new leaves

“Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,
Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!

Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,
In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,
And learn there may be worship with out words”.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, My Cathedral


Brighter light and lengthened days witness the trees reclothed. Thankfully, this can be appreciated- even after a long work day; shirtsleeve weather and twilight- even after seven. From my apartment’s front stoop, the view upward is one of renewal. Fresh crops of leaves are waving from the maples along sidewalk paths- so very new, these greens and maroons have a tinge of the yellow of unripeness. Even the sunlight has this aspect, gleaming with the fresh paint of an almost-season. From this top step on the grey granite, the view is enough to cause me to stop writing about other subjects. This is a fine kind of interruption. It’s the light; beyond the brightness is its effect upon strata of diaphanous outgrowth which canopies and deflects air currents. Not long ago, these same trees were glazed with ice; before that, shedding their ruddy colors. Time is the difference, and observing these changes permits for an enjoyment of rebirth. To be sure, this isn’t a retread of last May- or the one before. The front stoop is still where it’s been, and my presence continues- but it is by observance and perception that a soul can tie timelines together and be able to recognize connections unseen.

Noticing transition, I am brought to ponder time and context. Occasionally, driving my errands presents glances of things past. Noticing a window of a former home, a storefront that once housed a favored venue, or a familiar corner of a campus, subtext of place is reawakened. These locations are unchanged, yet somehow foreign. Iconic yet inconsequential. The passage of time never ceases to amaze me, being the witness that can connect disparate occasions holding given places in common. Consider how context can change a subject or person. Once an institution or person held powerful sway- then suddenly their currency became worthless. Harsh streets become neutralized by the constant flow of traffic. A grade, an honor, or a title lose their volume as they lose their context. What once loomed largely becomes laughably diminutive. Thoughts and recollections attest to the lives and stories beneath surfaces. Our unique witness can thread places and times together, observations becoming solid phrases, individual transitions measures of interior evolution.


With a deep breath of chilled air beneath stately trees, my preference remains with the present rather than past. As much as we can look back at what we've enjoyed, we can be surely reminded of what we've survived. The here-and-now becomes a wonder, a cause for gratitude; the trees stand as enduring sentries. As folios of foliage, the leaves’ pagination ascends with time. These wafting, turning pages draw attention to their source. Tilting upward to light, they live and breathe with circulatory vessels of words drawn from trunks filled with troves collected by standing through torrents and beating sun alike. Components to an entirety as letters to a tome- minutes to an eternity. New leaves meet my outstretched hands.

Beneath what is visibly new and evidently resultant of trained branches, is the unseen journey. Around the core are rings which know the years. The rich, draping greens are hints to the eternal- but not to be overlooked: imagine if we did not have these visible signs! Journeying onward is possible when there is a clear drive from within. In other words, the way ahead is through a descent through the heart. Johannes Tauler once wrote about a thriving inner life as the route heavenwards. But the unseen is often misunderstood and underestimated. Where we meet the Divine, Tauler described, is considered an emptiness to the intellect, yet a fulfillment to the heart. In that still space, God guides the soul to the foundation of being- to the substance of what is. Still space needn’t be cause for unease, even if it takes time to realize this.

Nowadays, looking to the trees causes me to wonder at the passage of time. And instead of the connotation of fall- with its closures- the growing leaves carry notes of the life within. The books that are with me flutter with the gusts. Two have printed words, one is my notebook. Wooden pencils bounce off the granite steps and muffle onto the grass. With a thirst for continuity, growing leaves and pages turn- to reveal more, offering time to write more. As with an ability to know the unseen journey, it requires faith for me to trust that my efforts will amount to something. With the cycles of time, and limits of influence, there remains hope for redemption of the locust-eaten years. It is better to aspire than to regret what may have only appeared to be missed chances. And I must remember how the appearances of places and situations do change as the road broadens. Verdant drapery will shade and later cushion the paths ahead.

wayside steps

“Thus says the Lord:
‘Stand at the crossroads and look;
ask for the ancient paths,
ask where the good way is,
and walk therein,
and all of you will find rest for your souls.’”

~ Jeremiah, 6:16


Near to the close of my present retreat, during the extended silence following Lauds, I wrote this prayer in my notebook:

For strength and endurance,
but with a savor of this place
and this
occasion.

