holding fast

“Refuse to let the world corrupt you.”

~ James 1:27

1

“How in the world are you?” Dr. Robert A. Cook would say at the start of each one of his radio observations. Well, it takes an increasingly concerted effort to healthfully persevere, while remaining unfettered by ubiquitous and shrill newsmedia. One thing within my control is a proverbial off switch. It’s not easy, but it’s possible to be fairly informed while staying unfettered by the world. As “influencing” replaces reporting, so editorialists comment with declaratives about one another, instead of treating the topics of the times. For those that engage the challenge of stepping back or looking up from news feeds, how do we perceive the issues of the day manifesting albeit without social media infiltrating our thoughts? What is perceptible when our invasive devices are shut off? What remains for us to read in a reputable newspaper (assuming you can find one) that publishes multiple viewpoints, or hear from individuals in our municipalities, workplaces, on public transit? There’s inflation and intolerance; conflict and the narrowing of opportunities- all to be seen and heard, without overdramatized chat-shows to fuel anxieties and tell us what we apparently need. Alas, such things are one-way streets, preventing us from informing the tanned and toned actors about what they need. No doubt, there’s plenty to bring all of us down, but staying down doesn’t look advisable.

2

Pausing to think and write, the reminder arises that I mustn’t let the cultures of my living and working to reduce my universe into something small-minded. It is imperative to keep finding ways to spiritually push back. Thus, my questioning turns to my typically quixotic nature, wondering whether I still have a future worth my struggles. As a prompt for a recent journaling workshop I taught, my question to the class was to make a list of questions that burn holes through your thoughts- even waking you up at night. I dare say that most of us have at least a few. The list you make can join your own growing stock of self-made journaling prompts. What kind of future may I dare to expect? I’ve thought about this since childhood. But today we’re all forced to confront a hypersensitive and perfectionist world asserting that anyone exceeding thirty-five years of age is too irrelevant to be a valuable worker. Eventually, everyone will have to lean into that howling headwind and persevere while being extraordinarily productive and, would you believe it, relevant. Is there still a chance for life to improve?

The other day, while writing at a café on Boston’s Newbury Street, I saw many burgeoning graduates carrying their commencement caps and gowns- calling to mind how we all get some version of a ceremonial graduation speech to the effect of having a bright future ahead. Does that have an expiry date? What about the conflicting ratio of increasing accomplishments versus decreasing callbacks on applications? And that’s not to mention other discriminatory factors over which qualified and alacritous applicants have no control. Yet there is no giving up; why on earth would I ever do that, thus consenting to a status quo? Inevitably, my belief remains that I really do have a future that is worthwhile, appealing, and more open than the present (and surely the past). More accomplished is more to offer to benefit others. Perhaps seeing metaphor in too many ordinary things, the day-in-year-out commutes on broken walkways and odoriferous buses symbolize warnings against viewing and wearing life into toxic trenches instead of preferring beautiful aesthetics and fresh air. No doubt, my eagerness and drive remain for the redemption of my genuine and hardworked efforts. It’s an ache to see forbearance, muscle, and wit find fruition. Aspiration and endurance! Let us ask ourselves about what is fair to wish for, and let’s also see how brilliantly we can be unreasonable. It’s the juxtaposition of long-haul prayer and ambition.

3

Holding fast to a cultivated sense of vision demands sharp navigation through gauntlets, both broadly societal and narrowly corporate. But there are no matters too large or small for neither philosophical ethics nor for what my field calls professional best practices. Living often has the aspect of being an extemporaneous “laboratory” for the merging of theoretical and practical. Comprehending the virtue of hope- a confidence in limitless, Divine goodness- is cultivated, more felt than seen. Now the incremental arrival of spring, notably in a climate such as in New England, appears in rotations of senses amounting to hopes launching forward. Signs of the nascent season are arriving very late.

