oases, covers, and books

"Je vous ai tant parle du desert qu'avant d'en parler encore, j'aimerais decrire une oasis.
Celle dont me revient l'image n'est point perdue au fond du Sahara.
Mais un autre miracle d'avion est qu'il vous plonge directement au coeur du mystere."

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery, Terre des Hommes


For those of us who risk the voyage of the inner life, our comprehension of explorations and places become unconfined by material space. In his Genesee Diary, Henri Nouwen wrote of the contemplative life as the expression of something deeper and larger- and beneath the surface of our daily actions. But is the drive to understand just another over-analytical self-obsession? There is that danger, but not for Nouwen. His exhortation is to follow the impressions to their source, particularly the fears. Face them right down, and not run away. By following them through and understanding them, we can be liberated to find new ways when the tired old ways run us into the same barriers. All this self-confrontation has a purpose, and it sure better not be some kind of consumptive self-absorption. I engage the journey to learn, to not repeat what has wasted enough of my time, and to be unfettered by what has wasted too much space and energy. As Nouwen observed, "this confrontation should not lead to despair but should set you free to receive the compassion of God without whom no healing is possible." (p.83) I will add that such compassion is nothing I'd bottle up and hoard for secure storage, but is entirely meant to lavish wastefully on those whose paths have been destined to meet with mine.

Retreats seem to come in various shapes, and as aforementioned are indeed transcendent of place. My own favorites are either wilderness places which are exempt from societal trappings- and- large cities which are bubbling stews of societal trappings. Yesterday was a day to get away to a city big enough to get lost in the crowd. Being the Invisible Man in a maelstrom is preferable to the like situation in a town of eighty thousand. Amidst the captivating wonders of art museums, historic sites, and works of literature, it occurred to me how complex are our judgments of one another. Where do these "criteria" come from? How can our assessments be changed- or at least softened to the degree of mercy we would want for ourselves?

Surely, for those of us who write our reflections, and who read others' observations, we can say something about people-watching! We're looking and remarking all sorts of things to ourselves. Someone at the next table looks to have it all togther. Or the couples who appear not to have a care in the world. That homeless man may have had a prosperous career in his trail. Then there are the curiosities of those whose cell phones are surgically attached appendages, loudly regaling the public with their halves of their conversations. Another phenomenon are those who move about with earbud wires protruding from their heads, connected to pocket i-pods. Still another are the unlikely and abundant pairings of unkempt, boorish, slouching men with meticulously-groomed women on their arms. Even with the risk of judging books by their covers, I posed the observation about the latter to a female friend, to listen to her take on how the rude can attract so successfully. She said she was certain it is a matter of low self-esteem on the part of these women. That was surprising to hear, but in an odd way made sense. Inevitably comes the question of how well we know our own selves. How well do we know what we desire? For myself, such answers would be daunted by the distractions of wires running into both ears. Silence is the oasis that we all mysteriously fear.

rain is falling all around; storm came, it brings you down

"How do you know, what you feel- is it real, is it?
How do you know, what you see- is it seen, is it?"

~Jeff Lynne, Impostors of Life's Magazine


This liminal space has turned yet another corner. While I am striving for one notion, other possibilities seem to crop up- and the whole continuum of living never ceases to both bewilder and confound. In a conference last night, I heard myself refer to times of transition as provisional, and that rather than perceive the provisional as a downward spiral, consider the provisional as having a dynamism in its very fluidity. The context was something more on the order of a historic institution, but somehow this refers directly to my own condition. As my journeying again brings me to see scarcely any value to my solitary state, suddenly this present consequence starts to look like something very open-ended. I can attend to some polishing of some projects over which I have significant influence. I can continue to be available to other people- as I've been when able to get out of my own way. Of course, true to this wilderness which must be navigated, there are many dark moments. Life as an invisible man can just as easily bite hard into my viscera as it can become something I can really laugh at. "Listen," bade Dylan Thomas' unseen narrator in Under Milk Wood, "Listen. Time passes." Perhaps some day I'll be grateful for these days, and I must remember to appreciatively acknowledge the ones already past. In my interior debate about what is real, I am also pondering what is not real-- what is a false impression.

reality and television

"It is one thing to recover from a fever, but quite another to regain one's health after it. It is one thing to remove a spear from a wound, but quite another for the wound to heal completely. So to begin the cure we remove the cause of the sickness, and this occurs through forgiveness."

~ Saint Augustine, On the Trinity


Much as web-browsing has become, t.v. is among this society's beloved guilty pleasures. It's people-watching without intimidating stares, proxy-living without personal risk. The peculiarity we call "reality t.v." is now an old fixture, script writing is supplanted by edited and subtly scripted supposed actual confrontations between who we are led to believe are regular folks like us. Tonight ABC's offering, How to Get the Guy aired, an oddly fascinating collage of cross-cut-editing, depicting "real life" travails of single women navigating their dates with behind-the-scenes "coaches," advising them as to their choices. And it's all "caught on tape," so to speak. Their situations shown barely depict the most superficial- but do seem to have something to say. And so I watched along, as a member of the entertained marketplace, curious for some insights, even if just to respond to so much of what seems disingenuous. For the women and their coaches, it's staged as a sporting event. (I've seen so much of what has disgusted me about the dating and impression-making dance as being nearly indistinguishable from the job hunting process.) How unfortunate that we are compelled to be so programmatic about something so sublime. Doing some homework, is it additionally strange that while there is a plethora of sites and publications and chick flicks about "getting the guy," nothing exists to sell some clues to men (who evidently don't need any). Apparently the women are throwing themselves at us men. Not. Maybe in San Francisco, but somehow not in New England.

