civilization

“We’re all mystics. That’s no observation.
It’s a demand placed on life.
No human being ought merely to spend the day...
For everyone, there ought to be places of free intentionality
where vision can happen...
The sentence, ‘we’re all mystics,’ contains in itself
the right of every human being to have beauty and vision.”

~ Dorothee Sölle, The Silent Cry: Mysticism and Resistance.

Unless you’ve been living an extremely uncommon worklife, you’ve surely come to know the perfunctory dysfunction that wafts through typical company meetings. Stiff and rarely efficiently or engagingly led, such experiences bring back indelible memories of school lunchrooms during adolescence. In some foundational ways, the sights, sounds, smells, and basic dynamics of the cavernous cafeteria in New York City’s Intermediate School Number 61 introduced me to what I’ve frequently encountered throughout professional life so far. Obviously, the cast of characters changes, but the patterns and archetypes became identifiable among cliques, rival gangs, bullies ringleaders, quiet followers, fighters, quitters, smirkers, comedians, caring personalities, rebels, competitors, self-destructives, arbiters of cool, and dreamers. Where I grew up, within the city, my friends and I would band together for safety- both physical and psychological. And we all either graduated or somehow transitioned out of these institutions. I saw all these types in summer camp, too, and surely thereafter in workplaces. Having been viciously bullied (always the youngest and easiest target), I’ve mused over the years about what those relentlessly malicious kids became in their adult lives. Age doesn’t automatically cure bullying. I know this. Did they wind up criminals? Politicians? Corporate executives? Maybe some repented of their cruelties? I guess it’s not for me to know. Inevitably, we all have to live with ourselves.

For the bulk of his career, my father worked as a principal in a major accounting firm with offices around the world. He was very well-liked and respected. As a kid, I couldn’t distinguish between his colleagues and his staff, seeing how collegial he was with everyone. I was deeply impressed by his egalitarianism, and I try to apply that as I’m able. Another trait I’ve inherited is Dad’s distaste for purposeless and protracted meetings. He used to tell me that “meetings are the most unproductive thing you can inflict on others.” I remember he had a wide ballpoint pen that had a digital clock built into the barrel- kind of a novelty. He called it his “meeting pen.” When he absolutely had to call a meeting, he kept them short, and would begin by apologizing to all present, while pointing to that pen-clock he’d perch on the conference table with, “Don’t worry; I’m watching the time.” He told me all of this, when I was about 16. Everyone, including me, found him inspiring and inevitably a leader worth following.

But that’s an exception to the usual. I’m among the too-many that know the ritual all too well: obsolete, aimless, self-congratulatory (reminiscent of the plights of Reginald Perrin of BBC fame), and anything memorable would be due to its egregiousness. In my supervisory roles, I copied something I’d picked up from a manager I had in a fast-paced photo lab. With a thick Boston accent, he’d say, “Keep talking with each othah, and do good work.” My version of that has been, “If we keep lines of communication open, we won’t need meetings.” This really works. I refer to how we innately wish to accomplish. And paths of least annoyance comprise brevity, purpose, the absence of jargon, and not forcing others to provide their “fun facts.” In my teaching capacity, I’ve developed the expression, “invited, but not obliged.” If there must be guiding attributes, let them be mutuality and informativeness. We do, after all, have work to do.

Workplaces that are also places of public service have to balance two general spheres: one is insular among staff, and the other is outward-facing toward recipients (customers). Distinct communities, with their respective, complex dynamics. Then there’s an off-duty life that occasionally sees the social circles converge. Admittedly, I’m hardly an exemplar, neither do I have any formulae, yet I attempt at consistency in all efforts. Among proving-grounds is the small city of the majority of my adult life, which includes a number of denizens that studied a variety of subjects with me, along with receiving research help from me, attended religious services I’ve led, and dined on pastries I’ve baked. And all have heard me cite “do unto others,” and the rest of the Golden Rule.

This G.E. Superadio has been with me since I was 19, pulling in broadcasts through concrete walls and steel structures.

