process and progress

“Divide each problem
into as many parts as possible;
that each part being more easily conceived,
the whole may be more intelligible.”

~ René Descartes, Discourse on Method


I’ve never been able to write much at home. Writing typically kicks me out of my place. Going out to write surely doesn’t reflect any insufficiency of the home desk or front stoop. Choosing to go someplace especially for the purpose of writing is choosing away from distractions and demands. There is only one thing to do, and that is to make note of the journey. The distance from mind to page becomes more proximate with travel- even a walk across town. Perhaps it’s in the change of venue. Pursuing contemplative and reflective processes draws my steps away from bills, chores, demands, and other such moorings.

Getting out prompts adaptation and awakens the senses. This time, having a rare morning off, these words are joined together in a busy coffeehouse. The servers in this place are creating their offerings with a mix of cheer and methodical authority. It reminds me of how I talk shop with fellow visual artists and writers about projects and tools. Process deserves its due, as those foundational procedures are what allow us to venture forth in our own creative ways. By knowing how a result is reached, the various processes in our midst can be seen to connect and relate. My questions for the café workers are similar to those for my friends who are mechanics, repairers, cobblers, and cooks: with the “new eyes” that admire unfamiliar methodology that inspires crafts familiar to my instincts.

Learning more about creative processes leads to a more conscious appreciation for the disciplines that help make things happen. My life in photography- which began as I taught myself at 15- was steeped in scrupulous applications of calibrated processes. Starting out with cribbing from Morgan & Morgan’s Photo Lab Index with a memo pad in the aisles of B. Dalton’s bookstore on 5th Avenue, and learning more through art college, I so hungered to be fluent in the profession that I followed all the steps and processes I could find and use. By the time I reached the heart of my 14 years in custom photographic lab work, I bought my own copy of Morgan & Morgan, adding in my old notes into the thick tome of formulas, specifications, and logarithmic film charts (classed by manufacturer, beginning with Agfa). With a beam balance, I made my own developers and paper emulsions. Accomplishing all those techniques permitted me to teach them and to be able to look at those arcane photo methods in perspective. There are measured aspects: temperature, quantity, time intervals, and chemical agitation. Parallel to these are human aspects: assessing density, contrast, and color. No instrument can replace a cultivated human eye. A third factor is a consistent and respectful use of the equipment- from optical glass, to densitometers, to gently winding color filters back to zero before making any printing changes. With such command, the ground can be flown away from, the lifting off limited only by creative energy. Somehow, that photo-instinct which I applied every day for years and years manifested in my approaches to cooking, baking, calligraphy, and bookbinding. Reverence for method and practice is followed by the twinning of imagination and intuition.

Setting down the writing materials- with care, of course- I asked the coffeehouse staff about procedure. Comparing notes, there is indeed a specialized methodology to what they create for their discerning audience. After all, Arabica Coffee Company is Portland’s finest and has been for many years. In the sequence of photos (below) Salli barista par excellence graciously described the steps that bring those famous cappuccinos into being:

After the coffee cup has been heated with boiling-hot water,
milk is poured into a beaker to be steamed,
anticipating the finishing steps.



A special blend of espresso beans is finely ground,
and evenly loaded into a measure.



The process of tamping the ground coffee is called dosing.



The coffee is brewed under hundreds of pounds of pressure.



As the fresh coffee is brewed, the beaker
of steamed Maine milk awaits!




Pouring the steamed milk into the thick brewed coffee
is skillfully done here by Salli. The result below, known
as a rosette, resembles a forest fern.




As she set the finished cappuccino down on the counter,
Salli sidearmed a little spoon into the saucer. She said the final drop
of the spoon into its place "is like signing the artwork."

By the end of this quick photo session, a rush of customers diverted us all back to our routines. A few good side-conversations evolved. A fellow calligrapher asked about this essay and the pictures. Mentioning my appreciation for creative disciplines, she offered her opinion that “there isn’t enough discipline in this culture.” Another good friend pulled up a chair and noticed my typewriter and journal. He owns an art gallery, and added his observations about creative processes. As much as there are frameworks to comprehend, we have the serendipity of side conversations to savor.

