time and a half

“Encourage one another daily,
as long as it is called ‘To-Day,’
keep each other on your toes
so that evil doesn’t slow down your reflexes.”

~ Hebrews 3:13


1

Something that has never been far from my thoughts, since it was said to me years ago: a wise colleague once told me that “hardships are inevitable, but misery is optional.” This fellow was a Capuchin Franciscan friar with a great deal of lived experience, insight, and a raucous sense of humor. His cultivated traits are now extremely rare, to the point of disturbing unpopularity. I like to think about those of us who are remembering cultivators, circulating throughout this desert of a world, persevering and providing encouragement. I hope you are practicing your own versions of similar attributes. From my furrow which has barely enough breadth for its requisite vigilance, the day-to-day is replete with anxious tentativeness. Thanks to journal-writing, there’s at least one place to deposit apprehensions about what may- or may not- be impending, as well as attempts at hopeful stabilization. Fortunately there are always other stories and observations to write about. Pursuits and projects provide many musings. I try parsing the hardships and miseries by taking metaphorical steps back to observe bigger pictures. Daily situations and their populating characters amount to plenty of material, particularly in workplaces. While I cannot predict the doings and misdoings with full prescience, I can surely predict that I will write about them. In the half-empty glass of instability, the glass is half-filled with potential improvement. Tenuousness has a dynamism.

Since stress is in abundant supply, why not make productive use of it? Conventional wisdom has come to positively embrace methods of recycling usable material that was typically discarded into unwieldy waste dumps. Buildings are now increasingly constructed with repurposed amalgams of “mass timber.” Why not find ways to mentally reconstitute negative millstones into constructive and spirited energy? My efforts at this are sharply put to the test. Awaiting a late bus on a frozen morning had me thinking about the stagnation of tension. This looks parallel to attempts at controlling factors that are frustratingly out-of-reach. This sort of tension makes for a counterproductive grip. That bus will show up, when it shows up. I reached the bus stop early, as usual, with sufficient funds on my transit card. I’ve heard from career counselors that my résumé is excellent and appealing- thus I’ll need the faith of a Metrobus passenger when it comes to all my networking and applications. One can do only so much, especially amidst these recessed times.

Overspreading the personal tensions is the tangible zeitgeist of economic fears. And so the pragmatism continues: stocktaking about what is good and wholesome, carrying on with gratitude, while keeping up the search. A critical byproduct of recycled tension is the maintaining of courage for pursuing dreams, insisting there is still time. Racing against the sands of time to finally find success often reminds me of overtime in competitive sports. True to existential angst, the term sudden death is applied to the extra time needed to settle a tie score- also known as a deadlock. Overtime is often brief, frenetic, and an intensified version of the general game. Ponder how an extra inning has the potential of a last lick or a walk-off. Real or perceived,, sports metaphors and social media notwithstanding, it’s detrimentally easy to strongly feel the shortage of time for hard-earned fulfillment. My hopes insist upon being set high.


2

During and immediately following my college years, I had a variety of jobs- some involving warehouse and conveyor-line work. When it came to situations demanding compounded productivity, or moving the merchandise along against abrupt deadlines, supervisors would single out the more diligent workers- I was always one of them- and would ask for needed overtime. “You’ll get time-and-a-half,” meaning that for those working beyond a shift’s obligations, the extra time would remunerate at 50% more than regular wage. Consequently, as operations extended into overtime, the selected crew would churn into whatever was needed to complete the work. During my first few years after undergrad, while beginning to repay my student loans, I held down a second job- working various graveyard shifts. A few of us hardy souls that desperately needed money would consent to the overtime temptation. We’d exchange glances and tell each other, Time-and-a-half!