In this world that encompasses the brutish culture through which many of us must navigate, I think a lot about civility and the disappearance of decorum. In my public-facing department at work, my portable radio is tuned to the region’s classical music station- at a subtly low volume. It keeps me company, and patrons tell me they like what they hear. There are even comments about the object itself: “Is that a real radio?” Collectors acknowledge that it’s a G.E. Superadio. I’ve mentioned how I’ve owned the radio since college, that it’s been with me, as accompaniment, in numerous art studios, archives, and apartments. Among my several, smaller radios is one that regularly travels with me. Even the nice hotels have ceased adorning rooms with anything other than large shrill flatscreen advertisement-players. And thus I bring my own version of civilization along with me. There are always public radio affiliates and soothing music for my listening. And I always bring my own coffee mug.

Productivity for the ages; careful and fast.
Radio in background; coffee thermos at lower right corner.

Maybe you have your own practices, determining your acceptable and portable civility, as you move through this world. As well, you might also carry various elements of your civilization with you. There are, indeed, the essentials of a workday, a schoolday, or an excursion: keys, phone (within which there may be some of your digital civilization), wallet, journal, laptop, et cetera. Don’t forget that elusive charging cable. It gets more complex with longer sojourns. In my example, the ubiquitous satchel includes extra writing materials, hand wipes, camera, granola bar, peppermints, rosary, and something to read on buses and trains. If a suitcase is involved, there’s a radio in it. And what about those aforementioned meetings? A memo pad and a pencil; ideas are hatching all the time, and I need to hold those thoughts for later elaboration. Time, precious as it is, needs to accommodate productive musing.

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.

small

“Negations seem to say less,
but actually they say more... expressing transcendence.
The more intimate the ascending force, the more powerful the elevation;
the deeper the love, the more fruitful the rising. It is beneficial, therefore,
to practice in this manner.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Love Enkindled

Perhaps, if there will be interest to someone far into the future, the telescopic truncation of time will reveal a dovetailing of present-day crises. From intensely economically recessed times, there followed a devastating global pandemic, giving way to this contracting and stratified era. What comes next remains to be seen. While the cultural and infrastructural scaling-back of the past decade seems yet to hit the bottom, contrasting and exclusive opulence has yet to crest. The view from my very modest perch is that of scaled-back times persisting and forcing ambitions into compromise. Reflecting upon the ancient prayer to be led away from temptation and delivered from evil, there really is no other wise choice but to persevere and to improve as possible. No turning back, and no stopping at this extremity of my hardworked tracks. This often comes to mind, sometimes when my daily commute includes a long stretch of shadeless barrens of broken pavement mildly recalling slivers of my junior high school trudges. The urgency of perseverance bites down on my work days. Keep going, I tell myself, even if just by modest increments. Big ideas may exemplify ambition, though progress may manifest by small measures. Reaching destinations, apparently, is the guiding big idea. Complex entities become intelligible, as Descartes posited, via analyses of the smaller components. This comes to mind as I process oceans of archival documents and images while keeping the broader entirety in view. Completing projects, of any extent, also carries metaphors about letting go, taking on new projects, and persisting in my belief that better will ensue.

Amidst a societal prevalence of necessary downsizing, terms such as small and humble have ceased being pejoratives. Basics being unaffordable for so much of the general population, frugality has taken on a self-defensive connotation. Economics and personal reach are obviously tied together. Many of us are brought to the challenge of whether and how less can be more. What happens to the scale of our hopes, as buying power dissipates? Shall we thrive in our smallness?

Such small things in a major accomplishment for the ages.

Living in a scenic, yet depressed region whose chief commerce is tourism reveals a juxtaposition of extremes which are impossible not to notice. For this essay’s occasion, my treatment of smallness is along the lines of making do- as necessary. Small pieces in an immense puzzle, such as one 35mm negative among 1.2 million- each that I examined while interpreting and processing an enormous archival collection. In context all those tiny parts find their greatest research and documental impact. Gem-like smallness, from artifacts to difference-making mechanical parts, are outsized in their importance. Think of ingredients. Years ago, when my mother taught me to bake bread, she showed me what a pinch of salt is, and how integral that is to the exponentially larger whole. When I’m binding books, I regularly see what a great difference a sixteenth-of-an-inch makes. Ponder the parabolic implications around grains of leaven and mustard seeds. Astonishingly simple things serve to form a reliable world around us. When I see ads and signs about “buying small” from a small and local business, building smart and small, companies and venues that publicize their personal attention, it is interesting to see the humble somehow exalted.