Recently from the courtyard at Beacon Hill Friends House, I heard the ecstatic full-throated sounds of birds. As with Chaucer’s pilgrims in the early seasonal rains of April, the physical indicators of nature are pulling everyone forward. Or perhaps pushing us all ahead. This is indeed the season exemplified by onward motion. Birds’ voices and green reaches of trees repudiate the naysayers of growth. The most poignant of the post-Easter liturgical readings are the paragraphs that chronicle the very human travellers in the depths of their misery while en route to Emmaus. It’s not one, but both companions (one corroborating the other) that had seen everything of their wishes destroyed. The essence of their shocking intervention was the vividly tangible demonstration (and both witnessed this) compelling them to not lose hope. There really was a persuasive return to life, and there were numerous additional eyewitnesses whose perspectives were worth a listen. On top of that, both these convinced sojourners told each other about how their hearts burned within them. They encountered enough to keep going. In my own instances, I’ve experienced enough resonance to not stop trying- to pray without ceasing, as the great Apostle emphasized. If anything, endeavor itself is fuel for the fire. Astonishingly, the flame within somehow endures. As sustenance, that knowledge is going to have to suffice for the most part, especially in the face of unrelentingly fickle employment markets. I’ll simply proceed as my own Dr. Cook of Briarcliff Manor, and tell myself to not give up. With scant few things as demoralizing as persistently foraging for professional opportunities, many of us have to dust ourselves off and keep working, always refining the pitch. That virtual inner Dr. Cook says to disregard the cynicisms and hold to the higher road of faith. Let the lengthened days of a renewing season present new promise.

autumn spring

“Let no one think that it is enough for them to read if they lack devotion,
or to engage in speculation without spiritual joy,
or to be active if they have no piety,
or to have knowledge without charity,
or intelligence without humility, or study without the grace of God,
or to expect to know whether they are lacking the infused wisdom of the Divine.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Itinerarium

Journaling, more often than not, is narrative in real time. The stream of writing occurs as things develop, much more than in retrospect, and thus progress is difficult to notice during the documentation. Without the successions of work projects I’m accomplishing, what is evident is regress. At the same time, I’ll admit to being too close to the struggle to be able to assess from a broader view. Years ago, I worked with a more experienced colleague who would say, “it’s all in how you frame it,” referring to initiating a convincing point to a committee. As critical as it is to perceive into distances, present times seem best handled in proximate increments. Perhaps the transcendence that never happens soon enough will be visible, later.

Compensating for treadmill sameness, the natural elements manifest in an always-changing canvas. Spans of daylight, air, and colors make for a calendrical unfolding. As I note these words, New England is steeped in what we call “foliage season.” Pines and firs are upstaged by vivid combinations of reds, yellows, and russets. Within this visual event is the measure of time. In swirls of storms and cold winds, the bright confetti is flying off baring branches. The passage of time is tangibly on display. During daily commutes, and when aperch on my front stoop, I’m observing vignettes of local colors. As the environment compels, and as time permits, I’ll venture out for the purpose of admiration

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Recently taking an afternoon off, with camera and journal, I drove to the Franciscan community in Kennebunkport. From Portland, the route requires a southeasterly direction. Trimming curved and cresting roads, I saw bouquets of orange and red emanating from stout trees. Temperatures in the low-forties are too good for closed car windows. My left elbow on the sill especially enhanced the aromatic airflow for my driving. “K-port,” as many of us call it, is now in quieter, post-tourist season, thus ambling through to the Saint Anthony Franciscan Monastery was very easy. The church, refectory, and dormitories are closer to the road, with their vast and wooded space extending to the ocean’s edge. The monastery’s grounds comprise trails, a grotto, and a Lithuanian memorial. The Stations of the Cross are discreetly attached to trees along a path that leads to the water. On this recent visit, with a headful of stress and anxious thoughts, I walked some of the paths, sure to the admire the landscape and fresh air, saving a stretch of time at the grotto for last. The entire place is a sanctuary, a place of prayer and contemplation- always the intention of my visits. Settling in front of the grotto, the peacefulness I experienced cleared away what the road breezes had begun cleansing. Indeed, such rarified environments are not mandatory, knowing that prayer and contemplation are always and everywhere available.

