la via rhodia

"I do not write it to survive
My mortal self, but being alive
And full of curious thoughts today,
It pleases me somehow to say,
'This book when I am dead will be
A little faint perfume of me.'"

~ (Maine author)- Edna St. Vincent Millay, Journal

The pilgrim journey of jots and jumps makes an ephemeral diversion, with a welcome to my dear home, Portland, Maine. The small city cradled upon the Atlantic waves of Casco Bay was ever beloved by native Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (whose home is pictured above).
This small coastal state, at the northeasternmost corner of the U.S., has been home to numerous writers and artists. This visit, however, has a scribbler's twist: we begin by crossing the street from Longfellow's house...

Endeared to artists, writers, and list-makers are the French-made, famously orange Rhodia pads. This one (above) is at the Art Mart (pronounced Aht Maht). These writing pads are all over Portland.

At left in the above photo is our 202 year old signal tower, which is on Congress Street. Below (as well as the lead photo at the top of this entry, with the "Rhodia roof") is an example of West End architecture.

...of his home town, Longfellow wrote:



"Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and downThe pleasant streets of that dear old town,And my youth comes back to me."

The folks at Artist & Craftsman Supply kindly encouraged my photographing for this essay. The store, located near the University of Southern Maine, is a cavernous emporium of calligraphic treats, among other wares for creative pursuits.

Amidst aisles of paints, canvas, clay, and captivating novelties, are all things graphite, ink, and paper.

Beside the Revere Street counter, a second Rhodia display- conveniently near the supply of journals and yet more arrays of pens. Now to the East End of town.

Visitors to Portland may take note of our orange and black taxicabs.








A Portland tourist information guide makes helpful notes.To landmarks and lobster dinners the purveyed perforated pages prompt !




Pencil only, in the famous Portland Room, at the Portland Public Library.

Maine's official beverage is Moxie, invented here in 1884. I describe this as "root beer with viscosity," and Rhodia's colors are complementary to the imbibement of Moxie.

The Portland Museum of Art is a cleverly successful I.M. Pei design, in plenty of Maine granite and brick. Locals such as the Wyeths, Edward Hopper, and Winslow Homer are among the artists represented here, along with an eclectic spectrum of works of art.

... and finally to misty Portland Head, note-inspiring to legions of thinkers and artists.

On a stroll here, Longfellow reflected:

"The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,And on its outer point, some miles away,The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day."

~

with special thanks:
ABC Taxi Company, Art Mart, Artist & Craftsman Supply, Greater Portland Landmarks,
Maine Historical Society, Le Papier Gourmet, Paper Patch, Portland Public Library,

and

scrivening allies across the country at Rhodia Drive.

close kept

“the word is very near you;
it is in your mouth and on your heart
so you may apply it.”

~ Deuteronomy 30:14

A significant part of my work involves what the archival profession calls description. It would not suffice to simply transcribe the obvious contents of documents. The work of analytical interpretation implies connecting the materials to their respective contexts. Rather than to settle for the discreet artifact, vital points of reference are to be found amidst the palpable yet invisible space around the artifact. In doing this, even for some of the driest of records, I do note my gratitude for the prominence of words themselves in my days. Pleasurable as it is, the work is intense, and is enmeshed among scattered duties, deadlines, and a busier bigger picture. Having negotiated a rare day off, there are now enough moments to string together here at the Boston Athenaeum library. Paradoxically, overwork simultaneously generates both fatigue and wakefulness. And it is the restlessness that reminds me of the cravings of the spirit.

During a particularly sleepless night this week, it became very difficult to settle all the racing thoughts. Even my prayers wound up into circles. Then, unexpectedly, I noticed my repose as two simple and soothing words smoothly wove through the discarded clamor:
So Near.

With a life of producing and consuming words and images, thoughts often take shape in typographic forms. It was as though I entered into the already existent words, upon their recognition, and so near became a prayer for consolation and of gratitude. The restlessness calmed, the assurance of a safe harbor, and the reminder of a future. An unusual, yet perfect lullaby.

The next day, thinking about this brought to mind the anonymously authored Cloud of Unknowing. The writer’s own prayers were often nearly wordless, or as the 14th century text translates, “the fewer words the better.” Further, still, “the efficacy of one little word surging up from the depths of one’s spirit, is the expression of one’s entire being.” With very little, perception becomes easier. The so near puts all else that distracts quite far away.