As we are compelled, for any of many reasons, to redefine what we mean by significance, we may also reconsider how we interpret importance, and what is trivial. In all spheres, it is critical for me to know what I’m overlooking and needs my careful attention. Difference-making, subtle factors can paradoxically become vital. Indeed, there are solutions found in correctly fitted fasteners and cogs- and surely how far-reaching are small acts of kindness? In keeping with the understated and humble, it’s not really for us to know- except for when we are recipient of such gestures. My best teachers could never have known the extent of all I learned from them. The expression, “pay it forward” is something a person can do, however modest that gesture might be. But of course I want to do great things! I’ve tenaciously cultivated myself to achieve and inspire. Preparation and endurance crave tangible fulfillment. How, when, and if that materializes continues to be a mystery. So does not knowing what to reasonably expect. But action and motion must move in a forward direction. Rather than to expect to solve sweeping problems in a fell swoop (few can do that), I can manage in measure with small steps. In this light, lowly attains great importance. There is discoverable divinity in the ordinary, and in this light we see light. Plainness can conceal complexities. Consider the needed effort to pare many disparate ideas down to a concept- and to be easily comprehended! The big work en route to humility, simplicity not to be mistaken for smallmindedness.

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

sprint the marathon

“Of itself, the light of the created intellect is not sufficient
for the certain comprehension of anything without the light
of the eternal word...
St. Augustine says in On The Trinity: “The eye of the human mind,
since it is weak, is dazzled in the presence of such excellent light,
unless is it purged through the justice of faith.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Christ, The One Teacher of All.

1

Just as critical as it is to keep on productively working, it is equally essential to continue being ambitiously creative. I’ve been insistent upon this directive for myself. Maintaining perspective demands increasingly vigilant discipline, amidst these pervasively discouraging times. A soul is not wired to expend all its energies for merely holding one’s ground, but rather to aspire and grow. With such abundance of convenient and ready technology, learning and mental health should not be so intensely daunting- but the fray above which we live tends much more to the nightmarish than to dreamlike hopes. Many say, “life is short,” and “you only live once,” all of which resembles forbidden fruit while most of us tread the mill of survival mode. A well-meaning colleague of mine, as sympathetic as they are prone to offer solutions, likes to tell me, “life is a marathon, not a sprint.” All of these sayings serve as nice reminders, while not necessarily practical. Some of us are fulltime caregivers that are also fulltime workers, managing both scenarios single-handedly- even gratefully. With enough coffee and clever planning, I get to write and study. Sprinting the marathon must have a fixed duration, though I continue testing that theory.

Priorities and urgency determine the pace, along with instincts informing me what is needed to survive. For at least the past half-dozen years, and for the foreseeable future, it remains imperative to hold course- at least until it’s possible to adjust the pace. Atop all that perpetuates my insomnia, it’s easy to believe we’re all witnessing universal decline. But haven’t observers been saying this since time immemorial? Indeed, though each one of us experience our own times and trials. A recently introduced reader of these essays told me that my writing is dark. Well that’s fair enough, and it isn’t my place to contradict another’s insight. For my part, I mentioned something I’ve repeated to my writing students for years, which is to write true- in all subjects, whether favorable or not. In personal writing, one must commit to practicing the written word and to do so with authenticity. Another subject I’ve been teaching, now for a solid decade, is philosophy. My own studies have long been with medieval philosophy, and I’ve always been profoundly impressed by thinkers who insisted upon extolling light Divine immersed in extremely dark ages.