Processes that may appear unrelated actually do intersect with an individual’s sense of perspective. It is for us to make those connections, beginning by noticing them. Preparing and sizing my materials when conserving a book is the same as my mother’s way of cutting fabric. Writing reports at work has my father’s unambiguous and persuasive language. My best example of craftsmanship as a photographer was learned across town in etching classes taught by a Tamarind Institute lithographer. This instructor had a refreshing willingness to rework her printed images; it was not the discouraging purism I saw in the college photo department. During my high school senior year, I got to meet the great typographer and graphic designer Ismar David. He took me to his drafting table and showed me his sketches for a stone memorial he was designing. I looked wide-eyed around the studio filled with tools, spring-armed lamps, and drawings tacked to the walls, listening to the artist talk about how he wanted visitors to the memorial to understand what they’d see. Mr. David shuffled through a sheaf of pencil schematics on tracing paper that animated all the angles. A three-dimensional design. I remember this as if it happened last week, and these glimpses affirm the role of procedure on a long journey of undetermined structure. Process helps establish foundation. By understanding how something works, we can make things work in our creative pursuits. And as process recedes into second nature, intuition and openness to spirit become procedure.

~ with special thanks to the typewriter-loving, always gracious and supremely neighborly:

Arabica Coffee Company, 2 Free Street, Portland Maine

June 30th

“We have saved our days the whole year.
We will wear our summer clothes.
Walk for miles in the sun
and remember every one,
and say we know this place,
we know.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Geranium Lake


Growing up in New York City, June 30th always had the connotation as being the last possible day of school. It was so liberating, despite the nervousness of report cards and averages. Today’s sundrenched cool air reminds me of those annual sendoffs from homeroom (and even the earlier elementary days when all subjects were covered in one room). All that was necessary, on June 30th, was to show up. There was no more homework left to cough up.

We’d report in for the last day of school sans heavy book bags. School itself- the institutional hallways, the grey window-filtered diffracted light, and even the vague acquaintances outside predictable circles of friends- all suddenly endeared. It’s when one steps onto the docks of terra firma that the decrepit old boat gathers fondness. During the traversal and those endless stretches of distance, abundance is ascribed to curses and divisions among the crew. Many of us see similar templates far into our adult working lives. We’ve always known we can’t influence much of anything beyond our reach, but we rarely give up trying. June 30th of this year, yet another calendar’s round-trip away from asphalt schoolyards left behind, hasn’t got the air of ammonia-scrubbed floors and desks but instead the aromas of my Atlantic harbor home.

One thing of which I never grow weary is to write in the openness of fresh air. Even in winter. Sounds of seagulls and scents of the ocean precisely call to mind where I am. The old things are past, and behold- this morning all things are become new.

confiance

“‘The Book of Ecclesiastes would be fine. Where was it?’
‘Here,’ Montag touched his head.
‘Ah,’ Granger smiled and nodded.
‘What’s wrong? Isn’t that all right?’ said Montag.
‘Better than all right: perfect!’

Granger turned to the Reverend.
‘Do we have a Book of Ecclesiastes?’
‘One. A man named Harris in Youngstown.’
‘Montag.’ Granger took Montag’s shoulder firmly.
‘Walk carefully. Guard your health. If anything should happen to Harris,
you are the Book of Ecclesiastes.
See how important you’ve become in the last minute!’”

~ Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

Trying to broach the subject of being able to see my circumstances and times as they are, is my present endeavor. Each day is stooped over with grim news. It seems there is enough drama and conflict for the media addicts, and enough overwhelm for the exasperated. And it all blends together on the internet. It’s easy to want to run away from the “fair and balanced” of reporting outlets and fear merchants that pervade broadcasting. Even from this relatively quiet corner of the continent, it is all quite daunting. Larger markets are challenged more intensely. But whether there or here, the adage of “testing the spirits” always applies.

When so much that needs help- and far away- cannot be done by a person of modest means, frustration ensues. I have to apply creative ways to donate resources and offer prayers, while having to remain where I am and at my daily employment. And beyond that, perhaps I do join so many others that reflexively pursue diversions to deflect the constant bad news of the “real world.” Well, then, what is reality after all? That is something to always take to heart, at every step- especially when portrayals appear or sound skewed. Must there always be a villain? Or is the fault really between the conflicting parties? Are things actually as cut-and-dry so to fit between commercials? Why even think about such things? Because losing a foundational sense is equivalent to compromising it away to untested notions, catchphrases, and worst of all- fear. Test the spirits. Reconsider perceptions. While pondering such present-day anomalies as contemplative vocations and lives crafted through creative expression, I wonder if an anomaly like me should view this amnesiac world as still more anomalous. That iconic London headline comes to mind, “Fog in the Channel : Europe Cut Off,” reminding me that vantage point is indeed the eye of the beholder.