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Contrasts are often catalysts for understanding. Colors are crisply comprehended, juxtaposed with their complements. Warmth is cherished in the cold. Light is best appreciated in darkness. Along similar lines, walking over fallen, dried leaves causes me to think about spring. As foliage season is in progress, intermittent and remaining greens continue persisting, reminding me to embody spring amidst autumn and winter. In these times that are steeped in grimness, recession, and despair, my thoughts reach for hopefulness- for spring. I’m seeing and hearing too much of what runs contrary to constructiveness- from world-scale events and social behaviors, right down to business meetings. These things contrast the desire to encourage and to grow well; to be spring, and to refuse bitterness. While watching gardeners store vegetables and bulbs in root cellars, the reminder came to me, to be a bearer of spring through the winter. Resisting bitterness takes shape as eagerness for positive growth, for advancement, and in my choice of framing perspectives. From there, intent is followed by action. As Bonaventure pointed out how such contrasts as intelligence and humility are best appreciated together, so I’ll add that juxtaposed brightness and bleakness stand out as reminders.

enkindle

“One who wishes to advance toward wholeness
should, by meditation, awaken, sharpen, and direct the
sting of conscience; hold out, broaden, and turn back
the beam of intelligence; concentrate, feed and raise
aloft the little flame of wisdom.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Love Enkindled

notandum

“Teach us to love a life hidden with You.”

~ from the Divine Hours, for Easter eve

“Notandum quod iste...” reads a manuscript of Thomas à Kempis’- which is to say “make note of this,” or, “let it be observed.” Kempis wrote the compendium of inspirational essays called Imitatione Christi during the early 1400s. At first, the book was meant to encourage novices among the Brethren of the Common Life, and the Sisters of the Common Life- communities that brought monasticism to eclectic cities in what are now Holland, Germany and Belgium. Kempis’ works continue to be in print today, with a readership that is unconfined by denomination or affiliation. His order was also known as the Devotio Moderna, reviving ancient Christian practice in contemporary context, more than a century before the Reformation. Much of the communities’ self-sustaining income was made through teaching and book-production. The order spanned into the era of the first printing presses (and some of the monastic houses developed highly-accomplished printing establishments). But for the most part, the work was all done by hand, and Kempis was also known as a master calligrapher. Being a calligrapher and teacher of the craft myself, I admire the expression of “making note,” on many levels. That simple expression reminds me to continue to observe, remain aware, write, create imagery, and attend to others. Spring’s arrival is signaling observers to hope with great intent, even against our circumstances.

Central to the wonder of the season that I call winter-into-spring are the abrupt changes in temperature and light. Senses are ignited out of their winter dormancy. In northern New England, there’s that one day upon which I can suddenly notice the aromas of earth and trees, while still walking through snow. In the midst of global tragedy and seamless successions of months, making note of some kind of positive progress is a providential distraction. Perhaps it’s a survival instinct of ours, to divert attention toward things that appeal to the will to transcend. We long to be invited to scenarios of welcome.

In this part of the world, spring ushers in baseball season- even during these times of limitation. In a recent Boston Herald article, a poignant reminiscence of the four-year-old boy (now a parent in his forties) rescued by star Red Sox outfielder Jim Rice after being hit in the head by a line drive looks back at the event in 1982. Rice, now a celebrated hall of famer, ran into the stands and scooped up the seriously injured child and ran to deliver him to the medics that were on duty at Fenway Park. The boy recovered, and now at 43 the man told the Herald interviewer that “you’ve got to live every second,” and cherish every moment. Mr. Keane added that the “smells of the park” are sweet to him: “from the hot dogs to fried onions for the sausages, and the field that is green unlike any green in the world.” Then he reflected, “this year baseball is needed more than ever.” Making note can also be a show of gratitude, as well as an alertness to the immediate, always with the undertone of taking nothing for granted.