2

Being grounded in the reality of vigilant and multiple responsibilities, there is the beckoning balance struck in the gospel to navigate society without allowing one’s soul to be owned by this exploitive world. Exemplified by the overabundance of newsfeed salespitch lures, one would think all our decisions are made for us. But not entirely. And the temptations are not limited to consumer products; there are also peddled ideologies piped to our personal devices. As a longtime student of such beacons as Erasmus, Ruysbroeck, Scotus Eriugena, and Bonaventure, I know to be enlightened in the darkness. The conscientious choice for what is lifegiving also comprises choosing away from unhelpful idols and ideals. Doing so requires strong doses of discernment, especially as even our work and worship passively absorb seepage running off from prevailing brutish culture. This entails an intentional choosing away from disrespect, keeping constantly aware that our vocations are for the purposes of service to one another. In other words, choosing that which is honorable is to choose away from denigrating others. Choosing the high road means choosing away from the low blows. Kindness over quagmire. A life’s work, to be sure; easier to utter than to fully apply. The road less and less traveled (but no less worthy) is that of human genuineness. A decade ago, many of us were striking the contrast between real and “virtual.” A meeting at a real table, or in a physical classroom, became an “in-person meeting.” The covid pandemic accelerated the transition from videoconferencing to meetings- or visits. Of late, the world has waded into varying degrees of artificial intelligence, expanding the distance between manipulated appearance and actual physical experience. For the conscientious, we’ll integrate watchfulness about choosing and choosing-away-from, into our days.

Somehow, I’ve been able to make productive careers around sustaining the unsustainable. From my years in extremely frenetic, deadline-driven commercial graphic arts and photographic production- to my following couple of decades in painstaking archival work and public services- my solitary output has regularly outpaced much larger departments. More than “just by doing,” it’s meant constant and strategized work. In the photo field, I kept a sleeping bag and changes of clothes in my studio. Through my second career, my thirty-minute lunches comprise 15 for eating what I’ve packed with me, followed by another 15 for journaling. Doing free-lance contract work, I took on (and completed) projects nobody else would take. In all circumstances, it’s been about earning my keep, proving the value of the work, and tenaciously keeping strides ahead of demands and due dates. Private-sector businesses and nonprofits each have their own versions of anxiety, bottom-lines, and absurdities. With both sectors, a worker must derive their own sense of satisfaction, and both involve bringing people and purposes together with well-crafted presentations. The same levels of craftsmanship, thoroughness, and communication are essential in both fields. Alongside appreciation from clientele, both spheres require constant proof of the worker’s worth. And clever innovation. All of which entail a disciplined sense of confidence, and impassioned drive. Through tougher days and easier days, consistency is de rigueur.

3

Fortunately, sustaining the paces of production and service grew to become an ingrained instinct. Occasionally I’ll notice the cumulative effects when I stop for a portion of a weekend. Nothing makes itself known quite like contrast. A wise friend suggested creating a sustainable bridge, spanning between protracted strings of strenuousness and the rare day off. Being one who loves words, the imagery suggested in bridge is much more interesting to me than my customary puddle-jump. And a metaphorical bridge needn’t necessarily be a place or particular length of time- elusive as both are. A sustaining bridge can be as humbly accessible as a coffee break chaplet, a sidewalk saunter, or an evening spared of lit screens. And writing. My handwritten lines are stitches connecting hours, days, and years. All words, which I compose myself; and the intelligence, if any, is natural.

There’s a worthwhile thought exercise in the consideration of what sustains. Years ago, I re-translated the old “daily bread” into the encompassing “Give us our sustenance, today.” A logic that precedes grocery errands, by making shopping lists, can inspire listing sustaining principles and endeavors. Indeed, there’s writing and studying- both reflective and practical. A philosophical shopping list of sustaining provisions would continue with such vital inspirations as discovery, faith, exploration, and opportunities to cultivate projects. As I’m sustained by physical and metaphysical nutrients, there are such corresponding manifestations as sharing my abilities and experience, while accomplishing and motioning toward the future. As it implies, sprinting a marathon persists at vigilant full-throttle. What’s most needed doesn’t always scream loudest.