But these are more than mere words. Though indeed, to write of the inner life does mean ascribing limited, finitely-articulated thoughts to the scarcely describable. Yet I do so, and am gladly undaunted. The so near that dispelled my troubled thoughts, the Holy Spirit, was called paraclete by the ancients. Translated, this refers to “the advocate that stands at one’s side.” When the noisome clutter clears away, the Divine spirit is noticeable as the soul of my own heart. As near as the words I am barely thinking of praying. As my thoughts gather into the So Near, the consolation exceeds years of pains of rejection- and even the struggles of career striving.

I’d imagine this knowledge to be enough, with plenty of assuring reserves. Yes and no. Another paradox. (Only references to manna are archival, not the manna itself.) Perhaps it’s more like an increasingly effortless vigilance. Sure, there will be more restlessness, but that attests to a form of thirst which draws me to reach forward. And answers arrive.

The beginnings of a soul’s spiritual thirst involve pondering a mystery without beginnings. It is amazing to imagine an innate yearning for the sources of trust. The invitation is not initiated by me, rather my thirst is to respond. At times, the response seems involuntary. Directing away from anxiousness, uncertainties, and recollections of losses, is a motion in favor of strength. The drive is for enough cultivation of the spirit to continue on constructive paths, through both present and future days.

In my continuing experience, I find the essence of the Spirit is in its very pull. This draw toward the source of life occurs quite spontaneously. Especially in silence. It is for me to simply reach back. This mysterious pull reminds, signals, and calls forth, causing me to give thanks for the rootedness that is somehow already within. In recollection, I imagine how my steps have been punctuated with experiences of holiness. Whether great or small, all significant. What comes to mind are the superimposed impressions of grace upon my trails. As with photographic imagery, corresponding imprints are made as light compensates for darkness. The greatest amounts of silver are collected where the contacted negative has been the most transparent.

This week, the unexpected gift came in the form of reminders of the so near; as I described to a friend, le tout-proche. And to meditate upon the meanings of these words, in this context, is consoling through the day. Comfort in the thought of having always had a witness to my being- even in its most perceived ignominy. Amidst my unknowing, the knowing consoler emerges with nuanced and glimmering remembrances of my very origins. Something I do know is to ever turn toward the source, confiding and trusting- without which the incompleteness would be unbearable. Yes, as much in the silence as upon my ocean ledges at home, or this morning’s rapid swarm of Boston traffic during which I heard myself add my own litany of so near to the morning’s psalmody.

tout comme avant

Mais l'habitant en rigolant
S'enfuit en courant dans son champ
Pendant qu'à bicyclette Ti-Jean
Reprit sa route en chantonnant tout comme avant...

~ Félix Leclerc, Contumace

in English

going and waiting

"But if we hope
for what we do not see,
we eagerly wait for it
with perseverance."

~ St. Paul, Romans 8:25

hidden and treasured

“Wonder will be the sign
that we are on the way.”

~ Monks of Weston Priory, Song of Creation


These days, I get home from work and land in a heap. Perhaps it’s the month-plus of damp weather; perhaps it was my struggle out of an illness a few weeks ago- or even routines both tedious and precarious. Summer is a rather uncharacteristic time to sense the relentlessness of the long haul. Even my car looked battle weary, especially as its alternator finally gave out- en route to the repair shop. Watching my faithful road-craft up on the garage lift caused me to wonder about maintaining direction. Not to mention its cost. Indeed, keeping inspired means more than focus. Even beneath the weight of tedium there needs to be an enduring sense of wonder.

By this, I am thinking of something more than surface curiosity. The water is wide, and this marathon continuum must traverse the most exhausting terrain. Oswald Chambers wrote how “drudgery is the touchstone of character,” referring to that state of affairs in which there is “no illumination, no thrill, but just the daily round; the common task.” We are enjoined to hallow the ordinary. By doing this my thoughts turn to questioning the sources from which I appear to live- and the sources that need more of my attention.

