capacitatem

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

~ The Cloud of Unknowing (14th century)

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


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




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

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

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

conduit

“Let the river
Let the river run.
Let the water
Let the water fall.
Flow down off the mountain
and into the sea.
Let the river run its course.”

~ Mike Peters and The Alarm, Let the River Run its Course

Among those who ask for my help with their studies, there are many whose fascination with history is combined with grieving the passage of time. One person that comes to mind exemplifies this sentiment, which draws together a true spirit of inquiry with a kind of desperate regret over the consequences of societal change. “Why was that place torn down?” “Why don’t people do this, or that, anymore?” Looking at old photographs that have advertisement signs on diners, I hear, “why are meals so much more expensive now?” Such inquiries know no age limitations; I’m hearing questions like this from age groups not commonly associated with such sentiments. It’s a nostalgia for a past not even experienced. “Why isn’t that place the same as it was before?” What a wondrous question, indeed. Of course, there are deliverable and practical answers. Economics and inflation. Buildings that weaken, relocations, and misbegotten destruction called “urban renewal.” I hear myself explain why some place or thing is no longer as it was- or where it had been- trying not to sound oddly parental or pessimistic.

Indeed, I myself am not without my own sentimental streak- which I’ve unwittingly had since childhood. And surely the passage of time is the natural course of living and witnessing the years we each have known. Well aware of these things, and capable of conveying the rational answers, there do remain those quiet moments when I wonder at the rapid movement of time- and also notice myself wishing to retrieve it. Oh, and don’t we see this all around us: costly efforts to try to arrest, avert, or reverse the by-products of time. Many want to find what they feel they’ve lost, even with the fervor of a self-imposed desperation. Such pressures are fed by the ways communication technology and research are becoming more instantaneous. But we must beware not to focus on mirages which are superficial representations of what we think we seek. The mythical Dr. Faustus sold off his life’s blessings and burned his eternity in exchange for an unfortunate backward turn of the clock. Though a fable, so stark a tragedy gives us an allegory that directly connects the idea of selling oneself out in pursuit of what can never be possessed. Inevitably the only constructive thing to do is to come to terms, both reluctantly and gratefully, with the flow of years and seasons. The easiest course is to work with the continuum of our selves and the world around us, and not to be consumed in resisting friction.

When we embark upon a retrieval of what is past, our steps navigate a diverted direction from the course of reality. What might resemble a retracing of paths is something more like a reconstruction upon shifting sands. We may have harbored yearnings for what has passed, but the past is not a home that waits for us. I can think of occasions in which I have returned to places that had deep impressions from long ago. After the first understanding of my disorienting comparison between past connotations and a kind of present benignity, there are occasions I’ll return even just to test that spirit of transformation. One might say we are our own context, especially when streets seem suddenly narrower, distances shorter, and our intuitive responses at ease. If things appear different, perhaps indeed they are. And if we recognize our own changes, surely those people and places we have known surely do not remain as they are etched in our impressions. Our natural attempts and our subsequent reconciliations are reminders of the constant transition of our lives themselves, which were created to evolve and be open to advancement. Was it really so good, back then? After all, we do selectively visit our pasts. Still further, does the past miss anyone? In the harmony of accepting, and not resisting, comes the reminder that in the momentary heaviness of letting go of what is already buried by layers of time, there is also a buoyant liberation of unknown prospects that await.

While pondering these questions and ideas over the past week, I’ve wanted to write these thoughts along a river- and here I am perched upon a riverbank. Textured ripples pass across my line of sight in an unending scroll of calligraphic strokes and words. Not as the receding and advancing tides I know along the ocean, but a single-direction flow. Barely a quarter-mile upriver, there are falls which feed this present breadth- with rapids unrelenting and constant as the passage of time. I remember, as a twelve-year-old, looking with wonder at mountain waterfalls, telling myself that “it never shuts down,” city kid that I was. I imagined the voluminous torrents going night and day through every season, “always on and never running out.” This amazed me.

The late-summer brings me to especially recall continuities and returns. This time of the year has always felt more like a new year’s threshold to me. The Hebraic calendar draws together times of reflective reckoning with the observance of a new year of seasons. Part of that introspection includes an actual casting of bread upon moving waters, known as Taschlikh which means “you will cast away.” In a heart’s movement of trust, we can release those symbolic fragments and watch them disappear along the streaming conduits of the earth. This tradition echoes the words of Micah, who expressed how our souls are cleansed with reconciliation as God casts our sins into the farthest irretrievable depths to be remembered no more. For me, it is also a casting away of regrets, a gesture of unburdening, and a choosing away from what obstructs me from what is holy. At this bend in the river, it is for me to jettison what I do not need, so that I can make room for what is life-giving. Those bread morsels are not insignificant, humble as they may be, disappearing past the overhanging willows and reminding me that to truly gain my life I must let it go. My role is more a steward’s than an owner’s. It is for me to navigate the tides of time, and not to be consumed with resisting the currents by deviating or freezing the waters. The river itself is a sign of continuity, as well as a conduit from mountains to sea. It is solidity in fluidity, and as I write it is visible to me that in the faithful consistency of prayer, silts of excess are washed away.

sacred journey

“With the last full-stop comes the question,
‘Have I managed to say what I intended?’
No. Then why write?
A boundary always remains,
beyond which we are left alone with ourselves,
whether we are writing
or speaking spontaneously.”

~ Brother Roger of Taizé, Struggle and Contemplation

Of course, the writing continues. As surely as there is waking and breathing with each day- and there’s news on the radio and in the papers, I write my thoughts. Even on the fifteen-minute coffee breaks, my notebook and pencils go with me. There may be ideas to jot. And it is all to be able to write the pilgrimage, nothing more. Enshrining thoughts and adventures with words takes time, and I am also finding- many attempts and much patience. To express a journey, you need to journey. Wholeheartedly. Along the way, it occurs to me how writing and living not only influence one another, they can give each other validating perspective.

This medium, which casts personal thoughts abroad, brings some of my handwritten journaled thoughts outward- and it has amazed me to receive kindred observations. The journey of faith is often faced alone, but indeed we can discover how very much accompanied we truly are- and have been. For weeks I have been unsure about creating an entry about something which promotes this writing, being content with my intended anonymity. But considering my gratitude for the encouragement to continue this voyage, I’ll direct readers to the journal Sacred Journey, from Princeton, which has asked me for permission to publish sections of La Vie Graphite, featuring an entry in the current issue. For this, on a weary Friday night concluding an arduous work week, I am very thankful- and with hope, I carry on.

umbrella

“On the corner
where the sun had shone,
The people gathered ‘round,
Then scattered as the raindrops
hit the ground.
The rain is falling.
Will it wash away the lonely tears.”