As the last of four days away from the fray, I’m now imagining the way home and forward. Although these occasional intermezzos are not able to change the situations I momentarily step away from; they do affect how well I can deal with them. Knowing to do this has been as much an acquired skill as learning how to divert into contemplative silence. And the whole idea is something that has come naturally to me. Pursuing quiet times has been part of my life since childhood. And there aren’t any expectations- at least none beyond rest and the ability to listen to sounds other than demands or the fragmented din of popular culture.

Choosing to work a holiday enabled me to take a day off at the opposite end of the week. Having only a few days meant choosing a close location. Driving across only two counties allowed for the leisurely sojourn immediately after work. Sure enough, the days leading up to my carved-out time of silence amounted to a chaotic obstacle course- so much so that my drive through a rainstorm was actually relaxing. Arriving at the Alfred Shaker community, the one Brother still awake directed me to my room. Affixed to the door was a note of welcome to me.

A place had been set for me, in an expression of the meaning of sanctified: distinctly dedicated. Carrying in my effects and closing the day in a deep sleep, it was an assurance of being just where I needed to be. In these recent few days, the idea of sanctified time returns to mind. Having fought through traffic as it were, toward a clearing, perspectives must now be amended. As the circumstances now permit, I have to be able to slow my own steps.

In something of an irony, it is taking an effort to relax. “You know there is one rule of retreat,” Brother Robert proclaimed with an airborne index finger, “and the rule is to rest!” Stopping everything cold is a worthwhile culture shock. That coveted silence finally arrives, and I wonder what to do. The idea is to not do. Repose is surely not the sort of procrastinating puttering I tend to build into my days. Time sanctified is fine-fibered paper upon which to scribe.

My camera and writing materials are with me, so there is some activity to my inaction. Indeed, I’ve been hiking some trails, as well as taking part in the Divine Hours. Wayside rests are scattered places of patient acceptance. A chance to observe and absorb. Setting aside gnawing frustrations, it is easier to recognize those “incidental blessings” that have been in the works all this time- however unnoticed. In a moment, stopping along a pine-canopied path, in swirls of cold air, this long voyage became newly apparent to me. The life of pilgrimage has taken me very far and yet surprisingly near. The default mindset tends to be one of struggling for traction. Although often a series of beginnings, some major distances have been covered. This time, the observation does not overwhelm; there is nothing now, in this place, to interrupt a thought.

As what is now seen represents that which is yet unseen, there is “incidental mystery” in simply breathing this cold forest air. The reawakening woods respirate with the spring. A season’s conclusion is another’s commencement. Easter’s fulfillment, the life within, is strength for the long journey. Yet as the heavenly manna of yore, the indwelling Divine spirit is not to be hoarded. To continue drawing in fresh air, it is necessary to exhale. Receiving and giving take their turns.

With this is an understanding for me about wayside respite. These intervals are invitations to think of what we are, rather than of what we do. Instead of being portioned out in manufactured measure, the Holy Spirit is fully given- and is thus to be fully set forth. The breath of life is entire and complete- more than I can presently know. Though temperaments vary, I must remember I’m not partly alive, but fully so. Simply being is about all I could do with the gift of these few days. And in that acceptance is great inspiration to resume the road and be an encouragement.

splendid

“Often look up
and see the splendor
of life suspended
in your heart and mind.”

~ The Monks of Weston Priory, Listen

theophany : progress, part 3

“As for the Future,
your task is not to forecast,
but to enable it.
And surely you have enough work on your hands
when you are given the Present
as your raw material.”

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Citadelle, ch. 50

soundings : progress, part 2

“Deep calleth unto deep
at the noise of thy waterspouts;
all thy waves and thy billows
are gone over me.”

~ Psalm 42 : 7


Longing guides my steps to the waterfront. Watching gusts of rain, whether at the open shore or along harbor piers, aquatic textures blend. Seeing skies mirrored by the water surface brings a fascination with distance and volume. Altitude from sea level is readily seen, and can be noted with every terrain or air-travel ascent. When it comes to water depths, ocean charts inform and provide a sense of distance below surface. Simply watching the stirs of blue-green waves is insufficient for a realistic impression of how far- or near- edges of crags may be. Both knowledge and sharpened sense are needed. Trying to synthesize these two aspects, my thoughts return to the idea of progress. I consider whether deepening of trust, of learning, and of direction can be known, as hypnotic hatching tidal lines group and disperse around me. Depth-of-field, a very familiar concept to me, concerns broadening areas of sharpened focus by using only the center of a camera lens. Through slower shutter speeds and finer apertures, more area can be sharply seen. It is the more patient view. But thirst urgently desires heights above and depths below surfaces.

