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.

forbearance

“The soul generates, nourishes, and increases:
generates as regards essence, nourishes as regards quality,
and increases as regards quantity.
By the sensitive power it apprehends sensible things,
retains what it has apprehended, combines and divides
what it has retained.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, The Breviloquium, ch. 9

Despite countless task-saving conveniences, we’re all navigating increasingly demanding paths. And it seems the manual projects and chores are made easier than before; the ramped-up, harder efforts involve the mind. Logistics and time-management require constantly adaptive abilities to rearrange priorities, even sharding away excesses. When it comes to intellectual and spiritual matters, the challenges of self-discipline only intensify.

The recent decade attests to a continuous barrage of violence, conflict, pandemic, recession, displacement, disaster, and fractiousness. That short list encompasses the daily experience for too many, enough to overwhelm. Much as the horrific school shootings of 25 years ago prompted sociologists and officials to finally regard bullying as something to take seriously (and as a badly-bullied adolescent, I remember the commonplace dismissiveness too well), current studies are informing us about how anxious and worried we are. As if we needed to be reminded. A new study ties rampant anxiety with equally rampant obsessions with smartphones- particularly among teens. I interpret this, in a broader generational sense, as being swept into ubiquitous, sensationalized, and constant newsmedia feeds tapped into by all our networked devices. Evidently, we need to know, during all our waking moments. I’ve had to create my own version of the proverbial ten-foot-pole, tempering my connectivity, reminding myself to get outdoors and experience life first-hand. Despite the cautious vigilance, I’m also amidst the pressure to be confident in hopeless surroundings. Trust and worry stand in opposition to each other. Many among the faithful commonly profess that we should not worry, as most of us do what we can to restrain ourselves. But is faith enough, and is that all I’ve got? Apparently, a mustard seed’s worth suffices.

I heard a preacher say that life is 10% what happens to you, and 90% what you do about it. We may propose, but very few of us can even begin to dispose. With my granule of gumption, there are learned instincts to help me contend with obstacles. If anything, there is the cultivated skill of noting the limits- whether they are related to economics, practical logistics, or the behaviors of others. The discretionary tacks between forcing back the constrictions and steering around the incorrigibles. Unraveling the implications emanating from trust, my thoughts bring me to the healthful version of surrender. Parallel to persistently believing in finding better situations to fulfill what I’ve been built to accomplish, I’m also aware of immovable barriers. Thus I return to the vitality of trust- albeit in clouds of unknowing- all of which amounts to perseverance.

Perseverance needs a purpose. For what, or whose sake, do we persist with our efforts? Perhaps it’s to gain respect, or peace of mind, or to make an impression; perhaps it’s the fight-or-flight impulse to survive. Many among us are naturally competitive, driven to exceed, hoping to improve our situations. As with that “ninety percent” of the preacher’s comment, hardship can pry forth our ambitions. Beyond motivations to survive with strength, work, and housing- is to be convinced there is tangible cause for hope. Josemaría Escrivá, whose books have been mainstays in my daily bus commutes for two years, helps right my ship with his exhortations about living for the causes of service to others and devotion to God. “Think of nothing but of divine compassion,” he advised in The Forge, instructing preference for the pursuit of a life of generosity, over and above fear. “The immediate future is full of worries, if we stop seeing things in a supernatural way,” Escrivá added. Worry and anxiety can be motivators as much as detriments, though both are inevitably exhausting.