~ Jeff Lynne, Rain is Falling


Rain has been inordinately part of every day, for nearly a month. So much so, that the ordinary spaces and conditions through which destinations are connected become distinctive environments in themselves. Indeed, it is possible to appreciate relentless torrents when they are not factors in destructive equations, as we see in parts of the world. Observing rainstorms from high ground along the Maine coast reminds me of watching snow billow on Vermont mountaintops; quantitative measure becomes inconsequential. Even with few I can find who share my enjoyment of the pouring, the dampness, and even the refreshing quaffs of bracing air, my contention remains that this intervention of nature itself lends well to introspection. To varying extents, we are compelled to draw inward - even in the subtlest and slightest ways- when we seek temporal sanctuaries on this adventure we must navigate. And surely, ducking into and through intermittent shelters need not weigh down a soul. The light is a diffused and shadowless grey. An extended overcast atmosphere has effected a kind of housepaint white backdrop to all roads and buildings, seamlessly matching the sky overhead. Is this gloom? What’s not to enjoy? Great strides can be made, when there are few shadows and the immediate panorama is one of sweeping movement. Of twirl and tumble- and then startling sound and light effects. On the coast, paroxysms of nature- no matter the season- are interleaved with cool, briny breezes- all at once gritty, earthy, and rejuvenating. Invariably, there are signs to be noticed: reminders and pointers attesting to what is past that remains to inform, and horizons revealed.

To abide in the midst of nature’s voice is to dwell among transitory places of inspiration. When the air around us sounds and gusts and even adds a coating to us, it is an experience of both sense and spirit. These rains are reminiscent of what is above, beneath, and around me. Indirect light creates a context of muted reflectant colors, and with such palettes are many accompanying recollections. If you are among those who appreciate the rain, the grey light, and that washed-sky aroma, try drawing in a breath of that cathartic air which comes to us between storms. And reminders follow. As a child in the city, I hated rainy weather; it was- as many things in huge cities- an annoying obstruction. Darkness and cancellations. Humid busses and subways, squeaking slicker coats that stick to skin, and damp summer camp bunks. Though I may be projecting the helplessness of my adolescence, the impressions are surely accurate. But somehow, so many connotations began changing as I left home at seventeen, arrived in this place, and embarked upon the life of faith. And reaching forth for the new has an underpinning in a foundation of remembered experience. Scent can produce powerful memories and internal references. Rainswept air is our breathing after a purging lamentation. Memory is a realm at our very margin, that we may only visit as we recollect and contemplate. The brick and earthen streets of Portland return me to the cobbled and saturated streets of Paris. A good rainstorm can even be heard from the interiors we inhabit, be it swishing traffic, dappled windowpanes, or tympanic thunder. The landscape changes, and as we notice our own transformation, our sense of the scenery around us evolves, too.

Some of my colleagues and closest friends are aware of my penchant for what most consider to be “awful” weather- and a few understand it. Heading out to this café to write these words, a friend recommended, “take your umbrella, if you’re going out there,” pointing at the windows. It looked as if the whole building had been driven into a car wash. Adventures have their necessities: ponchos, boots, rain-gear, umbrellas, rain-proof containers. The great pilgrimage, we are told, requires but a pair of sandals and a walking-stick; unextravagant enough not to exclude anyone. Grateful for my associate’s presence of mind, I took the advice- and my umbrella. This modest perch of little tables, hot coffee, and bantering voices is shelter- certainly not the silence of Elijah’s cave, but similarly in the way one can sense the consolation and purpose of Divine presence. This exploration traverses unknown desolate places, separations, and also winds through unpredicted oases. The nature of a way-station is in its very provisional aspect, as a rainstorm blows out to sea. The way forward is antithetical to stagnation. In the unknowing, I must maintain a practical sense of remembrance, to be capable and equipped for the voyage. As the pilgrim soul is ever in motion, so are the skies in transition. Adapting to the forces of nature- to storms, terrain, and visibility- we reconcile with creation. Being reminded of vast heights and depths, we can be diverted from making our troubles larger than these sources of life themselves.

Noticing striding sidewalk adventurers outside, under their varieties of umbrellas, there is a fine symbol of pilgrimage. We must equip ourselves, as we move through this world- even under cover of portable shelters. Weather is indiscriminate, varying according to geography rather than by personality sharing proximity (however the better-healed are often better equipped). The sun rises upon all of us, however deserving we may think each other to be, and “the rains are sent upon those who do right and those who do wrong.” Heavy rains represent nourishment- and at times devastation. It is for us to find or create our sanctuaries from the storms, where we can fold up those umbrellas for the time being. If the skies present signs to us, among them is the certainty of transition. And as I weather these seasons, gazing back while looking for tomorrow’s light, through the rain there emerges a precursor of assurance.

pilgrim in progress

“‘Can you remember by what means you find your annoyances to seem
as if they were vanquished?’
‘Yes,’ he answered,
‘it is when I think of what I saw at the cross- that will do it;
and when I look upon my broidered coat, that will do it;
also when I look into the scroll that I carry in my bosom , that will do it;
and when my thoughts wax warm about whither I am going, that will do it.’”

~ John Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress

It would be a forbidding limitation, to impose timetables and quantitative expectations upon spiritual matters. But many of us want to, or wish we could, but then again wish that wasn’t our first impulse. As it appears, ratings and rankings are this culture’s necessary evils for assessment. This comes to mind while listening to “places rated” surveys, polled prospective voters’ results (who’ve not yet voted), reading abstracted sports predictions, and remembering academic “measurements” and “outcomes.” These are accepted ways of discernment, often someone else’s partialities made to look impartial to us. I once had an employer who was particularly fond of the “numbers don’t lie” mantra, and often invoked it when we would all discuss ideas and ways to surmount business hardships. Sure there’s rationale, but such pat lines were roadblocks to progress. I’ve contended that situations are not what fail us, but the difficult ones sure can feed our handily available fatalism. It seems we are flanked by a society that obsesses over results, numbers, and outcomes- and it even extends into market-driven “spirituality.” Participants in this culture then become vulnerable to trying to assess personal faith by relying on tangibles, which of course cannot be accurately done. Indeed, we may present varieties of works inspired by faith, but the finest and subtlest forms of immersion into spiritual life are not to be displayed. When it’s come to unique steps of faith, beyond the harbors of rote ritual and tradition, the oceanic panorama demands risks that we navigate by our own cultivated criteria. Will we risk launching forth, daring to test the spirits- and even to trust in the unseen Holy Spirit that holds us buoyant?

