beginning the world

“Always the same underdog stance
under the same happy-sad sky,
eternally crying. Am I still shy?

I am always beginning the world
beginning the world.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Beginning the World


Only in the last couple of days I’ve resumed journaling, after more than a week’s hiatus. A week without assembling words is in itself indicative of a disruption of life’s pace. But with the resumption of narrative is a persistent questioning of the meaning of progress. What are the determinants of the soul’s advancement?

The mystery of real progress is akin to that of time. Mile markers along roads indicate linear distances, yet it is common in many lives to repeatedly pass by the same signs. Even with experiences of bicycle marathons and pool-swimming laps, I wonder if there’s been any tangible progress in the grand scale of my continuum. Or enough. Such pre-occupations become off-putting to me, and I’d prefer to deflect them. The big world is rife with human hardships, revealing an absurdity to worries about the small spaces beneath my feet. They are fleeting, and recognizable by their contexts and connotations. Trying to define self and success is, alas, unavoidable. And if thoughts are to be documented- albeit in passing- even the expressions of obscurity have their places, especially before a re-launch.

Momentum. A fair share of days seem to begin by just showing up. In an effortless perpetual motion, my multitasking flows among objectives, interactions, connecting points of due dates, and even the unscheduled interruptions. Tasks can even be accomplished while other projects are being done. In the broader sense, work demands can weave between reflection, leisure, memory, and aspiration. One motion feeds another. Knowledge from one school or job adds to the sum and solution of an application in another. Sometimes things actually work this way, as though decades of rollers and gears have effortlessly and purposefully joined.

Inertia. Stubborn weeds among the fruitful time periods are those spells of overcoming resistance. Moving out of inactivity (or too much of the same activity) seems to require rebuilding. It’s as though the world must be recommenced from its foundations. A few dependable systems falter, or perhaps become obsolete, and suddenly all seems thrown backwards. A “system” may be mechanical, or internal, or ethereal. And the breach can be mild and unapparent, or overt and stagnating. Stagnation can be so profound that energy must be consumed just to be able to stand- let alone imagining a sustained posture. Navigating through and out of inertia puts the soul in an unusual sensitivity that takes nothing for granted. Through the dark night comes a surrendering of unproductive drives for control, despite the unknowing. While sensing what appears a very fine thread holding everything together, there is a parallel challenge that this may be an effect of impaired perspective. Though it is easy to admit to knowing very little, it is equally difficult to be convinced that nothing essential is lacking. Wondering about being “behind in the game” only invites defeatism. Especially in these times. Inertia and resistance can be overcome with a beginning as basic as counting the blessings of what is good.

A recommencement can retrace the remembrance of momentum. Chroniclers can retrieve journals written in brighter days and revisit the old fighting form that made reaching these shores possible. In yet more adventures of trust, my thoughts must repeat as often as necessary that the unseen Holy Spirit will always hold my footsteps firm. Looking forward through unknowing and material uncertainty is an act of faith. Holding to it is a continuous exercise of trust. There is one direction to go, and that is forward. In so doing, that tension must give way to savored paces that reclaim the airspaces connecting being with environment.

Only a few days ago, I exercised a decision I did not fully realize I had. Hurtled forward by salesmen and financial experts, I very nearly bought a house that I didn’t really like- and could barely afford. Indeed, habitations can be investments, but they must also be worthy places to live. Though a valuable learning experience, the whole episode was one of helpless despair. It began to resemble a perilous conveyor belt rolling my misgivings to a distribution dock of no return (and no savings). In the faces of financiers, I followed the forceful intuition I almost suppressed. If I can possibly help it, faith in the future will trump fear and fatalism. I stopped a process that began in trepidation and the ensuing peace has been palpable.

In my gratitude, few things are taken for granted. Something has indeed changed, and by continuing on I’ll find out. I paid the building inspector, adding a thank-you letter (written on my cursive typewriter), and will pay February’s rent with a relished relief. As I came to see it, all those I met in the process were fine souls. It is in weakness that strength is discovered. I ponder the immortality that happenstance causes me to brush against. It is the heart of God that connects all of us. With this surprise of the freedom already possessed, I happily donated to a few charitable causes. The ability to give is in itself a gift presented to me. I know my steps are guided- even to a threshold of my own some day. But for now I will have to “begin the world” to some extent, though it needn’t be more than simply reconnecting to all I love best.

l'esprit consolateur

“Hold on
to what you believe is right;
Don’t let anyone turn your eyes.
Look ahead;
Don’t stop to look behind.
The past ain’t no friend of mine.”


~ Mike Peters and The Alarm, We Are the Light

After work, I went back out for a walk. The outdoors, in such varied forms, can present the world to me as refreshingly greater than the constraints of workday routines. Perhaps some of you know those paradoxical occasions of being simultaneously saturated and drained. It happens; fortunately, not every day. Giving and doing require the counterbalance of reflection and release. So out I stepped, stoop to sidewalk and across my street in a westerly direction, away from busy thoroughfares. My feet needed to move, so that I could absorb fresh cool air and the panorama of the night sky. Mazes of shadowed streets, interspersed with green spaces, dissolved fine details into the night’s landscape. My steps slowed to notice a lit doorway here, a window there, and finally upwards to stars.