While responding to audience questions after a recent lecture, someone asked me “where do you get all that energy?” Not entirely a technical or theoretical question, I heard myself say something like, “There’s a lot that still needs to be done!” Creating archives often borrows the metaphor of bringing out sculptures that are within large stone blocks. Preservation and access resemble the nurture and promotion of a botanical garden. Very simply put, the energy comes from caring, and my forbearance incorporates stewardship and vision. Commitment to the profession’s many aspects is supremely important, wherever I’m working- and my hope is to continue improving. Many thoughts- perhaps too many- while working and seeking better work, have to do with the concept of “success.” How have definitions of success changed in the past decade (or two)? For whom is success necessary? Impressing my elders- whether parents, grandparents, or teachers- always meant a great deal; impressing friends was less of a priority, but impressing managers and prospective employers has been a longstanding matter of anxiety. Is sufficient the same as success? Having endured two layoffs in my working life, along with forbearance-testing threats and economic conditions, anxiety has long been tied to fears of the impending. Or perhaps not impending! That sort of tension can be formidable, as though a solid barrier. Years and years of trying, and very rarely succeeding, lend too easily to discouragement which must not obstruct a good future. Remembering what I heard myself say to that audience a couple of weeks ago, essentially in light of things and in spite of things, I have to just keep productively working. One who surely knew a rough life of fits-and-starts, Paul taught those in his midst- as well as his later readers- to insist upon gratitude and graciousness, and to “ let your forbearing spirit be known among all.” Fully agreeing with St. Bonaventure as quoted above, the soul must be nourished in order to be renewed and encouraging to others. Carefully-selected studies fuel my forbearance abilities, amounting to the most critical of life skills.

looking forward

"The kingdom of heaven only costs as much as you have."
~ Saint Gregory

Between the completion of various projects, commitments, and the subsequent holiday weekends, I was able to take a few days away for a quiet retreat in December. Respite time has been extremely rare in the past four years, now generally known as the “covid era” (albeit with the first year being under quarantining orders). Laborers on pared-down staffs often became the surviving hands-on-deck in their respective places of work. I wrote about being among “the working wounded;” yet truly thankfully employed and bill-paying, but holding course while staving off the burnout in my midst. This pandemic era may be tailing off now, but economic and societal conditions have been permanently altered. Suffice it to say, many practical matters are simply too dissimilar to those of four years ago to be as reliable as they were. Try finding an actual hardcopy newspaper now (and when you do, notice how the price is exponentially higher). Notice how social interaction is much more electronic than in-person, how commerce is relegated to impersonal self-checkout, and how a “wallet” is now stored financial data. A “menu option” left the context of restaurant dining, and became a term of robotic telecommunication. As recently as four years ago, taking earned time off meant physically turning to a colleague and comparing calendars; it has since become cajoling and electronic wrangling. Much more than the rigors of earning the time, there are added equations in being able to use the time. The bar having been raised, it is necessary to jump higher with the changed rules of the game. Of course I can do this, and I must.

As the will makes for the way, I recently managed to negotiate for a very modest amount of respite and backup coverage. Eight months in the waiting, the worthwhile carrot at the end of the proverbial stick was a stretch of days for slivers of spiritual health, silence, and writing. Having very little time to plan, as well as to find coverage, I searched for a place that would make space for a pilgrim during this time of the year. An Advent intermission from the beaten track and the routines was what I needed, and a very kind invitation came from a Cistercian community in Massachusetts. Getting through the subsequent complexities related to springing forth for a short time, the more pleasant parts of preparation ensued.

As I’ve known for years, most any sojourn can be a pilgrimage; it needn’t involve great distance. Intention is basically all that is needed. For a pilgrim of trust, the purpose is to sanctify time and place for immersion in the sacred. In anticipation, I began to assemble trip necessities such as writing and reading material, clothing, camera, and some groceries to add to the guesthouse provisions. This was my first time both at Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey, and in southwestern Norfolk County, though I know the general region. My drive to Wrentham took about three hours on roads that traverse familiar New England terrain that comprises cities with repurposed mill buildings, farms, forests, and villages. The winding country road leading to the abbey slices through tall pines, and must be navigated slowly. Arriving to gentle greetings, I proceeded to the guesthouse and found an envelope on a lit end-table which welcomed me in cursive flourishes resembling the tones I’d heard moments before. Setting my satchel and duffel bag in my dormered room, I immediately and gratefully felt the quiet of the place, along with like the country air. Two of the community’s guest sisters and I spoke about the vitality of contemplative silence. We talked about how burnout endangers the souls of this culture’s understaffed overworked. We also made reference to weather alerts pertaining to an approaching storm. From there, we all prepared for vespers. Above all, being in late-December I was among kindred spirits in anticipation of the Advent.