An unsung great many of us are working intensely beyond the basics, sticking our necks out most of our waking hours, for many tightly-held and justifiable reasons. We hunger for success, for better days in better situations, to be respectfully recognized, and to arrive at stability. I believe everyone desires to be valued. But in this present era, are we only as worthwhile as we’re marketable? And how much of one’s humanness and productive compatibility can transmit for recruiters without a personal conversation, but merely through metadata? I’d like to think we’re each more than boxes checked, and that a good hire is a wise, transcendent investment. Many say that nobody finds jobs through uploaded applications anymore. As with the housing market, there have to be exceptions somewhere. Otherwise, it’s all through connections and grapevines- or inside networks. Application-tracking and various systems of analytics essentially shortchange all parties, closing gates still tighter and higher. Ironically, such barriers are prevalent in professions that prosper best with creative and eclectic professionals. AI and ML notwithstanding, still more barricades come in varying forms of prejudices which have nothing to do with skills, achievements, or integrity of character. An especially absurd obstacle for a willing applicant, albeit in these economic times, is the disregard of versatility. Being accomplished at many applicable skills is value-added; it’s useful, and potentially fulfilling for both employers and workers. Referring back to the sports world, players and their coaches extol exemplary team players that are “great to have in the clubhouse.” A positive culture cannot be built without this kind of spirit.


3

Some remember the expression: The pursuit of perfection is the enemy of goodness. In life-and-death situations, perfection has its place. Inevitably, most of us are serving, instructing, and answering to human beings- stewarding and even sanctifying the ordinary. Efficiency and conscientiousness may not need to be perfect. Perhaps attempts at being perfectly attentive and alacritous can scare others away. More appropriate would be a kind of perfect moderation, though- alas- such soft skills evade those counterproductive parsing upload utilities. Along with inconsistencies around versatility and perfection is how many refer to permanence. As our definitions for perfection are theoretical and subject to context, so might our interpretations of permanence. Expectation and reality rarely juxtapose. How do you define permanence? Something between the life of a product, and forever?

Perhaps as a grade-school pupil, you too were told by some pedagogical disciplinarian or other about a permanent record- some transcendent tally-sheet potentially preventing you from realizing your life’s dreams (or at least graduating from high school). It turned out the closest thing to permanent was the duration of the few years of threat to us adolescents. I remember a teen standup comedian at one of our school talent shows who made up a routine about being barred from disembarking from a transatlantic flight because the flight crew had been told he failed tenth grade French. “It was on my permanent record,” he comically wailed- and we all laughed. Years later and well into my intrepid career as an archivist, permanence hinges upon factors such as humidity, physical stability, and alkalinity. We use terms like enduring value, and digital preservation. Still, the duration of permanence remains a challenge to predict. It also remains wise to keep fit and prepared for inevitable hardships, not just as a good steward of resources, but also as an always-aspiring worker seeking better, each day an extra inning.

traction

“I am like a desert owl of the wilderness,
like an owl of the waste places.”

~ Psalm 102:6


endurance

The need for endurance never dissipates. It is surely emphasized during this exhausting pandemic that vigilance cannot be interrupted. Lived experience- in real time, as opposed to looking back to the past through truncated perspective- is often vulnerable to mirages. Does time really “heal all wounds,” or is it simply that amidst our lived passage of time the immediacy of our thoughts and urgencies create distancing distractions? A lot more scrupulosity is required to accurately remember, than to supercede events with more events. I believe we are more prone to passively forget, as opposed to actively recollecting. Returning to the odyssey of surviving the pandemic, it is too easy to be fooled by the mere passage of time. Some significant developments have certainly transpired during the past year, but time has not made the danger go away. We could say that we’re buying time with our preventive measures, hoping to extend enough space for medicine to catch up and surpass the contagion. For the passage of time to be of constructive use, it must be combined with perspective...