When the seamless swirl of multi-tasked pursuits pushes silent reflection out of reach, I find ways to regroup. Enough learning experience with monastic orders has taught me about interspersing industriousness with contemplation. Indeed, this insight is as yet unrefined, and a work in progress. I do wonder about my own spiritual development, and noticing how healthy disciplines lapse, it seems as though I must “restart” from where I imagine having left off. From there, I am reminded of that conditioning which ever pressures for results, causing me to ponder how much I might have really changed at all. Does one- or can one- really “make up for lost time,” as we commonly say for many things, when it comes to spiritual life? Surely, this defies how we perceive through old compensatory methods like exam-cramming or highway back-tracking. In many ways, restarting is a greater challenge than beginning from scratch, having to distinguish between recovering momentum while also desiring to cover new ground. I find a state of unsettle accompanies an odd obstacle course of remorseful feelings, colliding with a more rational understanding of Divine forgiveness. The sense of perplexity to forge through is strong enough to require some reckoning. What ignites the quagmire, and what are its sources? What assurances can be drawn, so as not to remain frustrated? “It is not in vain,” Thomas Aquinas wrote, “that the fires of this divine discontent have been kindled within us.” Comprehending the inner voyage very well, Aquinas added in his Summa Theologica how “it is our heart, not our feet, that rushes to God’s embrace or flees judgment.” Yet, he asserts, “God is rapturous beyond our most extravagant desires.” As much a learning about myself as about God, I see the limits of my cognition and how that which is eternal can hardly be described. Thinking about this throughout the week, the unsettle is really an impatience with my own journey, with its fleeting situations, and actually a thirst for new discoveries. For progress and purpose.

Returning to the unquantifiable nature of spiritual progress, I ought to revel in its defiance of descriptive calibration or limitation. Spiritual life has no measure, no means as ostensive as the wordless prayer of the heart. Articulating the unsettle began as a vague notice of disconnect, revealed in a simple yearning for respite amidst an excess of scattered material concerns. Then it became a list of feelings and impressions, though still not providing a launch in a positive direction. From there, I thought about sources of such restlessness- points that any of us can encounter when our worlds disappoint while also sharply sensing a divergence from sacred calling. How temptingly simplistic it can be, to focus on comparative progress, on closed doors, on uncertainty, and on regrets. Conversely, I started to enumerate sources of contentment instead, some of which I have known, such as fulfilled efforts, a confirmed sense of purpose, an awareness of completion- that nothing essential is lacking, and an ability to see a general humor in life. Again, I saw how these come off as descriptions of feelings and deep impressions, as in “the sense of...,” reminding me to stand away from thoughts as objects to be observed. Surely there are other, less self-conscious, interesting things to consider instead of musing over my own progress. If one must self-evaluate, here is a rare example for which looking back has great value, making it possible to see what has happened to bring us to this moment.

Having lived a number of years in the same vicinity, I am able to visit geographic life-crossroads of my own- for better or worse. Various landmarks and streets have what I call, a “sense of visitation,” with my present day footsteps meeting those of my unique history, my memory calls forth residences, places of work, classrooms, and events. The difference is signified by the years that have passed, discernable only by my mind’s eye. Surely this is occasional, and these are not incessant thoughts. And I am selective with my landmarks, preferring the places that have been pivotal on my pilgrimage. But when I encounter crossroads, and look to new horizons, I can also look to a physical geography of intersections. Indeed, we are immersed in the currents of time. In my impatient grasp for signs of transformation, while also wary of society’s presuming calculations, I remind myself that we do not remain unchanged. Our paces on the pilgrimage of trust are not known by increments in city blocks or miles, but by our hearts’ deepest desires. Pascal once wrote about how our unity with God is by humbling graces that surpass our nature, adding “you are not in the state of your creation.” He concluded with the recommendation that we observe our impulse to be able to distinguish how we are being reshaped by the Spirit (Pensées 182).

We are each uniquely able to see how our thoughts and perspectives have changed. When I consider this prospect, and then try imagining that God knows me better than I do myself, there follows an unusually intensified personal vision of God. On an unfolding journey, perhaps the soul need not be concerned with “back-tracking.” Whether or not I can know if I am making the best of my time and resources, I must take heart in the very desire to know, remembering the words, “take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am gentle and lowly of heart; and you will find rest for your soul.” The important thing is to proceed, unpredictable results notwithstanding.

suffisante

“I’ve sat and watched the tide go out
But I did not chase- no I did not doubt
The water would return to shore
And meet me once again.

And I’ve known the truth and understood
Or thought I did, or thought I could
Be satisfied with points of view
But I’m tired of the din.

I never want to be satisfied.”


~ Pray for Rain, Satisfied

From a return to some of the wilderness sources of life, I have returned to daily routines. Over recent years, my intermissions have been far too occasional, yet always substantial departures from the ordinary. Extended stretches of hard work do lend well to building up a hearty appetite for retreating. Indeed, I’m one of those people who really enjoys a good travel, including driving very long-distances. Part of the enjoyment is in getting ready for an adventure. As with Chaucer’s Canterbury pilgrims, my journeys are preceded and accompanied by anticipation and aspiration. With concerted preparation and movement, I find varied environments and ideas. Experiences and imagery enrich the trove I am able to draw from, as with a reader adding to their personal library of prized tomes. And in the authentic spirit of pilgrimage, the return voyage is as integral to the adventure as the outward expedition. My gratitude for the witnessing of new places and acquaintances is often matched by thankful homecomings. When I sense some currents of disappointment upon returning, noticing myself let down by differences in contrasting settings, I’ve taken to making note how the pilgrimage of the spirit never really ends. Though pace and terrain fluctuate, the quest proceeds as surely as I breathe. Why not savor the quotidian? Getting away provides opportunities for re-approaching the familiar.

So I am making the effort to revel in the routine. Some of those daily and unspoken habits are actually pleasant and rather stabilizing. Beginning each day early, washed and caffeinated, with a few paragraphs to set forth down the granite stoop and out into the swirl of things. Tasks that make the day complete, whether necessary- such as workplace housekeeping and formalities, or the needed “unnecessaries”- such as lunch hours spent journaling in cafés. Puddle-jumping between blocks of work hours, to be able to regain a good book or a stream of written consciousness, offers modest rewards through the day’s portions. The rhythm can oddly resemble the monastic divine hours interspersed with the chores of employment. Integrated well enough, the two components actually inspire one another. As for what appears from a homecoming distance as drudgery, the best thing for me is to not look at such things in generalizations. If all is viewed as “routine,” the day’s graces are clouded over, and workdays revert to looking up at mountains in the fog. Find the enjoyable details, and even take note of what goes smoothly. Those subtle gems help offset matters that try our patience, that divert our paths. If I’m really awake to what I experience, I can derive something useful from the roadblocks. I once had a job which included some machine repair and a whole lot of maintenance. It was expected that all the intricate mechanisms operated as required. But, indeed, once something occurred as simple as two cogs falling out of alignment, everything would get thrown out of whack. Abrupt sounds of friction attest to opposing components “speaking,” demanding immediate attention. In so doing, there is reckoning to be done and something to be learned.