Intuitively, seeking a place to focus my thoughts, my steps brought me to a church courtyard with a very plainly sculpted statue and glass-encased votives planted in the ground. The stone carved outstretched hands gave me just enough detail to resettle my thoughts, in the darkness, and the peace of that moment became a reminder of the Spirit which calls from within. I remembered a recent monastic pilgrimage at which, upon my weary arrival, I could only gaze at a sparsely-lit icon. The sight was profoundly comforting, and my prayer that night- and for the following two weeks- began with, “what words do you have for me?” An unexpected dialogue. Just a few days ago, outside under the night sky in the small courtyard, that familiar question returned to my thoughts. “What words are there?” What might I learn anew of this hidden wisdom that impresses so deeply- this concealed knowledge that eludes contrivance?

Intermissions from repeated routines, such as the quiet brisk walks, bespeak a thirst for clarity of thought- and for assurance. Specifically, a state of being assured is to be certain in mind and confident in manner. When we are assured, we find ourselves free of self-doubt. In the obscurity of the courtyard, under a night sky, the word settling in my stilled thoughts was believe, recalling the context, “let not your heart be troubled.” Surely a consolation for one who strives relentlessly. Now I question whether outcomes and personal worth are results entirely dependent upon my efforts. Stopping to breathe and reconsider in that courtyard took more discipline for me than to simply persist in my usual customary uphill marching. With trusting steps, there will be less for me to unlearn and more to comprehend.

Cloaked in shadowy hues that blended firmament and ground, it came to mind that I have indeed known the soul’s ascent. And this brings me to reflect upon the wonder of submerging in God, rather than pushing myself to emerge with recognition. Little recollective tastes to remind me that I do know the source of spiritual consolation, and I don’t doubt the place of Divine friendship to which I’m called. There are apprehensions in fears of being forgotten, and that may be a basis for my powerful memory. As well, the motivation to preserve is to see to it that essentials of living and caring are not tossed away, but instead enshrined within. But why remember wrongs more indelibly than goodness? Memory is so unquantifiable a mystery, yet it instructs me to cease steering into dead-end roads and expect them to be passable. Considering reality without becoming jaded. In this Advent season, my thoughts turn to creative visitation of Spirit into sense.

Between scurrying and spaces of solace, a slice of Silent Night has appeared to me- in uncomplicated anonymity. The world can seem so small, when our slavish pursuits can set us into narrow trenches. Ascent and assurance follow aspiration- and an openness to the serendipitous present, rather than to assume all that is needed, with the exact forms these answers must take. Aspiring is much like dreaming, and I hope for neither to become foreign to me. If I am to revel in the sphere of dreams, then I do need to untether myself from derailing diversions and defeatism. Yesterday, I was remembering the report card comment for which I’m proudest of all: At the end of my year of second grade, my teacher filled in the comment box with, “he daydreams too much in class.” My colorful high-floor view of the swirl of 94th Street was far more captivating, evidently, than whatever was being taught from the blackboard. And I’m still learning the fine balance between disciplined structure and healthy sidelines. But we need not consider whether it is permissible to dream, or all right to look further than this week’s problem-solving. Perhaps no-one can remind us to pursue realms of hidden wisdom, above and beyond “the wisdom of this age.” We can, however concealed, manifest consolation, and be living reminders for others. Our prayers are surely not unheard whispers in the wind. Now to believe and to remember this.

capacitatem

“Therefore, be attentive to time and the way you spend it. Nothing is more precious.
This is evident when you recall that in one tiny moment heaven may be gained or lost.
God, the master of time, never gives the future. God only gives the present, moment by moment, for this is the law of the created order, and cannot be contradicted in creation.
Time is for humanity, not humanity for time.
God, the Lord of nature, will never anticipate our choices which follow one after another in time. We can never be able to excuse ourselves at the last judgement, saying to God, ‘You overwhelmed me with the future when I was only capable of living in the present.’”

~ The Cloud of Unknowing (14th century)

Anonymously, the author of The Cloud of Unknowing wrote his observations and counsels, intending the words for novices in his monastic community. The unnamed author essentially mentored people for whom the consecrated life must have been quite new. One can just imagine the stories he must have heard from postulants, struggling to distinguish between frustrations of the past and doubts they naturally confronted. The quote surely attests to the spiritual teacher’s addressing the serious matter of discouragement. Regret and remorse are powerful emotions, and enough to deter anyone’s growth and renewal. The author knew the ageless anguish of those who, in futility, wished to repair their pasts while also trying to comprehend the roads before them. In the monastic life, as with this uncertain society, one’s haunting misgivings manifest as desert temptations that threaten to isolate. One needn’t even be a novice to be swerved off course by a sense of being just too far behind the metaphorical eight-ball to not only regain one’s steps, but also to know progress of new terrain. Kempis once pointed out how our spiritual visitations are either in the form of challenge or consolation. If this is so, then both circumstances inevitably present the need for a cultivated discipline of remaining encouraged. A practice so attentive, and yet not centered on self, means keeping close at hand that which inspires, as well as determining what must be kept out of one’s midst. The protagonist of Pilgrim’s Progress follows the admonishing to “fly to God by prayer,” echoing the ancient wisdom of unburdening oneself and casting our cares upon God who ever invites us.