...And levels of patience uncharacteristic of the on-demand culture that was indefinitely derailed last year. Discerning observers have seen, too many times, how impatience and self-centeredness can kill. But the pressure is not only in the swirl of wanderlust, but also steeped in economic duress. The need to earn a living is yoked to how most of us are scrambling to be relevant. Somewhere in the middle is a rarely-seen sense of prudent moderation. For a worker on the margins of sustenance, there are few means for influence. It’s a steep drive uphill with insufficient traction. Surviving this episode of undetermined duration is anything but passive: while the necessary kind of vigilance toughens, I am trying to prevent resistance from leading to callousness. Not easy, but worthwhile for the sake of conscience- albeit with thickened skin. Abiding in my thoughts is the unforgiving aspect of time; as it marches on, we all get older. Proving to be relevant is joined by the yokefellow of marketability. Those whose quests for better employment began long before the covid era wind up forced to apply even greater effort to compensate for the intense losses of rejection. But survival means standing up, dusting off, and recovering that requisite traction. Quarantining intensifies the challenge of perspective, and a spiritual backbone is all the more a sustaining means. Survival is also the willingness to improve every possible approach, from the present adversities, to open ends to the future. More than simply being aware of my surrounding factors, it is vital to be critical of them- but without being negative. Such constructive criticism- as it is in the arts- is meant to motivate change. Normally, and for years before April 2020, I would distract myself by “getting out of Dodge,” with road trips, cultural venues, and pilgrimages. Recently (as I wrote last month), the open horizons are through the inner life. Journaling, more than ever, is a storing-up of strength and recollection. It is less a buying of time, and more like “renting time,” considering how little I actually own.


traction and inertia

As spring arrives, notwithstanding the time mirages I’ve just written about, I’m expecting improvement. I’m also humbly remembering mild days aperch with books on the front stoop of my apartment. Perching on the granite steps will often bring me in contact with six- and eight-legged neighbors. For the most part, when a large ant rushes in my direction, I’ll flick it away. Fascinatingly, if I set the edge of my book down to obstruct an ant’s path, it tries to go around the barrier. Then I move the barrier, and the ant tries another route, not interested in backtracking. I can relate to this type of ant, quixotically trying every possible way-around. Inevitably and usually, I’ll simply raise my book and let it pass along on its determined way. Wouldn’t I love to receive such mercy.

Ever prying at the barricades, I can do only so much to try to influence circumstances. Admitting to my own naïveté, my persistent idealism continues to assume that honest, diligent, and excellent work leads to a better life. Or at least an open door. But what really opens the way to opportunity? How do social outsiders transcend the barricades? In much slower and with more complicated variables than those of the scurrying ant on the front stoop, I’ve yet to find significant success. With decades of pondering this, and conversing with numerous individuals, while observing many levels of these games of prejudicial sizing-up and upload-analytics, I’ve learned that traction comes from the receiving end. This is to say that without allies on the inside, an applicant is left to stand upon nothing more than their own substance. Ironically, the most valuable aspects- abilities, accomplishments, cooperativeness, and character- are made the least important. Traction and open doors are impossible without allies on the inside. I’ve conferred with no less than eight career counselors, and they each agree. There can surely be exceptions, but they emanate from the same unpredictable realm as that of the miraculous. And if the odds weren’t steep enough, there is the regional perception universally-known (and admitted by too many), which I call The Maine Paradox:

If you’re from here, we can trust you, but you’re no good;
If you’re from away, we can’t trust you,
but you’re better than us.

This is an unwritten truth finally written here. And it is as defeatist and universally acknowledged as the proverbial “gentleman’s agreement.” It is also sadly a major reason why most local talent reluctantly leaves this state for the cause of finding success elsewhere. I have witnessed this for more than thirty years. And it is more than unfortunate, not only for all the heartbroken souls that are barricaded out of building careers in their beloved and invested home state, but also for the cause of community depth and priceless historicity. Such widespread disregard for homegrown and locally-embraced ingenuity endangers community and corporate memory to the point of repeating mistakes. And this is not to mention unproductive and costly lunges for “outside experts” that do more harm than help. No-one I’ve met anywhere knows of a place attached to such an undercutting mindset. Of course, nativistic views are not productive, either, but what can really use some societal traction is fair competition for all. Are there Maine people in high places (and I have discussed this with various members of state government) who will address the paradox of which they dismayingly admit exists? Societal amnesia on a broader scale is such that prophetic messages as not being judged by race or ethnicity but by content of character (and I’ll add place of residence) seem as if they’ve never been preached at all.