A re-approach accompanied by even a slight discord, draws my thoughts. Indeed, delineating the specifics from broad-brushed generalities is the same as evaluating a singular situation or method, away from cluttered collages of the past. Without rescinding some healthy idealism, yet refusing cynicism, I wonder about what I’ve come to deem as “acceptable” or sufficient. Perhaps the perspective an adult is supposed to have includes developing a satisfaction with measures of deficiency. Haven’t we all heard our elders invoke the “could be better, could be worse” expression? My reflex that challenges what is presented before me, and the responses are founded upon past situations tolerated too long. Memory is both a deepening wealth of reference points and an incessant force with waves to be tamed by stealthy navigation. Looking for purpose in experiential lessons causes me to question routines that are either unpleasant or resistant to improvement. Spiritual life implies a questioning of status quos, however this endangers generating a judging mode that causes more hurt than help. What is sufficient? What suffices? How much dissatisfaction should we expect to tolerate? Here is where expectations themselves must be specified and evaluated against the givens and the variables. Perhaps some new possibilities can be found. In these considerations, I start to think about standards- a word that’s been overused by this culture as if representing some type of vertically-moving discretionary threshold. However they may need to be adjusted, projected personal standards need to be realistically based. That surely means looking beyond self; the more isolated the person, the more impossible are the standards. Discord demands re-tuning.

Today, I’ve been reminding myself that presently I am not yet what I will become. Observing an undercurrent of discontent may be turned positively toward my desire to do better. The drive to improve can make wise use of past errors, however I must always keep in mind the reality between what was and what’s hoped for- and- what presently is. The idea of satisfying circumstances, in this society, entangles matters like remuneration, convenience, and intellectual rewards. Such thirst drives many to achieve and exceed with every step, but the dark side to motivations like this is the way it plays into egocentrism. Ironically, with each self-defining embellishment we are permitting the culture in our midst to define who we are. There are fine lines and edges for those who navigate between this consumptive, amnesiac world, and life in the Spirit. The latter sends us back into society. Now, there’s nothing to disparage about ambitiousness, and constructive ways to act upon hopes. Almost intangibly, there’s a force than compels any one of us to arise, look ahead, and seek inspiration- with enough motivation to propel a person along a quest into the unknown. Yet, even well-intended ambitions can present pitfalls, among which is that unquenchable desire to prove one’s “worth,” to impress well enough to belong, to be “acceptable” to others. Being in the midst of a culture that relentlessly conditions us- even steering us to posture and to claim titles and identities, it’s easy to get drawn into the ways our egos emphasize how we want to be seen. Thomas Merton often referred to the “false self” as a self-imposed autonomy that rejects all interaction with God, creating upon the bases of social myths and games of superiority. I call this the “performing self,” and I try to keep that inclination in check by challenging myself not to make the whats of life into who I am at my core. The crossroads are marked at places along the voyage when we must choose what we identify with, bringing me to merge contemplation with street smarts.

The silver lining of dissatisfaction is in a willingness to challenge and explore. But we must drive out of ruts, and choose not to park in them. This morning, I asked myself about what I felt to be soul-satisfying. Being in the stream of progress- of learning, of meaningful accomplishment; of partaking in something that brings me to a better place and mindset than what I’d departed from. (With journaling there is surely a way of verification.) Expectations are never far from aspirations. The heart of the struggle, around which these words revolve, is whether I expect in realistic ways. I grew so accustomed to living up to high expectations that my own for myself have rarely been forgiving. Setbacks have been historically more captivating than assurances and acknowledgments, and a little self-compassion remains a major undertaking. The mercy I practice has been resoundingly more outward than inward, and until fairly recently I began to reconsider regrets as practical lessons rather than as condemning mistakes. If each day confronts the decision to take to the sanctified inner road, indeed there must be a consistent renunciation of what fuels that “false self,” which at once judges and alienates. It is a repudiation of disingenuousness. In Contemplation in a World of Action (my favorite of all his books), Merton commented, “we renounce our alienated and false selves in order to choose our own deepest truth in choosing both the world and Christ at the same time.” If there’s an expectation that stokes up the false self, it must be that of perfection. Who among us mortals is perfect? Exacting it of ourselves and others is potentially destructive and surely unrealistic. And what of those purported high standards? Well, rather than to seek some sort of “perfection” in flawed situations, perhaps the more attainable sense of satisfaction is found in concept: in perspective and in philosophical outlook. These are transcendent of place and time limitations.

Thoughtfully reconsidering my expectations is certainly not a lowering of personal standards. Seeing the broad picture makes it possible to weigh situations and objectives in context, and thus I am in much less conflict- if any- with my surroundings. If there are even the simplest hopes, there will be expectations in some form. I expect to continue learning and growing in grace, though it is a combination of consciously reaching and of openly and effortlessly receiving. I might also say that I expect my coffee-maker to operate according to its design. Expecting the courtesies that I enjoy practicing, in all situations, I must not be mortally let down either, if I experience rudeness or if my coffee-maker doesn’t cooperate. It may be naïve and unrealistic, but I’ve never questioned my expectation of fairness- even though over and again I am shown how this world, by and large, does not operate that way. Yet I expect it. Perhaps it’s an expectation blended with hopes that “good must always prevail,” expecting others to be as I try myself to be. Is that absurd? There alas, enter those high self-expectations of flawlessness. Livable expectations seem a whole lot more merciful to me! Letdowns and situational disappointments remind me that there is much more distance to be covered- and happily so. Perceptions are always to be renewed. And I must always remember the vitality of spiritual liberation and the treasure that is not subject to corrosion, and there will my be heart also. On one occasion, during some community volunteering, I described how a new project was dauntingly slow to start, but I believed in its potential. The director responded with, “God simply calls us to be faithful, that’s all.” Within the wealth of wisdom enwrapped in that little phrase is the ease of doing the next good thing. Faithful is surely more tenable than perfection. What a relief.

sources

“The spirit of prayer is a pressing forth of the soul out of its earthly life,
it is a stretching with all its desire after the life of God, it is a leaving,
as far as it can, all its own spirit, to receive a spirit from above,
to be one life, one love, one spirit with Christ in God.”