Somehow, in the face of this marathon’s trials, there seems a form of spiritual adrenaline. Yet, still, inspiration cannot be coaxed; it must be discovered- and not as a focal point, rather a beginning. And for those of us who write, we know the subtleties- even the elusiveness- of creativity. My end of things is left to alertness, flexibility, and motion. The insights invariably arrive, but ever reminding me they are not entirely of my powers. The less strain, it seems, the more pertinent. For instance, during a workday break, I decided not to write, but instead to enjoy a rare moment of calm weather to perch on a bench amidst the sounds and rainglossed colors of the weekly downtown farmers’ market. Witnessing the vendors’ collective relief caused me to take stock of the nuances that strengthen. Many smiles and servings of free samples. It reminded me that keeping aware also means seeking ways to learn anew. With renewed perspectives, the small notices become key pivot points.

If I’m going to keep from stopping dead in my tracks, it will be necessary to follow reminders I saw at the mechanics’ garage. A wise elder friend once taught me that although hardships are inevitable, misery is always optional. This line of thinking paves the way for a view that sees dilemmas as temporary. Stepping stones leading from one to another, simply as means of access. As my parameters seem to close in, there is useful intuition in simply going out- even for those fifteen minutes in the swirl of the open-air market. The trick is to never quit trying to find the energizing gems, the needed vitamins, the words of inquiry and of life, to keep my steps in forward travels. Living hope untethers from tedium, even well aware of the stepping-stone-shaped trials. In a simple exterior instant, my immediate sphere comprehends something new. But how self-centered to presume that which appears to revolve around me! More accurately, my being is an ingredient in the spheres of others. To what extent is not for me to know. The unknowing is more than satisfactory.

ar hyd y nos

“O mor siriol, gwena seren
Ar hyd y nos
I oleuo'i chwaer ddaearen
Ar hyd y nos.

O'er thy spirit gently stealing
Visions of delight revealing
Breathes a pure and holy feeling
All through the night.”

~ Ar Hyd Y Nos, lullabye from Wales, 18th century


A wakeful night, and these keystrokes do not interrupt the silence, nor do these words require artificial lighting. Late hours well underway, the daylit roads past have since routed into dark passages. Stillness is not always a stagnant state- as it may appear. Transformative silence parallels the soul’s thirst for understanding and assurance.

In this heavily material-minded culture, additive approaches are more automatic than subtractive measures. Indeed, there is discipline in our constructs, but it is necessary to call forth a finer sense of discernment, in order to simplify the spatterings of our spheres. Quiet can blanket with consolation, yet also disarm as fears visit the silence. Often, peacefulness and unsettle coexist. This peculiar balance occurs to my thoughts, pacing my apartment in the dark. An old habit of many years has been to survey the world from my windows in the middle of the night. Even the parked cars look asleep, lined up in staid somber rows.

The reference point of being alive to the waking world while all is at rest has had many connotations for me. It is as though standing sentry, keeping vigil with my thoughts. But then again, there are other lit windows along the street. Then come reminders of aloneness in the world, that I am the sole witness to what I know. But then again, there are souls dear to mine in this life. Spectres of ideas invade my thoughts, attempting to convince me of my limitations. But then again, the night sky reveals expanse.

The hours around midnight are the darkest. The mind is at its most pliable, and awakening at its most prominent. Whence come the reminders that cause our tosses and turns? Perhaps an impression the Spirit wishes for us to remember. Or a message of something to be avoided. The stillness I find once awake presents an immediate mystery of dusk and shadowed slumber. And in reverence of the silence, I keep the radio at its slightest murmur. Indeed, such hours become a Gethsemane through which my thoughts both confront and reconcile. Past shipwrecked hopes come to mind. So many pursuits and projects dashed by unforseen treacherous shoals. But then again, by such misunderstood fortunes I’ll never know the shores from which my steps have been spared. Interiors have ways of closing in at night, walls becoming more apparent. Walking along the garden wall outside reminds me of how barriers seem to solidify and blur in the darkness. Some nights I’ll write a few words, lest they be lost by sunrise. Obscurity can bring the impenetrable to unveil ways to look ahead- even through wisps and shreds of clouds.

Several days ago, on a rare sunny day, I caught up with a friend over coffee. The venue was a strikingly sun-drenched garden café, yet this was simply a backdrop for his descriptions of his fears. The contrast was impossible to disregard. Yet this friend launched into societal and political anxieties with a passionate fervor- matching depth of misery with intensity of energy. Listening and chatting I didn’t dare judge, as in my own way I was masking worries of my own. Bad news has its own draw as a catalyst for racing minds, and my responses tried to point out what was good- even the bright weather. We both had plenty to talk about.