time as preparatory

“People tend to overstate my resilience, but, of course, I hope they're right,” was famously said by the brilliant Boston University professor and radio commentator David Brudnoy. He poignantly titled his memoir “Life is Not a Rehearsal.” A strong sense of the preparatory dovetailed from graduate school into a protracted life of working while hunting for improved conditions. Far too much precious time has been consumed by treating the days and years as a kind of warmup for grander things- for something that will finally do justice to my hardworked cultivation. Grit, sweat, knuckling under, wincing through bullying, and settling for less. But the pandemic has forced downsized dreams upon countless souls. Now the victories are found in water-treading. For what are the dress-rehearsals, now?

The past year’s desert exile has led into a second round of perilous haul. As relief seems to near, it gets batted away, and we that survive must trudge on. And even-keeled, no less. Throughout this time, and long before, my energies and ambitions have been fueled by faith. In a strange and oddly biblical sequence, as my continuum worsens, my backbone strengthens. Indeed, things do level off- and then the threshold lowers some more. This is surely not to my preference, and I’d much prefer spiritual and intellectual growth in comfort and stride. Maybe that will come later. Within my personal belief is a real admiration for the directness in the journey between Creator and individual. Reading the literature left for us by faithful mortals, along with the scriptural texts, there’s even an admirable bluntness that weaves among the more poetic strands of psalmody. Let’s not perpetuate the unreality that “the saints” walked around all mild-mannered and aura-surrounded. They knew plenty about disappointment and frustration, and their holiness was tied to how and what they did with what they had. It’s normal, human, and downright honest to get sassy; it’s better than to be bitter. God can handle it.

I’ve often said to students and audiences that the best writing is honest writing. Be true to yourself, and tell the truth. It goes the same in the spiritual realm: be true and honor what is true. Express that disappointment. There are millennia of prophetic (which means “truth-tellers”) speakers who have done the same- however doing so dares to toe a fine line, and the sojourning individual must beware to not cause injury to their conscience or to their spiritual relationship. Declaring expectations for improvements is also a demand upon oneself. Prayer “with a vengeance” sounds like a conflict in terms, but it is not- so long as the insistent fierceness does not break communion. Not a place to take up residence, but a passing waystation. Traction’s purpose is to launch out of ruts and safely across ice-covered roads- both on land and within the soul.

This wilderness has yet to present a clearing. Vigilance cannot be interrupted. Whether or when the road turns favorably remains unknown. Some days begin with it will never, and some begin with hasn’t yet. My beloved home town has become even more of a deserted place than it was during the recession which gutted many places in the late 1980s. The fortunate are the water-treaders. A good friend and fellow curator, among a long list of neighbors who moved away, told me on the phone that “Maine is unforgiving.” I told him that I know this; I know this. Yes I know this. What happens next? Like the old guys spending their money on scratch tickets in convenience stores, I keep trying and applying. “You never know,” I say, sounding like the lottery ticket spenders. “All it takes is an open door. An even more perfect pitch and some recognition in high places. Just a bit more traction. Some of that deferred grace would be handy now. It could be right around the corner. And I go on, surely along with many other kindred spirits, renting some more time and procuring the consolations as well as possible.

on a string

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

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

~ Jars of Clay, Boy on a String

toque-sain

Oh what will you give me?
Say the sad bells of Rhymney.
Is there hope for the future?
Cry the brown bells of Merthyr.