~ William Law, The Spirit of Prayer, ch. 2


The season before me is clearly one of reaching forth, of embracing the road ahead. Creation surely attests to this, with trees offering fragrant outgrowth excelling their abundant leaves. Lengthened days invite us outdoors, and in varying measures- due to the daily employs that usually occupy our waking hours- we are able to respond. Northern New England is a part of the world in which one needn’t venture far to rediscover a sense of a human’s context in the sphere of natural forces through which we can know the grandeur of creation. Winter’s contemplative inner spaces demonstrate fruition as all that grows openly rises to summer skies. I have been thoroughly enjoying a week of rejuvenating exploration, departing from routines, and on to something different enough to travel with new thoughts. Looking away from obstructive trappings so often tempting us with convenience, and diverting the sublimity of simplicity, I found means to reflect in beholding the humbling vastness. In contemplation that searches creation, we become able to see far more than self; it is possible to further view what lives above and beyond us. We can gaze toward what is greater, there for our aspirations. Now, as I regather again to return home and to work, with some renewed perspective, my hope is to keep close to heart the vivid images that my eyes have seen



When a soul “reflects” deeply, a crossroad is encountered. Aware that solitude’s fulfillment is found in communion, its underside is the danger of self-absorption. Of course the search for self-comprehension is necessary for those who make the pursuit. The journeys might be shadowed by wariness of a loss of grounding and grasp of self- and with that it is crucial to reach even farther. We can navigate right through the fog of our hesitation. William Law observed how our reflection can be a pressing forth, an extension of our yearnings for the grace and peace of God. Indeed, we are surely called to become more than what we see reflected at the surface, and to become that grace and peace for others in unpredictable ways. Looking through my camera at a mirroring stream, noticing the scene’s natural collage, the intricacies of reflected images caused me to wonder about how self-reflection can become a reaching forth. Still waters make it possible to see more than our silhouettes. My attention was drawn to what was above and behind the familiar. The real intrigue of self-awareness is in finding how vital is to reach beyond oneself. We want to know more, and the difference is in where we direct our energies when we strive. Watching the sky’s intensities in the water’s surface, while also noticing what is beneath the bands of water depths, is a testament to the forces of creation, of our very composition.

Johannes Tauler once observed that we have an inherent tendency to turn to our natural places of origin. He wrote of how we are God’s creation, yet “how could man alone be so self-absorbed as to not rush back to his eternal source, his goal and his light?” To determinedly venture out, we must consciously journey within. With each individual, the travels will vary, but for me the woods and especially the ocean have been steadfast signs of both my source and horizon. Both, in their presences, move with seasons and strengths of light, reminding me of what endures after contrivances fade away. Closing his observations, Tauler urged his listeners to make every possible effort to “behold this true light so that you may be able to return to the source where it shines in all its brightness. Long for it, pray for it, do all you can, with all the strength you can summon.” And so, in returning to physical sources- mountains, woods, waters, shores, even star-filled night skies, and the connecting paths between them, I consider how we can transition from reflections of our own selves and our impressions of ourselves, to personal visions of God who calls us to transcend self. What convinces us of the greatness of the world beyond our own business? What causes our spirits to soar? When I am reminded of good things I can anticipate. When something I have worked at produces new prospects. Yes, we must retrieve our centers of inspiration, over and again- especially as we desire the sacred. In this growth process, we want to move in the direction of being unified in God, and away from isolating ourselves into some sort of self-justifying fabrication.



As I assemble these thoughts at Acadia National Park, away from tired routines and immersed in diverse sources of life, the sense of having been “brought” to this place has been evident to me. The islands comprise the spectrum of fascination between dramatic tides and steep mountains- in close proximity- threaded with curved roads and paths, and occasional green-and-clapboard villages. Throughout this week, those numerous, still, glassy ponds and lakes were of particular interest to me, being more accustomed to the turbulent ocean waters around Portland harbor. The still waters invite closer examination, and reflected skies have been assuring me not to forget to look up. I remember an occasion, about a dozen years ago, being in the throes of personal crisis, when I had no place else to go but the university chaplain’s office. The wise minister stopped her work, and walked me out onto a very brightly sunlit Columbia Point, overlooking Boston harbor. The sunshine was startlingly forceful for a day in March. The minister sat me down and asked me to look at the sky, adding “how long has it been since you’ve looked up?” I honestly didn’t know, and had no answer. In the process, I was both amazed at the boundless blue, and confused at my suddenly diverted despair. Of course, no recovery from deep grief is instant, but the beginning nudge to simply look up has been unforgettable to me. Grandeur such as that of a vast sky or the panoramic ocean is a relieving sight for me, setting my notions and my own obstructive self into sobering context. I have since passed along, with great care, the eloquently simple advice to try to see what splendor surrounds us. We can remind one another to look up and out, in our own ways, thus offering our own small touch of the magnificence entrusted to us. The journey back must also be as a vast sky. Rather than a “return to what was,” before I left, I want to view the road home in the same light as I considered the trip to get here to Mount Desert Island. Each day a new adventure. I must continue to listen for those life sources, and how these are instrumental in creation’s speaking to me.

drawbridge

“The spiritual life is a long and often arduous search
for what you have already found.
You can only seek God when you have already found God.
The desire for God’s unconditional love is the fruit
of having been touched by that love.

Because finding the treasure is only the beginning of the search,
you have to be careful.”

~ Henri Nouwen, The Inner Voice of Love


This evolving voyage is well in progress, and I am still young enough to find it endless. And along this complex network of paths and way-stations, with an increasing array of experiences, places, and remarkable people, a broadening and deepening of perspective begins to form. We may even observe our own sense of self-possession, as it develops. During a pleasant and animated conversation with a group of colleagues, just last evening, I heard myself express a culmination of thoughts in response. Once in a while, I am able to enjoy the observations of others, with the addition of my insights; and in context, this provided some food for thought on the quiet ride home.


Exchanging stories occurs to me as a sharing of road maps, and in so doing it reminds me of the necessity of fine-tuning my learning as I proceed. In my deeply enthusiastic discoveries, I find that I have something to offer- although there are times for which keeping silence becomes equally vital, in a kind of self-preservation. When Henri Nouwen wrote of “finding the treasure,” he was referring to the biblical parable about discovering one’s life force. I think of it as having realized the purpose for the spiritual search. The basis is really an enduring beginning, and even if one’s faith may be sturdy and road-tested, there always abides a paradoxical fragility that reminds me of the vitality of nurture. And the carefulness that is implied here means that to prevent from burning-out, it becomes necessary to know when to attend to one’s spirit in silence. When our experienced insights can be retained enough to learn from, these adventures can become points of constructive reference instead of repeated pitfalls. To be able to retain those vital truths, we must develop ways not to be sidetracked from our sacred course, or be dissuaded from our ideals to the deathly point of cynicism. Is such occasional carefulness a holding-back? Is it fear? Must there even be a drawbridge at all?