With my philosophy students, we recently had an animated discussion about how we define happiness. The general consensus was their interest in simplicity, far exceeding material abundance. We talked about utilitarian ethics and there were many comments about the word pursuit. Most of the youngest students emphasized their weariness with electronic tethers, shifting the discussion toward self-discipline and personal interaction. And all of this took place after we disengaged from our “hybrid” live/teleconferencing model which we had been using for the past five years, deciding that we favored meeting together in person. Admirable and hopeful. Committed to being a fit and inspiring educator, I’m reminded about self-care, with the unadorned simplicity we were extolling this week. Deep-seated learning manifests with contemplation, and that is essential for the praxis of compassion. The squeeze of multiple fulltime commitments has compressed me into reaching for the refuge of the written word. Years of contending with time deficits has caused me to savour the oases all the more. At work, I’ve long conditioned myself into refraining from metaphorically looking up at the mountain, ingraining myself to persevere. For example, this past December saw my completion of a 14-year project in which I processed eighty years of archival journalistic photographic negatives- from physically salvaging hundreds of thousands of pieces of largely uncaptioned film from a gutted office building, to their preservation, inventorying, and digital publication. All the work of one person, in the midst of managing my multifaceted department myself. It took intense determination, not just to defend the project and my vision, but also to refrain from looking up at those heaps of cellulose and avoid being overwhelmed. Indeed, I worked as quickly and efficiently as possible, sprinting the marathon. The even bigger picture comprises belief in the value and purpose of the opus- whether it’s archives, or teaching, or writing, or living. The tie that binds is the drive to be the Renaissance worthy of pursuit.

‘Yet a little while, light is among you. Be faithful to the light that you have, for fear darkness should overtake you; for a person who walks in the dark does not know where they are going.” ~ John 12:35

forging ahead

“I am still following, still forging ahead, still walking,
still on the road, still extending myself; I haven’t yet arrived.
So if you, too, are walking, if you are extending yourself,
if you are thinking about the things that are to come,
forget what’s past, don’t look back at it...
You ask, ‘What does walking mean? I’ll tell you very briefly;
it means forging ahead, in case you should possibly not understand.”

~ Saint Augustine, Sermon 169.

As the new year began, five years into what has come to be known at the covid era, I was able to make two very long-awaited monastic pilgrimages. Part of my respite time scarcity corresponds with the nearly two years of quarantining, as well as closures to the public of retreat lodgings. All measures taken for the causes of safety and stabilization. In addition, since February 2020, at my workplace I’ve been a department of one, having to adapt into being an especially productive jack-of-all-trades. True to the adage, all work indeed means no play. No complaints. I get everything done, well and fast- and I’ve been gratefully employed the whole way. Forging ahead remains paramount. Over the years, banking up enormous quantities of largely unusable earned hours caused me to squelch hopes for those vital spiritual and artistic retreats that have provided nourishment throughout my adult life. It’s a trial of absorption and adaptation. Absorbing the constraints, while adapting to the tenable. A Saturday once a month at the Boston Athenaeum, combined with an interspersed holy hour at local sanctuaries, help to patch me along.

Several weeks ago, I had the time and space to fulfill a thwarted sojourn from a year ago. Last Christmas, I exhaustedly stole away to Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey only to arrive during the approach of weather so severe it forced all retreatants to evacuate. I’d been only a day as guest in their wonderful community, and they encouraged me to come back. And recently I did just that. My return to Wrentham Massachusetts was in clear weather, and the only storm was a manageable half-a-foot which added photogenic spice to the already peaceful landscape. With a spacious room complete with study table and a soft bed, my only real effort was to try slowing down to a restful pace. Disentangling from the compounded intensity of constant toil, housing crises, and vigilant caregiving, is no simple matter. Rest has to materialize in bits and pieces. Having a few days in beautiful environs with healthful helpings of contemplative silence and soothing sung liturgies made for a salubrious step in the right direction. Bringing both writing and reading material for the sojourn, reflectively studying philosophy seemed to be my natural course, in rotation with community prayers- and journaling. I had just taught my class before taking to the road, and was eager to complete reading material that needed undivided attention. Through experience I’ve learned that spiritual development mustn’t be forced, unstructured time is something to cherish, and thus both aspects counteract contemporary culture. As I had written in the previous essay, Pope Francis’ fortuitous theme for 2025 as a year to be undaunted pilgrims of hope immediately drew my attention. My nineteen years of published essays attest to how this theme superimposes with my own path. Indeed, it was all in mind during this recent pilgrimage, as well as during November’s sojourn to Weston Priory.

