyage are months, days, and hours of stages in the journey. For the writer, the increments are paragraphs, sentences, and jots. Indeed, there is always something to write about. Our “scrip and staff” relate to the instruments of our craft. With fellow journeying writers, we compare our notes. There are trails, paths, and desert stretches of road; there are tasks and trials. With our companions, we regale one another, continuing the ancient ways of storytelling as we see in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. A writing pilgrim often must create their own maps, and surely the scrolls are of our creation. Among prized instruments that permit us to make our marks, are our collected words. With our words and inspirations come our functional metaphors. In this context, a great example is the word compass.

Places of respite and pauses are sparing, brief, and never quite satiating. Perhaps I must take that to mean I cannot rest long on the sidelines. There is no shrinking back from the continuum. Within this is the most difficult terrain for the pilgrim soul. Proceeding without good reason. Invest the entirety of one’s life and energy in the midst of waste land. Do it anyway, and wholeheartedly. The immediate is tangible, the hereafter is accepted on faith, but the intervening span is the greatest unknown. Uncertainty must be armed with readiness, aimlessness with direction. In motioning forward is the brashest boldness.