Who made the mine owner?
Say the black bells of Rhondda.
And who robbed the miner?
Cry the grim bells of Blaena.

Even God is uneasy,
Say the moist bells of Swansea.
And what will you give me?
Say the sad bells of Rhymney.

~ Idris Davies, Bells of Rhymney


In these harsh times, my thoughts turn to seeking the sense of what is seen. Of course, I want to know. And quite naturally the immediate fills my sights. But the undisciplined eye sees limits at all hands. More is asked of fewer that remain standing in recession economies. In my still-young working life, I’m well-familiar with the conscious gratitude of walking and working among the employed- seemingly defying the odds. “To whom much is given, much is required,” is a biblical text often in my thoughts. But there must be more than simply punching a time-card. This has always been clear to me, though opportunities are rare or often drowned out by thoughts of what may have already been missed. Another fine reason to self-berate; another action producing no results.

Looking beyond self-confinement breaks out of drawn limitations. And it becomes necessary to be sensitized to perspectives that my own notions have not considered. Perhaps for post-moderns, a “career” is defined by what has been eclectically assembled- more than the old-fashioned multiple-decades at one company that sees an individual move up through ranks. We find our own ways to redeem the time. Given some morsels of earned time off, I go on pilgrimages. If it’s just a day, there are excursions that present refreshing changes of scenery and new points of view for my learning. Within these verbal exchanges and visible vistas, there are messages for me to derive. Countless times, over the years, conversing with friends has provided that vital forum for commiserating and stock-taking. Listening to others’ approaches to their situations subtly reminds me of how the voyage cannot prosper without kindred souls. It may be akin to the accord of dulcet chimes, or to the impact of tower bells. With some conscious focus, I become able to hear what is needed. My antidotes to dead ends are continuity and refinement of vision.

Lately in my journals, the question, “what is real?” has provided a good writing exercise. The year and this decade are concluding, and the question permits for some retrospective along with forward-looking thought. What sense- and what nonsense- have I been carrying along among the cargo? From within sounds a percussive alert- a reality check. It is a questioning of what unfolds immediately before the ship’s prow, and whether my intended course has been faithfully maintained.

Sources of reality checks can be as simple as posing questions that reconsider how things have always been done. Or, for that matter, experience causes reconsidering attitudes toward people, ideas, even institutions. There can be surprises- from anywhere between offices and street-corners. On all sides, so long as there is breath, it is never too late to revise points of view. One might imagine that all it takes to maintain openness of heart and mind is plenty of solitary contemplation. Not quite. And not without some varied activity, either. With no means of reality check and balance, an intense inner life lends too well to detrimental isolation. My favorite windows let in fresh air and light, as well as offering an outward view from inside. When my writing runs short of words and ideas, I realize how much I need to look outside of my own resources. Words and ideas replenish with reading and observing. And I am thankful for my bolder friends, whose pointers can burst my bubbles of self-absorption. This idea of exercising a broad view came to mind yesterday as I used a wide-angle lens on my camera. A 28-millimeter lens encompasses both ground and sky.

Awareness of perspective is no more than a sensitization. There continue to be times when I am called to navigate through darkness, At times, it is a plain yet pressing heavy-heartedness that disrupts my sleep. Hard times and closed ends, convincingly insurmountable, may be more permanent than previously thought. Or perhaps it is better to accept my inability to figuring everything out. Nights of the soul and long walks that are needed to be able to see and to sense can be means by which new understandings are reached. In a spirit of sincere inquiry, darkness reveals as much as light. Strolling past rows of decorated houses, along icy streets, I wondered how far my steps have drifted from the truths I’ve been pursuing. If I truly believe the words, then I “In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world,” then I must be convinced I am not at the end of my road.