As I’ve noticed how my trail’s ingredients are constructed from my own steps combined with unwitting patterns of grace, I’ve also grown to recognize time as increments of significance. And the increments can be as long as seasons, years, and eras. I’ve held this perspective for a long time- dating back to measuring life in summers, grade school levels, semesters, jobs, and projects. Single-day holidays always seemed too short, and mostly about their buildups. Chronicling time with journal-writing provides a natural setting for marking various anniversaries- and of course describing their importance. For example, the Labor Day weekend during which I moved to Maine became known as Arrival Weekend (and I've numbered them since). Others are the closing weeks of my different graduation years- still commemorated. I’ve always much preferred Advent more than a stand-alone Christmas Day, and I grew to love the Lenten season. The latter provides plenty of time to inhabit, explore, and reflect upon during a forty-day period. Pilgrimage is as much about the coverage of physical distance as about spans of time. I regard my lunch-break novenas as spiritual journeys. Journaling provides personal space for incremental reflections. Among many things I learned during years of experience in the Taizé monastery and on the road with some of the Brothers, is to view all of life as a pilgrimage of trust on earth. On one occasion, after a week of supporting a large gathering as a liturgical musician (playing classical guitar), Frère Emile thanked me- hands on my shoulders- wished me peaceful travels, and said, “Now go make your life a pilgrimage of trust on earth.” Those unforgettable words have never, ever left me. That represents the grand view of a lifetime. The briefer and equally vital stages, such as several weeks ago in Wrentham, are to recalibrate and hold course.

Lest we romanticize pilgrimage, appropriating the stuff of novels and misty imagery, pilgrimage might occasionally be quite majestic, alas it’s more often than not pedestrian and gritty. Pilgrimage waits in traffic, rides lurching and odoriferous buses, and holds doors for strangers. It’s carefully shoveling snow. Pilgrimage is also noticing the queues of walking feet ahead, patiently pacing en route to the sacraments; it’s noticing my own. Commuting on public transit requires a lot of waiting and standing. There are also opportunities to read and to reflect; that’s surely more interesting than phone-fiddling. While taking in the sub-zero raw scenery at a bus stop, manipulating book pages with gloved fingers, I thought of how the dilapidated roads and sidewalks are not pristine or groomed, but they are all sunlit during the day. The voyage is not new, though it can be renewed. The dry docks of my start are far out of view, there is no better choice than to forge ahead.

Looking forward and staying the course are infinitely more appealing than giving up the ship. Stagnation is reversal. Maintaining awareness of the imperative to continue is enough of a challenge, particularly amidst setbacks, but what to do when the grinding trail threatens a loss of critical savour? Maintaining the furrow, because it’s what I know and it solves the immediate, fills my days. But is this progress? Not knowing how close at hand fulfillment might be, tests the fibers of hope. The saints of old are always teaching us and none of them ask us to drop the torch. It’s consistently about looking ahead, even if it means discarding all that is past- especially when it takes the form of a millstone. Perhaps beating the winter is no more effective than to check off the chores as they are accomplished. But there are no plans to cease walking forward. Yet another aspect exemplified in pilgrimage life is to affirmatively aspire when hoping looks absurdly irrational. Pope Francis recently said, “faith is a road to be traveled, without ever losing the goal.” Forging ahead, one next-right-thing at a time, is all this pilgrim of trust can do, for now.

flourish in the desert

“At times, it is only possible to hold oneself in God’s presence in silence.
It can happen, too, that in arid places,
the deserts of prayer predominate...
When, in the desert of your heart,
there is nothing but the silence of God,
question yourself:
Is this the beginning of a turning-point to go forward again?”