Gradually settling into the old, familiar monastic rhythm, I immediately noticed how tightly-wound I’d been for too long. Equally old and familiar is the sense of reverse-inertia: slowing down to a halt needs quite a long runway. The soothing tones of sung liturgies harmonize with the natural landscape, helping to transit from stressful vigilance to receptivity. Even as the rainstorm arrived, the patter on the abbey church roof pronouncedly audible, the peaceful ambience of the place simply absorbed all sounds. During an evening service, the rain intensified into a backdrop for the readings, chanted psalms, and silent adoration. I later heard the continuum of pelting rain on the skylight immediately overhead in my little room.

The storm amounted to something similar to a hurricane, with torrential rain and 90mph winds persisting throughout the following day. I cannot remember ever seeing such hard rain. Looking from the guesthouse windows reminded me of driving through a carwash, but this went on for more than a day, eventually causing felled trees and a regional power outage. Along with the loss of electricity was the loss of heat, hot water, and backup generators. The abbey had to cancel services. We used plenty of candles in the guesthouse, dining on leftovers, still savouring the spirit of the community. Even considering the cold, dark night ahead, I did not try to make an early trip back to Maine; the storm was moving north, and I would’ve been contending with hazardous conditions all the way up. The best thing to do was to patiently wait out the weather. Inevitably the storm passed, yet the outage was predicted to last another day. Washing with cold water the following morning, and downing day-old tepid coffee from my thermos, I packed my car for the return in daylight. Before taking to the roads, I made sure to thank my hosts and to bask in the healthful silence of the unlit abbey church. While the retreat had to be shortened, there was plenty to cherish, such as an open-ended welcome to come back, some new friends, and the acquaintance with an oasis new to me. Driving between large branches and fallen trees, en route to highways and hot coffee, was that among other things I have hope itself.

the storm past; writing by candlelight

“Still will we trust, though earth seem dark and dreary,” William Burleigh composed more than a century ago; “Though rough and steep our pathway, worn and weary.” Indeed, I returned from a shortened sojourn, back to work and the search for better, holding fast to Advent light as night falls in the afternoons. A new year approaches. Perhaps a suitable excuse, as the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve may not automatically regenerate much more than a calendar. As the Battle for the Better continues, albeit via Advancement by Small Measures, I’m looking to the upcoming year with the usual ache for a good future. Fully aware of being in the thick of significant work, there’s every good reason to keep at it. Looking forward is the best thing I can possibly do. I needed at least a year and a half to write the housing-loss grief out of myself. Now it’s the forward gaze that indicates preparation for the granting of my most vigorous wishes. It isn’t really difficult to insist upon looking forward, with essentially so little left for which to look back. If anything at all, I’m looking forward to returning to the abbey in Wrentham during better weather. Grand things manifest because of humble things. While commenting about Psalms 13 and 14, Saint Augustine remarked that “Interior and unceasing prayer is the desire of the heart.” Essentially, one’s profoundest hopes are distilled into intentions of the spirit. He added, “The desire of your heart is itself your prayer.”

Reminiscent of my original profession and my most fluent language: photography, I find my reminders for the present. Practitioners of the craft like me can recall or point to studios, portfolios (effectively our resumés), projects, exhibitions, and tools of the trade. Far and away, the most important aspect is a cultivated sense of vision. This transcendent ingredient is also known as “the photographer’s eye.” Artistic vision, as I’ve found, can be applied to numerous types of work and facets of life- even the human imagination. As a working archivist and conservator for nearly 26 years, I’ve often envisioned completed results (and their remedies) ahead of time. But that doesn’t mean I can predict the events of the new year, as these involve much greater complexities than those of my sole efforts. Once again, and at the very least, I can put up my end of things, and I know enough to "forget those things which are behind, and reach forward to those things which are ahead, pressing toward the goal for the prize of the upward call*". Everything is in need of improvement; bring on the new year.

views from Saint Mary's Abbey, by ambient light only

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*Philippians, chapter 3