Turning my steps away from unappealing avenues of bitterness, music returns to my thoughts. So many tunes and words committed to memory reappear and remind. My hope now is for sharper focus- toward compassion and away from entrapments of the mind’s realm. There is a music of hopefulness, and this occurred to me while listening to vespers last week, and later during performances of folk music I hadn’t heard in years. The tones, twists, and lyrics conveyed life-giving ingredients. That which gives life is able to re-ground, encourage, and offer new vision. As a sounding bell from within, signaled turning-points are identified.

Following a mid-day service, several days ago at King’s Chapel, I asked to see the bell up close. The sexton simply opened a very narrow wooden door, after seeing me off at the organ loft. With deliberate care, I ascended the ancient series of ladder-like steps, all the way up through the bell tower above this 17th century Boston church. Standing astride the massive bell, signed by its maker Paul Revere, I thought of how such an instrument rang to alarm and warn, along with a history of ringing out in festive celebration. From the tower’s snowy louvers, the sight of busy Tremont Street below had me wondering about how the scenery has changed through the centuries. Perception can alter one’s sense of reality. Leaving the ready and quietly-nestled bell, I slowly descended through the building and then out to Beacon Street. The bell’s resounding gift to me was neither foreboding tocsin nor weekly Sunday chimes: its silent steadfast witness had spoken to my soul.

fine lines

“When all is dark and dusty down the tracks;
And all paths from exile have roadblocks
on all points saying ‘no way out of here,
go back to where you came from.’

Only the thunder knows
what drives a man in his darkest throes
Fortune and poverty,
they’re so close, so close.”

~ Mike Peters and The Alarm, Only the Thunder


Stories, and rumors of more losses, surface and loom with each day’s passing. Pausing during a coffee break, it occurred to me how many setbacks I hear about, at nearly every turn. People moving out of the region, a neighbor vacates without notice, and numerous plans must be minimized. Long-standing businesses and cultural fixtures dissolve or downsize. Many who elude job losses must navigate warily in threadbare and fearful environments. And still, across all situations, there are more who listen to personal testimonials that string together with broadcast news stories. Pondering this today, I started categorizing the relocation, layoff, dissolution, and transition stories I’ve been hearing daily. The listening is part of dignifying the need for individuals to tell their adventures. And it’s hard listening. But there are unspoken embers of hope when the language of defeat is superimposed by creative alternative plans. There seems a fine line dividing what we determine to be success or failure. Indeed, our realities are challenged when another reality visits upon us. Of course, we’d prefer to draw the lines, rather than to have them drawn for us by somebody else. In this continuum, we will surely note the changes in our midst. And somehow, in realizing all that is transitory, the status quo reveals an undertone of fragility.

When considering the meaning of fragile, what comes to mind is the breakable. My thoughts turn to this imagery when the permanently dependable looks precarious. The idea of fragility speaks of delicate plants, complex mechanisms, anything requiring sensitive and conscientious handling. Hopes and health. Though essential, easily forgotten. And paradoxically, through these, strength is found. Disrupted balances are causes to perceive well-being as hanging by a thread. Is the status quo as delicate as it appears, when stopping to think about it? Perhaps it’s best not to stop and think- or at least not to allow a focus on vulnerability to derail forward continuity. Peace of heart is, in itself, fragile- even if well-anchored in road-tested faith. The nature of dynamism is fluidity, which may be considered a fragility. But in vigilantly maintaining balance and a consistent openness to the Holy Spirit, flexible strength is reinforced. There is fragility in all that is dynamic, and although it may seem a conflict of terms, both require the depths of our patience. “Tears may endure for a night,” wrote the ancient Psalmist, “but song finds us in the morning,” hours during which reassuring joy is easier to discern. Oh, but to thrive against restrictive limitations! In these times, so many of us find ourselves taking stock in our most palatably compromised ways of functioning and making ends meet. But it need not cheapen our dreams.