Pelting rain adds layers of circles to the weave of ocean. When it becomes snow, the falling flakes shuffle with whispers into the water. Such unparalleled sounds are audible once away from city or ship-engine noises. Recently, I thought to call the Maine Geological Survey to ask about how ocean depths are measured. The scientist I spoke with helpfully explained depth soundings- also known as echosoundings, which is much the same as sonar. Acoustic signals are sent from an instrument towards the bottom, and depth is calculated based on the time it takes for the signal to come back to a transducer mounted on a vessel. Higher topography in the water will have reflected signals that come back sooner than areas that are deeper. Calculations are based on the speed of sound through water, which varies with salinity and temperature. It is fascinating to know how precise these depths- and even the shapes of bathymetric forms (underwater topography) are determined.

After this intriguing conversation, my usual waterfront walks brought these depth soundings to mind. Rather than to imagine any pinging rates of my own, a preferable quest is to plumb the depths and sail the heights of the Divine. Just the other day, out on a briny pier and breathing in the salt-washed air, I called unto the deeps. A simple supplication for refuge, from the depths preceding me- toward the Creator of all life whose understanding is unfathomable. And the words returning to me from beneath the tides are to continue onward. Greater things are up ahead than those yet seen. The unseen and trust- a tandem to accompany the cloud of unknowing and unceasing prayer. Once beyond my own perimeters, God’s expanse is limitless. Of course, it is quite human to ponder any progress I may have made; to marvel is something beautifully mortal. I wonder about what’s really changed, whether the changes have been for the better, and if this year’s product is one I would’ve bought last year- or even 10 years ago. It is all terribly humbling, and brings me to modest contentment with the small increments of distance effected.

Between digitally-plotted soundings and the heart’s sonar is the crossroad of ostensible and intrinsic. Indeed this is not meant to set one against the other, as both aspects are necessary. And somehow, no matter how much can be verified, the greater interest is in the elusive and unknown. In his tractate Signs of the True Ground, Meister Eckhart (13th c.) wrote “there are few who get beyond the science and the theory,” being well aware of the vitality of balance. “By being free from notions,” he continued, we can “be carried up beyond all rational concepts,” borne by the Spirit “to this truth and to this blessed life which no one can attain except in abstract knowledge and pure understanding.”

Discovery, alas, is often subtle and indirect. Straining at a conundrum doesn’t guarantee a solution. It’s as though endurance is tied to creativity. If answers are not immediately apparent- even with persistence- the subtler, overcoming discipline is to focus away from the matter. Irrational as that may seem, the emphasis becomes a more general context. Motion, and a panoramic view, will help overcome the paralysis of analysis. Notice how waters in channels, inlets, and around islands steer around obstructions. These directions are diverted by encountered resistance, though not prevented. Thirst for wisdom and the pilgrimage of trust come at one’s own risk, but it is well worthwhile- as St. Diadochos wrote in the 5th century, quoted in the Philokalia:

“For in much wisdom is much knowledge; and he that increases knowledge increases sorrow... the soul is tested by divine rebuke as in a furnace, and through fervent remembrance of God it actively experiences joy exempt from unreality”.

Discoveries and changes follow humbling episodes and experiences. Similar to steering away from fixating upon a question or a problem, listening for answers begins with embarkation. Standing straight, proverbial mat rolled up, and going forth with a perspective unburdened by old grudges. Pursuit inevitably teaches perseverance. But it requires getting going first; drawing a bold black charcoal mark on the large blank paper. By creatively engaging the voyage, we write off the detours that divert the road of communion. Or as St. Diadochos wrote, “ceaselessly journey toward God within the soul.” Somehow, in unexpected ways, endurance enhances understanding as hyper-focus in isolation cannot. Having already navigated some depths, echosoundings will reveal their worth as guiding coordinates.

so far : progress, part 1

So far, so good,
so close, yet still so far.

Step in, step out of the rain
I’m goin’ to walk on up to the Waterfront.

~ Simple Minds, Waterfront


With this advancing and burgeoning spring, my thoughts turn to crossroads as signs of reflection. During evening walks, my paces across converging roads are especially noted. Nightfall happens later, with each passing day and with more temperate air. Lengthened days invite more musings. An intersection such as a nascent spring revives recollections of transitions and graduations. And expectations. Now progress is a loaded term, often blending unrealism into reality, yet remaining a necessary aim. Which ideals are worth this obstacle course? Are measures of progress based upon comparisons of what, or where, or whom we think we should be?