For the most part, diversion must be sought. We have to know to look for it. Not every day is a sunny one at Fenway Park. And in my note-taking, which is both written and committed to memory, I remind myself of an elder friend’s wise words from long ago: “If you don’t like how you’re feeling, change what you’re doing.” I try to do this, whenever possible. This very same friend also taught me this saying: “Hardship is inevitable, but misery is optional.” This speaks to what cannot be changed, but what must be worked around- at best. Thomas à Kempis, with his teachers and his students were all living their vocations during the worst times of the late-medieval plagues. Zwolle was the hardest-hit city in Holland. Dozens and dozens of the Sisters and Brothers of the Devotio Moderna died of the plague.

They continued to carry on their ministries to the poor and homeless. Kempis himself survived the sickness, while he saw many of his brethren pass away. He was also the chronicler of his monastic community, named Mount Saint Agnes. Kempis essentially kept the journal of the house. To this day, we can read about the fallen, including highlights about their lives and characters. His chronicles preserved many other aspects about daily life in his community, including what they ate, how they dressed, and features related to the physical landscape. They, too, witnessed the passage of time. Now this season offers us a display of the upward progress of nature in spring- something preciously rare during this pandemic. Predictable progress that parallels the unfolding of time is an irresistible prospect. It drives us onward. Kempis made many references to the hidden life of a contemplative, even a working contemplative outside a cloister. Interestingly enough, some of his unsigned works are identifiable by his handwriting. He did not make efforts to be noticed; his life was one of service and being a compassionate witness to those around him. Indeed, that is a life to be loved and one that ministers through plagues and toward renaissance.

le sacre du printemps

“I am reminded of spring by the quality of the air...
It is a natural resurrection, an experience of immortality.”

~ Henry David Thoreau, Journal, 24 February 1852.

Perhaps we have yet something else in common: a sensitivity for the signs in our midst. In this context, such signs are far less subtle than the posted arrows and titles we see along roads. Though we could also think of these as directional, the sorts of signs we can only sense are untitled- at least initially. At this time of the year, the seasonal transition is tangible in the elements. The span of daylight lengthens, temperatures increase their margins above freezing, and there are noticeable changes in the landscape. Such signs tell us to look ahead.




Above: A melting stream, near Portland, Maine
Below: Beacon Street, Boston

Beacon Hill, Boston

In this part of the world, the early stages of Spring have been unusually protracted. Northern New England, now in May, still has frost at night. With natural signs so slow to take shape, it’s certainly easier to savour the transition. My corner of Maine is damp and chilled. But I happen to enjoy this very much. Rather than bothered by cold, this January-born Portland Mainer wilts when the temps exceed 70° (roughly 21° C), and I find it easier defending myself against snowflakes than against bugs. Indeed, I’ve surely learned to appreciate the big picture’s many facets, and to see the differences in the ways seasons manifest. For the observing writer and photographer, there is much to notice- both the subtle and the grand.



Above: Spring in the West End, Portland
Below: Meanwhile 120 miles away in Back Bay, Boston

Thoreau, living along Walden Pond, about 110 miles southwest of Portland, wrote beautifully about the reminders of spring air. 40° in early May is quite distinct from a 40° oddity in December. There is an inviting quality to the Spring rendition of that air. One obvious difference is how the temps abruptly drop as the sun sets in winter; warmer evenings are evidence of Spring’s arrival. The air also has the aromas of awakened strata. To better appreciate these low-forties, I’ve already put coats and jackets away. My experience of Spring air is an immersion, reminding me of freshwater swimming. I remember a sweltering summer day, during which I’d been driving through Grafton Notch, in western Maine. Stopping to hike to a swimming hole I’d heard about, I found the location- at the base of a waterfall. It was a very hot day, and that mountain water was very cold- but I jumped into something as startling as it was invigorating. After a short time of surmounting the shock, I got used to the water and thoroughly enjoyed it. A good saunter through cold Spring air is a similar kind of soak to be savoured.