As the road ahead must negotiate unpredictable detours, it is vital to be able to prosper through instability. Whether or not I can serve as a conduit of hope, my proximity to the wellsprings of promise requires steady vigilance. A most surprising moment occurred last week during a long-distance pilgrimage travel: At the heart of complicated logistics, commotion, and exhaustive music preparations- was a ten-minute silence amidst over 400 people. A forgiving, respirating, and transporting quiet. Afterwards, resuming my instrument to play the next piece, I thought about how I might find ten-minute slivers in my early mornings- or even lunch hours- to help balance frenetic work weeks. Confident aspiration is a long looking-forward, hopefulness a serious business to which we must take hold.


Reflecting upon the many stories I’ve listened to recently, along with the hard-worked years of my own, I think of how to arrive at consistency amidst instability. After seeing enough times how circumstances can delicately oscillate, my thoughts turn to how one can pivot the fine point from untenable to productive. While so much is said about “bad to worse,” or as a neighbor once said to me, “just worser and worser,” this is enjoining me to aspire through such darkness. A solid course of trust pursues a fine line through narrow gates, laying tracks of trust. One recent cold post-midnight, gazing through icy windows at silent streets, I thought of that dividing line between despair and confidence. How to press forward along the high road. Somehow, the most reassuring thought was to remind myself of where I am now, and how far I’ve traveled on this marathon voyage.


There are prospects yet to ascend. Within a vital perseverance must be a solid sense of durable certainty. Memory recalled the words of the imprisoned apostles, passed down from antiquity, referring to being held captive by their hopes. The fine line may be one of perception of circumstances, how derailing realities can be dealt with and interpreted. Fluid situations demand a readiness which must rise above the gravity of grimness. Indeed, thriving above undertones of instability requires more daring than before, challenging me to continually renew inwardly despite what is outward and perishable. At times the juxtaposition of enduring and impermanence is more obvious than others. For now, the present exposes such contrasts. As an artisan, I am aware that with an increase in contrast there comes an emergence of sharp edges and fine lines.

solace

“Some winters are harder than others.
We are going to take our cameras
and look through at black trees with empty arms,
and sled tracks wandering as we are.
To see him, to see him happy.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Snow

un avenir de paix

“Some are bearers of peace and trust
in situations of crisis and conflict.
They keep going even when trials or failures
weigh heavily on their shoulders.”

~ Brother Roger of Taizé, A Future of Peace

Ever since my youngest childhood years, I’ve befriended my most elderly neighbors. Perhaps beginning with the patience of my grandmother, and on through my school years I could recognize how my eldest teachers could listen best, and also tell the most captivating stories. And this was common between playgrounds, neighborhood stores, and- when I began working- the customers I served. One of my grocery delivery stops, when I worked for a market in New York City, was the home of a retired teacher. In my gratitude for the wise anecdotes and gentle encouragements, I would give her drawings I made, which she cherished. As I advanced into art school, one of my very rare fortunes in those days was to have landed in an elderly illustrator’s final class before he retired. He had apprenticed with Edward Hopper, and I would divert him from critiquing my work with requests for more stories about camping in the woods of Brooklyn in the 1920s, watching Zack Wheat play for the Dodgers, and the horse-drawn brewery vans in Bay Ridge. This man must’ve been in his 80s, and he taught us plenty about rendering and gesture-drawing. To this day, I remain fascinated with eras that long preceded my birth.


Getting through an enormous hardship, about 14 years ago, and deciding to rebuild my life by focusing all my forces into graduate school, it was an octogenarian neighbor who gave me words of faith. I went to visit him with the good news about beginning graduate school in Boston (to study medieval history and archival sciences). “You’ve been through a lot, for your age,” he declared, adding “but you have a brilliant future,” with his hands gripping both my shoulders. This gentleman passed away shortly afterwards, and so these were his last words to me. At that time, I had so many doubts about my abilities and needed those words. Too much uncertainty to presume far ahead.