When I think of the reference points that restore courage to my heart, I wonder how all that is good can be so easily forgotten. In the practice of strengthening a sense of assurance, it now occurs to me how simply one can recollect and take stock of the present in order to rejoin the continuum. Here, a reaching back for a past impression becomes a practice of great value- delicate yet powerful. Memory is itself a bottomless mystery of abstraction and objectivity, of idea and actuality. Indeed a two-edged sword to deftly wield, with enough anecdotes to incriminate, but indeed with a potentially forceful trove of grounding knowledge to reassure one’s being. Given a quiet moment, be it a stoplight or a long walk, any one of us can recall comforting or encouraging words, reinforcing events, even their accompanying faces and voices. Perhaps your recollections include the light and air, the colors and musical sounds encapsulated in the occasions in which you felt profound purpose and a sense of being alive to the very instant. But in the distillation of what we remember, there is a refining intuition that informs our choices to keep and to release. Keep and maintain what inspires and can be shared. Relinquish and release what ceases to help and that which clouds the pursuit of what is holy.




Speaking as a professional archivist, I can attest to the wise practice of keeping only the documentation that is of enduring value. Assessing manuscripts requires a learned instinct for recognizing records with evidential value, but indeed to be able to discern documents of research value. This is to say, we cannot keep everything and the careful and costly work of conservation is reserved to the documents deemed worthwhile to preserve. What is worth preserving? Generally, the best way for me to know is to read through all the materials, understand their context, and use a subtractive process. For practical reasons, we must always consider how much space the by-products of material culture occupy. Indeed, there are instances when our best practical and axiological assessment causes us to make room for something extraordinary. This also holds true for all of life’s dimensions. Just the other day, for the first time in my life- and I have always lived by the ocean- a hat flew right off my head in a wind gust. All I could do was watch the cap tumble across the tilting deck and into the choppy wake of sea forever lost. After a momentary sulk, I rationalized that I can just find another if I really miss the hat after all. The best part was that it got me writing- and on a windy starboard-side I held the notebook with a good grip. My thoughts turned to how we change what we consider to be “indispensable,” with time and our own evolving priorities. Imagine the ideas and things held highest at different intervals of your life’s journey. For years I would assiduously file my negatives and slides in a set of fireproof strongboxes. In recent years they have been joined- and at times replaced- by my journals, family pictures, and all the letters I saved from my grandmother. Ideas and perceptions have strongboxes of their own, albeit unseen. Concepts can take up a lot of space. There’s a far-reaching expression in the gospel about binding and setting loose; what we cannot release will bog us down later, and what is conscientiously sown now will manifest at a time we cannot know. When we are anchored down by obsolete burdens, we cannot be borne up on the winds that fill our sails with affirmative direction.

Considering the exercise of making room for what ceases to be of constructive use, I begin to imagine the soul’s capaciousness in the way the trunk of my car efficiently holds only so much material. Capacity has a connotation when it comes to items we can undamagingly pack, as well as it concerns the images, thoughts, and sentiments we hold. A person’s capacity indicates more than a passive ability to receive or contain. Strength of mind brings us to capably absorb impressions and make sense of them. At the same time, the pace of living and the desire for learning and formation makes it necessary to pare down the excesses and release what ceases to encourage.

Outdated notions resemble broken mechanisms that we often find with “out of order” signs on them, or vehicles with “out of service” marquées that will not take us anywhere. Such blunt mottos can work both ways: there are “no admittance” signs to represent closed avenues, and surely I can say “out of service” right back- to ways of thinking, as well as to directions. It “does not serve” to help my own forward motion, or to support anyone else’s. Becoming a vessel with more spacious capacity, it is possible for me to notice and to maintain those open windows needed for the Eternal to move through me. Releasing my grip on sharply-focused remembrances of wrongs does not eliminate what I’ve learned from their significance, it just releases me from them, from things that serve no purpose. “These things of humanity,” wrote Aquinas, “prayers, merits, sufferings, and all the rest are by no means futile; they are the coins by which heaven is bought, not because they change the will of God but because they fulfill it.” Making room for newness of vision and thought, in the spirit of trust, is revealing an expanse of capacity, even an unbinding that allows for an absorption with God. If “capaciousness” could be called a process, indeed the abilities involved in releasing and making space will be vital for the length and breadth of the journey.