At my desk, a few nights ago, I interrupted my habitual reading and listening to the news. Indeed, it is good to be informed, but it’s also good to be cheered. And I wondered about what brings cheer. How strange to have to strain to imagine what causes joy. Consolation and inspiration. A sense of completeness, of recognition, of discovery. The satisfaction of accomplishment- in its many forms. Beauty, art, music, joyful expressions. Being among signs of creation. I tried to remind my friend (and interiorly myself) to try not to count upon things that do not encourage or strengthen. In so doing, it’s easier to remember that which is well and good, despite the currents. Admittedly, I pay for the wakeful nights with drowsy days, and although these are unintentional, there are thoughts to gather which I would not have found any other way.

sometimes by step

click to enlarge

no less

“Sometimes I think of Abraham
How one star he saw had been lit for me
He was a stranger in this land
And I am that, no less than he
And on this road to righteousness
Sometimes the climb can be so steep
I may falter in my steps
But never beyond Your reach”

~ Rich Mullins, Sometimes By Step


So many daily conversations, directives, and broadcasts echo the grimness of these times. At first, over recent months, I’d listen to stories of friends, colleagues, and neighbors- and we’d compare notes. It was a pronounced notice of economic hardship. What was overtly discussed has submerged into the unspoken din of perception. If the lens through which looking ahead is tainted by despairing obscurity, it becomes a challenge of looking forward without certainties. A test of perception- not simply of these times, but to realistically consider the past, and to reasonably position for the future. Looking on toward horizons prompts both exciting and dismaying experiences. I had to learn not to wish away my time- as I’d naturally do, banking the present upon hopes for better jobs, housing, and resources. An old habit. Along with that is an abiding assumption that better and later are synonymous.

The other day, during a great lunchtime discussion with a friend, we mused about whether the institutions in our midst are actually improving. It had me reconsidering what “getting better” means. In environments of lost or frozen wages, inflation, and weakened cultural foundations, “amelioration” must be transcendent of all that is in decline. How to look brightly at the road ahead - and at today’s doorstep. Beyond the nuts and bolts of bills and provisions is the flashlight of vision. In dark times, obscurity blends in discreetly, while light itself becomes even more noticed.

Coinciding with this undercurrent of uncertainty are new beginnings. Here in Portland, there are some tangible metaphors. The city is experiencing demolition and construction, such as it has not seen in decades. The concert of trenches, heaps, and roaring vehicles is fascinating. To change these public spaces in close proximity, structures must be systematically dismembered before anything new can arise. The wooden signs and mounted schematics populated by stick figures hardly give an impression of what it’ll really be like when all is said and done. These edifices and passages will be populated and snowed upon- and they will also age. Many will commit more sites to their witnessed memories. Institutions and structures move with the passage of days. The ocean and skies that swirl about this place are still where they’ve timelessly been.

Quite naturally, I look forward. Much of this month, so far, has been drenched in rain- yet the demolition, construction, and paving crews carry on with their missions. Ceasing to make an effort may actually require more strain than continuing with even the slightest momentum. Perhaps judgments of what constitutes an improvement becomes a form of resistance to comprehending the immediate as it is now. Appraising the worth of anything requires a grasp of context.

There is an ancient prayer of my ancestors which gives thanks for having been brought to a new season. In doing so, the words cause my thoughts to consider the differences between toughing it out and constructive acceptance. Navigating terrain and waters regarding their own terms, versus resistantly imposing a predetermined method. Letting friction become traction. My gratitude goes beyond appreciating being intact: it is good to know to look ahead, and to think back of the small portions of good guidance that continue with me now. While it’s not for me to know how much borrowed time is allotted to me, it is possible for me to cultivate wise perspective. And these are not all upbeat occasions- far from it. There is plenty to frustrate, but perhaps the useful side of discontent is that which brings us to bold moves. Living along the ocean shows me how roots must deepen and strengthen, as the winds whip up in torrents. And the battering storms eventually blow out to sea.

trails

"Little by little, one travels far."

~ J.R.R. Tolkien