~ frère Roger de Taizé, Fleurissant les déserts du coeur.

Though largely beyond the pandemic era, a depleted societal aftermath lingers. Always looking for clarity of thought, I try figuring out whether just about all of humanity is recognizably battle-weary, or if I’m merely projecting my experience. Recently, a colleague and I were talking about how we find ways to prevent from burning out. I suggested the few of us that were at our workplace five years ago- and are still there now, should receive a special survival medal. We’ve weathered a compounded crucible, and reaching some sort of high ground only to unceremoniously soldier on. But indeed we’ve lived to see another day; that is something of a reward in itself. A great many were not able to rebuild. The covid years not only saw compromised workplaces and institutions of every kind, but also severely affected economics and housing crises in ways that continue being felt. I’ve had first-hand experiences of these. Even my hometown has been reduced to a diluted version of what it was before the curtain dropped on the world. Indeed, these scenarios are everywhere, not just in New England.

Personally insistent upon progress and holding out hope, I’m continuing as a productive worker and thinker, digging a furrow through deserted times. For me, persevering through adversities must have purpose. Why ambitiously persevere, with contradictions at all hands? Because I remain convinced of being meant for better things, and that cultivated skills and knowledge must not amount to lights buried beneath bushels, but be applied to benefit others. That’s the point. Again, I know there are numerous others who ache in their undercapacities- and that returns this resourceful soul to flourishing where I’m planted. When taking stock of the present, my thoughts turn to gratitude for the caring souls who remind me about self-care. Exchanging our stories, we remind one another that we are not alone in this tumultuous era of unknown duration. Musing in his written thoughts, Pascal wondered why we put much more emphasis upon past and future- both of which we cannot control- and neglect the dynamism of the present which we can influence.

A few weeks ago, thanks to the two substitutes I recruited and trained, along with an extraordinarily supportive associate, I was able to take a string of days off for the first time in nearly a year. Another set of logistics providentially materializing was being able to be at the Weston Priory- my longtime favorite place of retreat. As with everything, the pandemic forced the Benedictine brothers to indefinitely suspend their usual accessibility to retreatants. I hadn’t been able to make a pilgrimage there in five years. We kept in touch via e-mail, but surely it’s nothing qualitatively close to the community experience. The welcome I received was all the more heartwarming, adding new strata to all that is familiar and endearing. Weston was the best place I could have gone, to try resuscitating and regrounding in a profoundly familiar environment. Naturally, everyone I spoke with had perspectives to share about the past five years. I heard about how the State of Vermont practically closed down during quarantining, and how damaging this was for their tourism seasons. I described how Maine had this, too, though not as devastating as in Vermont. Visually, the impact is apparent, seeing many empty commercial spaces, on top of aftermath evidence from last year’s major flooding in the Weston region. I heard about and saw setbacks countered by resourceful perseverance.

It was great to have been able to step back and to be among longtime friends, with the common threads of spiritual nourishment. Mutual recognition is especially something to cherish, having seen dozens upon dozens of my local friends leave southern Maine due to economics and gentrification. In varying manifestations, we’re all survivors. Indeed, notwithstanding the remoteness of central Vermont, the recent national election’s intensity was obvious. We all seemed to want to talk through our trepidations. Walking along the County Road with the brothers, while beginning to catch up with each other, I asked Brother Elias: “What are we going to do now?” Not surprisingly, he gave me the best and most monastic reply, “We remain faithful.” As I’ve been doing since my first pilgrimage to Weston Priory, in 1994, I still take notes during homilies. In fact, it was at Weston that I really began journaling, intent upon preserving the astonishingly lifegiving reflections I was hearing. It is all the more essential to exemplify being lights in the darkness, thus flourishing in the desert. Good words and reminders of promising horizons continue to be kept close to heart. My studies in philosophy, along with writing and creative expression, are examples of cultivating inspiration for application in the wilderness of this era. Dark times especially need torchbearers, those who nurture and convey light for the present and future.