Sure, I speak for myself and for my close male friends. Trying to close the day in a positive light, I'll say this liminal space is for rebuilding, for the strengthening that comes after the surface healing of past wounds. Indeed, fortunes cannot be forced, and as elusive as the singletons from San Francisco claim chemistry to be, so would I add abandonment of my own will.

in dreams no pain will kiss the brow

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen, and philosophers, and divines."

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson


In the paradox of keeping things balanced, evenness of temperament gives place for taking some risks. No good thing can be cultivated in isolation. Once I got through graduate school, which had been so sharply focused and frenetically ambitious- studying, writing, teaching, publishing, traveling. The catharsis led to a sense that the goalpost had been widened and dropped. It is in our nature- at its healthiest- to strive. It is a sign of spiritual faith- at its healthiest- to hope. Hoping, in that generic societal sense carries the connotation of "golly, I think so," or "I'm keeping my fingers crossed." But the hope that separates from fear is a knowing and assuring hope: I hope, as in "I know things will improve with a good and hearty effort." The Psalmist muses aloud, and even bids his own heart, "why are you cast down, o soul of mine??" He resolves in a sweet dialogue, "hope in the Lord, my Saviour and God." One would think David might be reaching this realization while stuck in highway traffic, in one of those self-confrontational musings.

"...alone on the outskirts of town, where no-one knows my name..."

"Truth is commoner than articles of furniture.
It cries out in the streets and does not turn its back on us when we turn our backs on it.
Ideas emerge from facts; they also emerge from conversations, chance occurrences, theaters, visits, strolls, the most ordinary books.
Everything holds treasures, because everything is in everything, and a few laws of life and of nature govern all the rest."

~ A.G. Sertillanges


It seems the forces of creation have deigned, for this extended season, to render me invisible. Now this is not to say not present, either to people I help or those I work for. People who need me, or are affected by me, seem able to see to me. This vaporish state I evidently inhabit occurs to me as I cannot seem to be discovered, no matter the setting. It is a mystery and a paradox, whether I try to make myself noticeable- or if I can put it out of my thoughts and simply blend into the background (as usual). In something resembling a public opinion poll, I've tried drawing attention- and have exaggerated an aloofness. None of it "works." I'm unnoticed. That puts a negative spin on the aspiration to be transparent, doesn't it? Perhaps assuming the role of invisible man is a bit of self-flattery. There may be a lesson here, about trying too hard for something and thus making that hope unattainable. If that is so, then the not-trying has yet to help the opposite effect!

So, Friday evening returns, and in trying to redeem the time I am looking for the Good Purpose of this invisibility. The post-rain western sky presents drifting jigsaw puzzle-pieces of clouds. Tomorrow is the 1st of July. Each day brings the audacity of new hopes. Even Jeremiah the tragic prophet observed the mercies that are renewed with every morning. So with reflection and discipline (and thankfully the outlet of written expression) this time continues to allow a heavy tilt toward fulfillment without apparent consolation. Study is a prayer for truth. In these times, it seems wisest to focus on learning, preparedness to be fit and attentive to others, to be present to the moment, and to remember what little control any of us have over what's around us. The metaphor of gathering practical and philosophical knowledge as if filling a vessel is an endeavor I can fully exercise, and that is cause for gratitude indeed.

Message in a Bottle

"What is the best comfort in suffering and tribulation?
It is this, that one should take all things as if he had desired and asked for them.
For if you had known that all things happen in the divine will, you would indeed have wished for them."

~ Seneca


Of course, in attempting to find the good in the present, I accept each moment and can perceive what is positive and productive. But acceptance does not mean complacency, neither does it imply retreat from hope and ambition. And in this season of my life, I am not avoiding social situations- as it seems so many in this society are hiding from one another. We are alienated enough from contact with each other, what with teleconferencing, solo commuting, suburbs, and electronic chat. Might there be others like me, who are perplexed observers?

Further still, might there be others, like me, who have not grasped that last musical chair and find themselves the cheese that stands alone? I have decided to muse aloud (to this modest extent), open to the possibility that a kindred soul sees herself in some of these words. In this vast and abundant world, in a society fraught with emphases on relationships, couples, and family units, there may be a solo flyer who has yet to find her companion. It is like an exploration into outer space, looking for life forms. Is anyone out there amidst the stars and the interspersed darkness?

Perhaps someone can inform me as to where these earnest people go. Over recent years, it seems I have tried it all: web sites, books, advice, events, clubs, associations- even just plain socializing. Working with the public, living in a residential neighborhood, traveling, volunteering. Is there nobody left? Is there no-one who appreciates social graces and genuineness, albeit in the wrapping of plain looks? I talk with my closest friends about this. My lifelong best friend, who is ten years my senior, tells me he doesn't worry much about his singleness; in his words, "she hasn't found me yet." I like that. It cheers me up. Being a prisoner of hope is to simply be ready for the serendipitous and to know that the miraculous could manifest at any moment.

accroches-toi a ton rêve

Opening Day.

After about eleven solid years (and counting) of journaling, it's time to blog. Writing is so significant an act, recording events, readings, and sundry speculations, that I've held back from writing about the Single Solitary Life. Then I oddly began to express the more provisional thoughts in pencil, considering graphite to be even more temporal than ink. But then to blog something that endangers to be so self-centered, it seemed to lend even more to an internet format. So here goes.

Note: for those who share La Vie en Graphite, the Pencil Revolution site (http://www.pencilrevolution.com/) is highly recommended.