To be soundly in this world, yet not owned by it, we find inventive ways to gain the proverbial field within which the treasure lies- even if it means exchanging what property and status we own. That restless journey to the place of rest means never losing track of that pearl of great price. The sacred journey began long before I knew what it was called; before even being aware that my life had significance. Last night, while winding with the curling roads of the Maine coast, between the pine forests and the rock ledges, I thought about my adolescent years on the merciless streets of Corona, in New York City. I had developed a survival instinct that looked to alternative ways to get from one place to another. In order to endure the dangers of gang-infested and crime-filled streets, hallways, basements, subways, and parking lots, I hatched multiple routes- as a kind of human chess piece- to get to places I needed to go. So many junctures had what-ifs and alternate plans through mazes of alleys and thoroughfares. Admittedly, my strategies of avoidance didn’t always work, but I was smart enough not to walk straight into the hands of predators. In the end, I survived with only a handful of muggings and a bunch of beatings.


But the self-conditioning of such impressionable years can really stay in a mature person’s psyche, and to this day I wonder at this childhood casting that combined standing my ground, with self-defense. When we think we are defending ourselves, what is being defended? When you’re a defenseless kid in the asphalt jungle, you’re running a gauntlet and trying to save your own hide. Even children are intelligent enough to see how unhappy such realities are. But then we raise ourselves into professional life, and self-defense often looks a lot less literal and more like an egotistical response. What is being defended, and against whom? What’s at stake? Is avoiding a “hurtful crowd” a wise move, or is it a manifestation of old fears? Those instincts from youth play a role in a developed conscience informing me as to what is permissible and what isn’t. Confrontation is also a conscientious decision, as much as a wise defense would be that attends to a sense of self-respect. Once more, there is a requisite balance between wielding strength and disarming by example. We can cultivate an innate knowledge that informs us when we need to fortify- and when self-fortification becomes obstructive. Indeed, for those who wish to “love your neighbor, as yourself,” with their lives, this implies forgiveness, forbearance, and maintenance. To others and to ourselves. Sharing wholeheartedly in Christ’s risen life is also sharing in his dying- even in the humility and humiliation of his experience. To follow is a call to be completely immersed: not simply to skim across the surface of still water, but to thoroughly sink into the ocean of living and be enveloped in God.

In his essay, “Control Your Own Drawbridge,” Nouwen observed a metaphor in the imagery of drawbridges in medieval castles and walled towns. “You must decide for yourself to whom and when you give access to your interior life,” he reflected, adding how there have been times when he has had to draw the bridge. This was his expression for exercising his commitment to listen for God’s spirit of rejuvenating strength. “Never allow yourself to become public property where anyone can walk in and out at will,” he wrote, “you might think that you are being generous in giving access... but you will soon find yourself losing your soul.” In my own way, I have known this endangerment, and return to the idea of losing track of the “pearl of great price.” Much care is needed when, in this world, we bare our hearts. Of course, there’s a chasm of grey area between living one’s whole life with the castle bridges locked up- and being a doormat. I think of how color transparency film can lose its entire spectrum of hues, when it gets overexposed. All that is left is blanched film with neither color nor outlined forms. Without looking after myself, I’ve often noticed being in a simultaneous state of being at once poured-out and saturated, to a detrimental extent.

Returning to the quest for what has been subtly tasted as enough evidence to devote the whole of life, my thoughts move across and around my own years, pondering how I have perceived my identity. In the context of the occasional “drawbridge” of self-maintenance, I believe the profoundest sense of self-defense is activated with a knowledge of what- and even who- I represent. Perhaps we realize what our core reveals, when we are brought to speak on our own behalf, placing our selves on the line. Surely, such revelation needn’t occur solely at confrontational crossroads; our pared-down selves may be wondrously disclosed when traveling, meeting people, and beginning new ventures. When identity loses much of its baggage, we can learn a great deal about ourselves. We can enjoy our simplified selves. When that happens, I begin to think of my human and spiritual roots. I imagine “representing” my physical ancestors, and how I might resemble them. Having been touched to the core by unconditional love, from almost beyond grasp, my ideas of identity cause me to wish to align with the author of forgiveness and reconciliation. For this communion, there are no fortifications. We discover ourselves as we discover God, and my identity is truly concealed in divine mercy. Thomas Merton once wrote, in New Seeds of Contemplation, “the only way that I can be myself is to become identified with Him in whom is hidden the reason and fulfillment of my existence.” Indeed, it is far more than an elusive impression that moves me onward; the inspiration is in the substance and assurance I continue to encounter along the way.

fathoms

"I can see night in the day time.
Into the woods I quietly go.
It takes all the strength I have in me.
These are the woods;
The night of the soul.

Painful to see,
Love without action;
Painful to see years of neglect.

Creatures we are worth defending
It takes the right word said from the heart.
Given to you without ending;
Given to you, the purpose of art."

~ Michael Been and The Call, Into the Woods


My recent extended time in contemplative solitude, quiet and uneventful as it was, has since been gradually speaking to my recollections- of this pilgrimage of the heart I have been pursuing. The paths and roads, my steps and adventures, since my retreat in the early part of this month have surely not congealed into complacency. Driving away from my wooded hermitage, aside from my gratitude for the repose, all that had been innately clear to me was a reference to a subtle change in my path. It had been a notably uneventful string of days- something extremely rare for me. Retreats can self-defeat, if they are over-planned (and thus become imitations of the work day), or if there are any sorts of expectations. I’ve made those mistakes before, and this time I simply needed a break in my pace and a recovered focus. The peace of that experience, effortless as it had been, is the resulting gift. Indeed, with days steeped in contemplative prayer, I should not be surprised and perplexed to sense a return on what was sown. Yet, a manifestation without striving was what I needed, to be reminded of the source of life originating- and creating- from (thankfully) well beyond my efforts. It’s had me thinking about an unforced, almost implicit spirituality. A proceeding without extraordinary labor; almost a reflexive sense of prayer. The anonymous 14th century author of the Cloud of Unknowing wrote some essays about a kind of "intimate counsel," in which he suggests a soul advance to a point that, after seasons of fascination with the intricacies of learning about God- should be content to let go and contemplate the very present reality that God is. Having had an eloquently unspectacular respite time, I noticed how even the spiritual life can be diverted by expectations. How sublime the simple! But one must be brought to recognize this: hardly emerging from some intense exhaustion, mine was a state between a vulnerable bareness and a plain desire for peaceful communion.