In the realm of sports, exaggerated fortunes are tied up in games, teams, and empire-maintenance. The nature of assembling a dominating “dynasty” strikes a curious contrast with the humane aspect of mercy. Or loyalty. A person endures an unproductive spell and is branded as “washed up.” Such judgments are batted back and forth between athletics and the workaday world. Identity is determined by the progress one makes- or fails to generate. Indeed, this mentality also infects religious circles. Acceptability too often tied to material expectations, constantly raising bars of demand, confuses places of worship with pressured places of work. Surely there must be limits to the meaning of “enough,” and the humble spaces we offer and influence may be done so as peaceful oases.

Driving my various errands and obligations today, I turned off the radio news- and thought about trends that define these times. Much is determined by what scares or angers us; many affirm what they are not, rather than who they are. Some careful listening reveals this, and it brings my thoughts to imagine the role fear plays in the motivation of people. As much as fear can drive some to evasion, it can also motivate overcompensation. Worrying about interaction or the challenge of something different frightens us into isolation. I remember working for a place in which the smallest, most mundane memoranda were copied to a universe of additional personnel. Issued words to be witnessed, along with all responses, as proofs of some sort of activity (or lack of inactivity) in this litigious society. It seems exaggerated expectations, mixed with fear-based interpretations of accountability, cause the subjected fearful soul to overstate what they do. Part of the noise that deafens this culture is the defense mechanism of overstating practically every personal action.

Another strange way to express “progress” is to connect it to self-justification. “Redemption” happens by vindication. So many of us have known the cornered-animal state of mind that taps into primal adrenaline as we’ve met deadlines and performed “to save our lives.” And more than once. “Hero today, goat tomorrow,” as sports and real life imitate each other- both by experience and semantics. Still, amidst being pulled along by the need to competitively survive, it is difficult not to notice how living souls are appraised and assessed. Inhabiting this culture needn’t imply succumbing to spreading spells of cynicism. Trying to keep things workable and healthful has meant an operating knowledge of “the system” while attending to my own ideals. Parallel to being multilingual, the language of commerce permits for a livelihood, and the heart-language is the one through which understanding and prayer happens. That inner language- an inner citizenship- must be continuously cultivated on my own time and on my own dime. But this worthwhile endeavor, with an inner life, is both vital and the way out of conforming with societal images of success and progress- of how to look and talk, and of what one is supposed to have accomplished and purchased so to appear respectable.

As for qualitative progress, how shall this be determined? If the soul’s advance is a discernment of conscience, inspiration should be free of competitiveness. Yet, in the spirit of exploration, I do hear myself ask, “against whom- or what- do I compete?” There must be continuity of inquiry. Progress that transcends finite situations is the career undefined by fixed measures. Though unquantifiable, the Spirit is undiminished. Depths and breadths untold, yet with a certainty of presence. Transitions, which I can only hope to be steps of progress, register as points of recognition. Short-term goals are frequently moving targets; they’ll be something else tomorrow. Taking walks around familiar and personal landmarks invites occasions to ask myself about perceiving things differently. Corners, crosswalks, and structures resolutely rest as solid signs. And my circulating traversals salute these humble sentries, while new paces overlap previous paths. Houses and schoolyards retrieve words and moments, as familiar slants of light remind me of distances covered to now. The day soon a memory, giving way to the present’s fluidity, and destinations unfolding as gradually opening hands.

train of thought

primary sources

“Always remember this luminous gospel reality: ‘it was God who loved us first.’
That is a light for your life.”

“What is the source of this hope? It is in God, a God who simply loves and no less, a God who never stops seeking us. Our hope is renewed when we entrust ourselves humbly to God.”

~ Brother Roger of Taizé, The Sources of Taizé


Continuity encourages me to look ahead, yet with a sense of the past. An invitation to venture to the Source is simply too good to resist. A long-anticipated travel was a night away. One of those simple journeys with an overtly spiritual purpose. Regularly traveling like this for some fifteen years now, I routinely stop to write just before leaving. Journal jotting is as necessary as packing provisions. When they occur, launch moments are times to cherish- and that includes a pause upon the return trip. Both ends are points of embarkation, and enough experience has shown me how clumsy it can be to write in transit. Moreso than to write, a time to absorb. Collecting written thoughts before heading out I can preserve impressions to read later that describe how I was before the experience. Preparing for a pilgrimage provides an example for the preparation for life’s journeys of any duration. Part of the readying is the anticipation.