Above: Portland, Maine catching up
Below: Spring wonderment in the Boston Public Garden

Associating the wafts of Spring with resurrection, as Thoreau observed, is especially meaningful after the dark winter months. A community that is very close to the elements of New England wilderness is that of the Benedictine monks of Weston Priory, Vermont. Among their lyrics is the refrain, “new life, new creation; alive our sense of wonder.” It is easy for me to call these words to mind, given a chance to leave the beaten track of commuting, and to simply observe the melting streams, the changing tides, and even to slow my paces along downtown Boston streets. I can fairly well predict that with this extended liminal neither-nor season, the forties will immediately become seventies- as it happens in these climes. All the more reason to hold some written thoughts.








Above: Seeing through the trees in Portland
Below: Seeing through the trees in Boston









Appropriate to our theme, aperch atop the Printemps department store, Paris.

spring hopes eternal

“Since nothing is so secret or hidden that it cannot be revealed,
everything depends on the discovery of those things
which manifest the hidden.”

~ Paracelsus, Inner and Outer Worlds.

The spring season has finally taken hold- even among the resistant crags of northern New England. Warmer temperatures and green-tipped ashen branches have emerged, having fought through winter’s last howls. Late-winter coincides with the liminal season of Lent, culminating with Passover and Easter. Suddenly, as though released into light, the days are lengthened. Enduring times of fortifying against the elements are best seen as temporal. If it’s a subzero cold-snap, I’ll say, “we’ll be out of this in a week or so.” An awareness of the movement of time provides something of an assurance, that in a short while, the hardships will pass; oppression will not have the last word. Traversing into milder weather and vivid horizons heightens hopes. Such anticipation is a subtle, nascent act of faith. But awaiting the fruition of hopes sown cannot be passive: the waiting is as faithful as it is impatient. Intensely looking forward can be both hopeful and painful, in a simultaneous tension that motivates. We may await transitions into better times, yet we cannot know the durations of those times. Still, with great anticipation, liminality expects the temporal.

In northern climes, changes of seasons- and between them- are impossible to overlook. Daylight extends into evenings, and ubiquitous snow mounds dissipate. Things do begin to look different, and we can even exchange those careful, tentative vertical steps in favor of broad, slanted strides. It is quite natural for me to take note of all that can be sensed, between earthen aromas, the ocean, wildlife, and how we continue to adapt. Spring snowstorms have been abundant, but their effects cannot last for long. When a foot of snow comes down in April, even in billows, there is an accompanying sense of assurance in its tentativeness. The advance of spring will resume. This season, when it’s been possible, I’ve been outside photographing as much as I can. As though pushed outdoors, I’ve taken different cameras and lenses out with me, through blizzards and to waterways. Nearby rivers and ocean are especially compelling. There is a consoling sort of solitude, sensing skies, colors, and hearing water currents alive under thick layers of ice. The transfiguring natural elements inspire evolvement.

Essential as it is, aspirations generally do not make things move. Vision must be put to action. But wishing and working are not assured successful results. Yet, still more, defeats and missed opportunities are fulfilled when followed by continued and refined effort. Spring is designed to succeed winter. Seasons of perseverance must spring forth from deadened dormancy. It is as though spring forces us to hope. We have to, especially at the confluence of lengthened days and determination.

As instrumental as it is to survive, longing- in itself- does not change a situation. For example, between this recent winter and at least the last three, my income has decreased, while living and working in the same flawed, unsettled places. But the emergence of the spring season manifests a mysterious sense of the slates having been wiped clear. There’s a resurgence of energy to do more than simply survive- more than to simply cope, wince, and bear with all that is far less than life-giving. The season is fluid and fleeting, and there is much to accomplish; the lasting lasts only so long. Renewed, by definition, is not new. Calendars do not compute in reverse; such measuring devices remind us to look forward and anticipate. Though more journeys imply more setbacks and scars, they can be overgrown by new grasses, green leaves, and perennial growth. Recently while out photographing, I looked at the Presumpscot River streaming into the Atlantic. Large rocks standing fast in the surrounding rapids are testaments to solidity and faithfulness. My thoughts mused, what is fair to expect? In response to my own question, I replied, I say it IS fair to expect! Spring hopes eternal. Let the season unfold.








See also: raw new season.