Indeed, the whole point of these thoughts is to not over-emphasize a place or time- no less while considering transcending the transitory. If anything, the silence reminded me that prayer- even a wordless stirring from within- and perseverance can be sown to become a root system which, in time, yields proof that living is a trusting progression. Away from facades and material trappings, our anonymous monastic author bids his reader "abide continually in the deep center of your spirit, offering to God that unarmed and blind awareness of your being which I call your first fruits." He reminds us of the inestimable gift of our profoundest and most unadorned selves. The illustration of first-fruits might be thought of as a "best of the best."

Our truest, most authentic selves. Much is said, these days, about the subject of "authenticity." Perhaps the interest is inspired to contrast this culture’s currents. Recent studies outline our essential psychological needs as being competence, a sense of relatedness, and authenticity. In this context, this means a self-determination defined by acting in accordance with the "core self." I think of it as perceiving and making decisions from the vantage point of my ideals. Carrying our medieval monastic author’s phrase a little further, by living as our authentic selves, we can approach our profoundest potential as created and creative beings. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve found the concept about as elusive to think about as to write about. As with the spiritual quest, I am brought to try to verify my impressions and notions. More than asking if I am true to myself, the second consideration is whether I am faithful to my renewed self. I’ve noticed a problem with writing about "authenticity," is a confusion between what authenticity means and how I want to embody that definition. Granted, part of my aspiration is the desire to live from a personal core that is cultivated increasingly by a conscientious correspondence with the Holy Spirit. When I begin to fathom what is meant by core self- even beneath my identity and history- the next thoughts are to my deepest intentions. A fathom is a depth, but its alternate meaning is to comprehend. Often, I think of my desire for mercy, above all, for self and for others- to see and help realize merciful actions in all spheres of life. I’ve known enough mercilessness to deeply oppose it, without deliberation. Mercy can mean many things, but in my interpretation it’s the offering and renewal of hope that encourages life. It is the noblest of intentions and an ideal worth seeking and practicing.

Seeking, practicing- even an unarticulated aspiring toward more satisfying days- means motion. There is no such pilgrimage as that which does not reach forth. The desire to move forward, with any kind of practical learning, indicates the sort of passion that propels us through our various kinds of inertia toward our dreams. And in that purposeful reaching, we notice how far we’ve already traveled. As the parlance of the spiritual voyaging goes, forward motion can be as tangible within our hearts as upon physical trails and roads. Life in the Spirit is intrinsically transitory. The other day I said my farewells to a friend who, with his family, has embarked upon a cross-country relocation, where he will lead a congregation that awaits him. In our conversations we recognized the different ways the both of us have been in transit.

Even long after dramatically fresh starts, journeying souls are ever in a trusting pursuit. The spirit of God, going before us- preceding our thoughts and movements- exemplifies the trusting steps of faith I so cherish, even without knowing the specifics. Be it a journey of uprooting or one of perspective, we must continue to renew our vision- and with that comes the chance to reflect upon living from one’s "core self." In my own evaluations of conscience, I am the astonished scholar, leafing through memories both near and far, often indexing through the archives of the mind which are categorized by experience type. Noting all the miles I’ve covered, recalling pleasant situations and regrettable pitfalls, it amazes me to consider the sheer diversity of places and circumstances for which the sole common denominator has been me. It is, then, for me to thread the experiences together, make sense of what there is to learn, and try to recognize familiar signs along ways I am yet to see. Thus far, I’ve come to see how ethics and perspective are transcendent of setting and task. These are all collocated by my continuing path.

Finally, in his "intimate counsel," the 14th century monk weaves into his essay a kind of prayer for his reader, that "God be the ground of your being and the focal point of your heart." And thus I return to these subtle new steps calling me to a more permeated, a more implicit, spiritual life. A lesson from the silence was the idea that quiet need not mean nothing is happening. The café table, from which I write these words, is in the shade of a solidly spreading tree. I am looking at the innumerable leathery leaves and thinking, "truly something is happening, as surely as this tree is alive." Like the paces I followed from the woods and depths of my retreat, this new season may be the calmest and most unnoticeable I have experienced. But it makes sense that after such intensity, there must be a simple exhaling, a quiet consistency that moves with the spirit. Elijah’s place of communion was in the solitary presence of the "still, small voice." All he could do, after his desperate searching and physical turmoil, was to cathartically reverence the Divine presence in his midst. I believe part of that catharsis was the assurance of God’s enduring presence- regardless of situation or visibility. With such fears surmounted, it becomes possible to shift the focus away from personal stability and make room for grander things. This is a time to take stock of what these roots are bringing forth, remembering that although contemplation begins on earth, it is eternal.

hidden yet certain

"For the unseen love of a sincere heart persevering
through that dark cloud of unknowing between you and your God
in a hidden yet certain way includes in itself
genuine humility without the help of particular or clear ideas."

~ The Cloud of Unknowing, ch 14.

Living in a northern and coastal climb as I do, the pronounced seasons of the year are such that all may notice and many of us change the paces of our lives alongside these transitions. As with all life forms, we move with nature’s passages. Following a drawn-out winter, the natural response to dramatically lengthened days in northern New England is to be outdoors with all that is verdant and reaching up to the bright skies. It is as though the elements around us prompt our changed perspectives, and even how we greet each day. But what of the bidding from within, calling a soul to times of contemplative solitude, governed by seasons which know not a calendar? Dispersed through my weeks replete with work, I manage to include very brief silences- almost borrowing the time, even if to simply collect a few thoughts and write down some references. The humblest fragments of respite have been valuable breaths for discernment, and thus I continue weaving recollective moments into the most demanding of work days. The balance is not always consistent. Invariably there are points for which the most constructive and healthiest movements forward in the direction of all that is in my life... is to retreat for some open-ended moments that are not wedged in between demands. I began what became a nourishing personal practice of pilgrimage fourteen years ago, and continue to be astonished at the powerful draw of contemplation and the vitality of stopping that perpetual motion which can burn so many of us right out. It is for the individual soul in communion with God to determine the season. The less structure there is, the better. St. Bernard of Clairvaux worded it beautifully:

"Aided by God
the soul gathers itself
into itself
and
withdraws
from all affairs
in order to contemplate God."

I recently returned from a long-awaited retreat, and while in transit my thoughts turned to what gifts these times have always been. On some occasions the retreats have been anguished searches for spiritual shelter. Other times I’ve used liminal spaces between chapters in my continuum to pursue reflective journeys. For the most part, the retreats are about all I can do to regather when my strength seems spent and my soul saturated. Ah, but it is a travel along the grand and eternal pilgrimage! Whether it’s been flights across the Atlantic or drives across New England, preparing for a sojourn to a sanctuary is itself rejuvenating. As I drove the newly-greening country roads a couple of weeks ago, I noticed myself savoring the humblest of travels. Although the routes were very familiar to me, the difference was in the purpose of the trip- already teaching me something about the commonplace for me to bring home after the retreat. Years of experience, both as a pilgrim and in the spiritual life, help me to know the essentials to bring on such journeys. I’ve learned to bring coffee, so to be better able to appreciate those pre-dawn monastic vigils, and indeed there must always be writing materials and a camera. Still, my tendency is to pack too many books.