These times are replete with indefinitely grim forecasts, all following litanies of harsh news to which we have grown accustomed. And with reason. Added to a general societal apathy are swelling tides of discouragement. Decreases in employment, commerce, and economic opportunities are well entrenched in this culture. In recent months, I have seen friends and neighbors numbered among the disenfranchised. In our conversations, we wonder where the road turns. Have we yet seen the depths of this current duress? Having surpassed the winter’s epicenter, it seems easier to imagine the harshest of generally difficult times is past. But numerous commentators broadcast the worst is still to come. Downsizes, cuts, outsourcing, the “elimination of redundancies,” and references to “the pauperization of the middle class.”What to believe, and where to place that proverbial grain of salt? Beyond that, to be as hopeful as one is realistic- perhaps even more so. Confidently going forward, even as we walk through streets of “closed,” “for rent,” and “foreclosure” signs affixed to empty spaces.


When I first met Brother Roger, in Taizé, he was 88 years old; two years before he published the words quoted above in an essay. He addressed present-day society with references to the ancient Jeremiah, “God has plans for a future of peace for you, not of misfortune.” We must not let ourselves “be caught up in a spiral of gloom,” as some of us have been called to encourage others and be “bearers of trust.” With courageous hearts “we must keep on going,” in spite of the heavy burdens of trials and losses. Brother Roger’s words speak to that antithetical resolve- that determination to persevere when one’s conviction is the only persuasive evidence. Then we really do become creative bearers of stability in the midst of despairing souls. And it is a confrontation of the challenge of that easily spiraling gloom, bearing a shared burden of trust.

We cannot predict where, or when, or if this somber road will turn a corner. Listening to so many grim personal stories and being immersed in this society, my perspectives are put to the test. And listening, saturating as it can be sometimes, is often my wisest response. We all wish to be heard. My recollections only comprise one severe time of recession- that of the early 1990s. The current economic decline brings to mind those years of closings, job losses, and an exodus out of this region. I had been only a few years out of college, and saw most of my friends leave, while I worked two jobs to survive- and be able to stay here. It meant living alongside a lot of misery, investing in what many told me were lost causes. One of the most infuriating things I’d be told, mostly by evacuating acquaintances- and it happened countless times- was “you’re still here?” I developed some good responses, such as “and you’re visiting here?” Brother Roger reminded me that Jeremiah invested in a field that was located in a disaster area, a place from which his friends had fled, as he became certain of his purpose where he lived. But it’s always easier said than done. The necessary ingredient is to trust that assurance of a hopeful future, of bright days ahead, of consistently seeing spring though the winter.


This is an era of hesitancy. Yet we are ever enjoined to go forth, as our days advance in linear succession, even when details and timetables are elusive. Even when what we believe conflicts with what we see. I've lost jobs through layoffs twice, and during one of those ugly processes a coworker of mine blacked out faces on a corporate group photo- respectively with the dismissed employees. He wrote across the top, "who's next" with his marker, in a pained show of gallows humor. When his turn came, after he packed his effects, he returned to the common room, and blacked out his own face in the picture. For those who must bear witness to these things, there must be a reckoning of our own approach to life when there are so many justifiable reasons to be pessimistic. Evidently there will always be trials for us to contend with. And just as fears can be dispelled and stood down, so can ideals be put to the test, and constructive reinforcement can be founded upon reality.


When our tangible sources run thin, our precarious fulcrum points upon which our lives turn become apparent. How to stay inspired, and how to proceed with a realistic positivism, instead of gravitating into that ubiquitous spiral of gloom? Drawing nearer, and depending more upon the wellspring of life, my thoughts can dwell on the hopeful things I can count. Health, abilities, and prospects are stock-taking ingredients. The inadvertent and invaluable investments of rich friendship. Reflect upon the life-giving. Recall the finest words we have received; these things remembered have no expiration date, and are worth committing to memory. Save the good words for the gold coins they truly are. Good-tasting nutrients help too, I have learned from an elderly friend. And it's all needed, since getting through these times requires a lot of energy.