Even after arriving, there is preparation and anticipation. More arrivals will follow, and they will be welcomed by us. By preparing for the event by decorating shared spaces, music practice, setting out and serving food, the welcomed become providers of welcome. Amounting to an instant spectrum of reciprocity, it is yet another privilege to be included. The present becomes a shared home for a vast diversity of pilgrims, seekers, and the boldly curious. We are all bound together in a festive current.

Turning a corner, traversing a borderland, and recognizing a new passage is to discover a season. Distances covered become paths reached. The pilgrim road directs human steps toward the source of the Spirit within. Though material conditions appear unchanging, it is for me to actively detect transition by observing my perspectives. A season, such as the Lenten weeks, can be one of expectation that is itself anticipated. At the culmination of the Lenten season is the intensity of Passover: a looking forward to an extraordinary span of time, including a change in daily life, house-cleaning, and even in what foods to eat or be stored in the cupboard. As though preparing for a voyage, there is a similarly expectant air. Ordinary days can present numinous journeys, windows to our sources. A stretch of eight days, within forty, inside a year is an example.

These short seasons remind me of my acquired taste for the savor of gradual successions of days- or process- more than the single-day emphases. No day is an island. More than to hinge times of renewal upon a season, invitations and beginnings are inherent with daily experiences. Our continued interactions and prayers can lead to a mindfulness of God's presence, to our extension of that presence, and hence a closeness to the source of what is life-giving. As I’ve come to understand, the monastic expression going to the source is really a reference to prayer- and thus continuing to commit one’s life to openness to God. But the action of advancing in steps toward holiness becomes something of a resource itself. A setting forth that remembers the source from which I’ve known goodness in the past and through which I comprehend.

A thirst for advancement becomes intrinsic to an aspiring soul. The clearest expression of this for me- which even encompasses actively helping others- is life as pilgrimage. This is motion especially dedicated to fulfillment, encounter, and expression. Inward harmony to manifest as outward harmony. It implies ever drawing- and remembering to continue- from the wellsprings of trust. Just two weeks ago, I had the privilege of participating in an unusual Taizé gathering- also known as a Pilgrimage of Trust- as a musician. This was my tenth year of traveling to do just this! As a result, with each year, city, and country there are more and more friends to recognize- and vice-versa. The venue this time was a large Eastern Orthodox church in Montréal. For the music ensemble, this was something very new and thus every impression was a first. We were given very little time to tune in advance and get settled. Walking into the expanse of space my first impression was one of quiet wonder, absorbing the bright iconography and the dry aroma of incense. Life-sized frescos and the increasing numbers of gathering humanity amounted to a sum of glowing colors in the grey dusk of the sanctuary.

Pencilling notes on my music sheets, between songs.

Acclimating to the space, I began to notice more nuances. Beneath this, my thoughts were occupied with the idea of the sources of trust. The front of the sanctuary had the appearance of a lit settlement with something of a skyline. Numerous shimmering icons populated the area around all of us, and the space around the altar brought to mind gates of prayer. The Brother of Taizé who was with us gave a talk about rejoicing in the thirst God has placed in us. This concept, from the ancient Psalms, was reflected in the chant and music we continued with. De Noche Iremos: “by night we seek the living waters; only our thirst lights us onward.” Following the days together, we all dispersed to resume our lives- in so many different places. Yet it was an advancing forward in great company, each continuing their pilgrimages in new strength. With sore left fingers, I clutched the handles of my guitar case down through the chilled subway. But it could hardly have been more wonderful.

Returning home and to my job, and then looking at the work itself, I thought further about sources. We refer to primary and secondary sources: original manuscripts and published editions. Primary and secondary; destinations and way-stations. The adventures of prayer, gathering together, and divine words become the presence we carry with us. The Source of all life does not draw from yet another source, but creates resources. On the road back, I asked my traveling companions about how their gleanings become sources. We traded stories about artifacts we’ve admired. I remembered seeing Longfellow’s manuscripts- complete with the very pencils he used for writing his epic Evangeline. My flute-playing friend talked about how he owns his grandparents’ engraved tea set which they received at their wedding, and imagined what the festivities might have been like. What do sources look like? What sounds do they create? Indeed, there are the created who can create, as well as created matter that cannot. Experiences of God form our approaches to the Source. Directed to the Source, the voyage is a life’s pilgrimage reaching beyond limitations, driven by thirst.