For me, a retreat is to rediscover stillness, and that includes stilling of thoughts. Through these recent weeks, the idea of maintenance has been prominently in mind. For many lives that value conscientiousness and sincere communion, contemplative retreat is a form of healthy maintenance. In order to continue in a consistent energy and intention, there must be spiritual maintenance. What does this mean? When anything is to be maintained, it’s to be kept in working order. Keeping in being. Upkeep. Safekeeping. The word "keep" is part of the equation. Keep confidence; keep various things in mind and heart. A professor once graded a paper I wrote with "keep the fire." I remember that comment far better than the project.

With requisite traveling, some provisions, and a head full of clutter, the pilgrim arrives at a place of respite. The change of scenery and air, not to mention the welcome, help the spirit renew. The best places of pilgrimage are those which do not make demands upon the retreatant’s time. Those of us who have temporarily fled rigidity and information overload can thrive in those boundless days which, in a monastic environment, are simply punctuated with communal meals and the Divine hours of common prayer. On this occasion just past, I requested solitude- and so the meals and prayers became the parts of the day in which I had company. The situation was perfect, considering the level of exhaustion at which I’d arrived. My hosts gave me a cabin in the woods, providing a contrast to my usual city life. From my sanctuary I could hear the subtle sounds of the outdoor life around me, and the wind currents through the trees. With an unimpaired view of the night skies, it was possible to see the weather develop as the clouds drifted eastward. The day after my arrival was steeped in a torrentially soaking rain. I loved it. God was slowing me down twice over: a little cabin whose distant next-door neighbors were monks, and a soothingly rainy day. The cabin had a front porch, so my reading and writing could continue in the fresh air, while the cleansing rain spattered on the stone steps beyond my canopy.

Unlike the daily routine I interrupted for the cause of respite, the retreat days themselves brought back to mind the subtleties- even the sublimities- of midmornings and midafternoons. For many of us full-time laborers, the day can wind up divided such that we focus on the opposite ends: before and after the chaos. The full spectrum is to be savored, no matter what is (or isn’t) going on. I’ve spent enough of my life wishing time away. After the days of spiritual and physical rest, as I packed my things to take to the road home, I noted in my journal: "The sojourn has brought a quiet refreshment to my soul. Nothing drastic, since I slept quite a lot, and enjoyed the silence I needed. Now, I’m all assembled to return, and the rest and safety I experience at this moment must accompany me- and be reminders for future days."

As a stage along the pilgrim’s way, extending by trust into the mystery of the unknown, temporary retreats have a finite duration. Setting forth takes a natural course, after our intuition tells us we’ve had just enough rest so that we can resume our steps. Similarly to the energy I find when preparing for a sanctified journey, so the re-ignited sense of wonder propels me from retreat forward onto the road home. I press on with assurance, even without knowing exactly what may have been derived from the silence. The ground of my faith is sown anew, but the manifestation of new learning will be subtle and perhaps unnoticed. It is all entrusted to the mystery of a pilgrim’s continuity. "Hidden yet certain," wrote the anonymous author of the Cloud of Unknowing, accentuating the beautifully discreet bond of guiding love between Creator and created. The assurance cannot always be articulated. Even the obscurities and hardships tell me to persevere. The heart can listen and respond- even without description, and with St. John of the Cross I can say, "things so interior and spiritual are such that words commonly fail to describe them." From our contemplation, words may emerge with us, as well as silences deeper still. The drive home offered renewed angles toward familiar scenery. It remains an impression of being home yet continually setting forth, pacing myself confidently onto unfolding paths.

graphite night

"Sweet night, in whose blessed fold
No human eye beheld me, and mine eye
None could behold.
Only for Guide had I
His face whom I desired so ardently."

~ San Juan de la Cruz, Dark Night of the Soul


When darkness befalls, or when our steps meet paths of unease and obscurity, we must navigate forward, come what may. It is crucial to move straight through, and not fear to confront our nights of the soul. It seems the more active and conscientious one’s life becomes, the more susceptible to exhaustion, and so in this natural course, reflection and retreat become more than medicinal- but maintenance. As with weather patterns, the dark nights happen; they neither pursue nor do we necessarily pursue them. Indeed, along the voyage of the spirit desolate places will dot our unseen maps.

Crossing deep waters and enduring deserts is not necessarily neatly alternated with pastures and respite. At times, an obscurity that begins to lift from the road will abruptly plunge it back into a thick darkness through which we cannot see. But the survivor within us, honoring the adventure so far, sets us toward navigating a dark night of the soul. The only landmarks are those precious assurances we can recollect. Our coordinates, for a time, must be the blessings we can count (and must trust). We travel on, and that movement is the embodiment of our hopes. It is also our refusal to stand still. Our days on earth are of a duration unknown to us, and so we cannot and must not go backwards. A memory comes to mind of an after-midnight crossing of the vast and lengthy Thousand Islands Bridge in torrential rain. It was impossible to see in any direction- or any other vehicles, for that matter. With just a wisp of a guard rail’s punctuation, I just drove straight ahead.

Venturing through darkness with faith means we do not anticipate in vain. Experiences- both those we are assembling and the stories of our friends- attest to the resolve of wholeheartedly engaging the voyage. The ancient Psalmist emphasized that "weeping may endure for a night, but at morn there is rejoicing." Shadows need not always be perceived in a fearful frame of reference. These may be the places out of which we discover our profoundest consolation and creativity. Formless mysteries call to the hearts of those who long to commune with their Creator, and my own journey has brought me to traverse deep waters and ascend through darkness, plumbing the unseen. It’s rather as one who longs to stagger off for a spell, from the scuffed-up playing arena to the sidelines to regather. Or to the darkroom, after recording images upon many rolls of film in the field. The latent impressions must be processed and developed. I have intimately known the texture of the dark as both cradling consolation, and as fearfully foreboding. As a season of the spirit, the Divine darkness is navigated by spiritual means, and for one who writes, the journey is also explored by the written means that have become vital directionals of navigation. And I am now able to keep in mind how critical are the crossroads through which we can guide ourselves away from the lures of dwelling in darkened false securities, choosing the routes that weave through the seamless, edgeless unknowing and out to open horizons. "The light of grace," wrote Johannes Tauler, "raises nature far above itself."