Anomalous or not, heights and roads are stretched before us to engage our pursuits and contribute our signatures. Immersed in the flow of time from yesterday through today and into tomorrow, one cannot remain unchanged. Perhaps progress implies looking in several directions during forward steps. When imagining an archives of the soul, the idea is one of a living collection loved into existence, trimmed, indexed, and expandable. In some form or another, we are each curators of our gleanings and what we’ve made of our environments. It is for us to comprehend what we’ve gathered, to preserve or release. Our time, with thoughts to fill only so many shelves, is for us to redeem.

But our times both parallel and collide with the broader continuum within which we live, move, and have our being. Anomalies are not without context: as otherworldly as our aspirations might be, we must still live in this world. If societal currents threaten to depersonalize, the power to commit to memory remains with the individual person. It takes some work, but what soul is not worth the effort? This challenges where we place our faith. Hope held fast becomes an eye threading storms that encircle. Engaging and enduring, immersed in this culture yet gazing upward, subjects a soul to everything that can disable. But there is also everything that can strengthen. Still, the marathon must persist through swirls of grim forecasts, terrors, popular fatalism, and closed doors. Remaining hopeful sounds too passive; perhaps with language more like embodying profoundest hopes, a more applicable thought will accompany my steps.

By living our prayer, we can persevere; by persevering, we can live our prayer. This is in itself a present consolation, yet also a bond toward future consolations. Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, written almost sixty years ago, continues to offer both allegory and commentary. Consider how the novel’s mural-like “family on the wall” interactive screens in every home foresaw today’s ubiquitous social networks which millions use to avert their solitude. But the Montag character finds something of a network when his escape from armed pursuers brings him to an encampment of individuals who memorize books. Like the ancient apostles who had no printed volumes, these book-people were messengers with entrusted words stored in their hearts. The book-people tell Montag of many others who do what they do- even whole towns whose individual minds constitute whole libraries of literary works. True to the lessons in his novel, Bradbury has Montag personify the book of Ecclesiastes: the wisdom of King Solomon. Granted, our society doesn’t employ firefighters to burn books, nor are we forbidden to read or write- as in the story. But many do wonder aloud as to the present and future states of the intellectual life. Finding roads of kindredship, aspiring to be a positive influence, and cultivating a sense of discerning and analytical knowledge demands tenacity and dedication. And confidence. (I like to translate the French word confiance as confident trust.) Indeed, many more than we realize are out there writing, expressing, mentoring, and walking their sincere prayers.

Various social commentators compare the present century with the era that followed the dissolution of the Roman Empire which Petrarch called the "Dark Ages." Surely there are less simplistic ways to make sense of these times- yet still some parallel aspects are somewhat understandable: warfare in incessant, urban society is fragmented by varieties of isolation, and learning that transcends job skills is increasingly marginalized. But if we entertain the comparison for yet another thought, there have always been exceptions at small and large scales. I like to imagine such endeavors as those of Alcuin’s court (8th century) were among many that may have been undocumented. Once more, with a strained voice of hope, there is brightness to acknowledge and affirm above oceans of darkness. Following through with such an ideal, on a practical level, is a setting-forth toward wilderness. We are far enough away from the early medieval centuries to not only rise above those times but also to learn from history.

If this isn’t a revisitation of the Dark Ages (and it's not), these times might be called a negative age. An ingredient in Postmodernism is to define something by what it is not. Individuals often describe what they aren’t, or what they don’t like, before you hear them tell you who they are. Perhaps in the wake of deconstruction, much focus is assigned to what is excluded, what one opposes, rather than a forthright affirmation of what is definitive- or simply what is. Fear of failure is heaped upon the rest of the menu offerings of purveyors of pessimism. One can just wonder what follows, when such perspective finally becomes too old and tired to perpetuate. Like the book-people, we’ll have to be fluent enough in forgotten disciplines to tirelessly give of them. Newness is intrinsic to thriving trust.

“... if the men were silent it was because there was everything to think about and much to remember. Perhaps later in the morning, when the sun was up and had warmed them they would begin to talk, or just say the things they remembered, to be sure they were there, to be absolutely certain things were safe in them. Montag felt the slow stir of words, the slow simmer.”

~ Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

travelling companions

“Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand”

~ William Blake, And Did Those Feet in Ancient Time

(abolitionist preacher's diary, Maine & Vermont, ca.1860s)

stability

“And the world keep on turning
and the sun keep on burning
and the children keep learning
how to grow up big and strong.”

~ Mark Heard, How To Grow Up Big and Strong



It’s been stated before in these pages, how much we can learn about ourselves by taking note of our own words. Many an exploratory essay can begin with I heard myself say. Yesterday, a close friend noticed my exhaustion and asked me what I needed most. My response came from depths beneath chattering thoughts: “Stability. I can use some tranquility.” Many human desires center on this universal yearning. Recognizing change as the one constant is head-knowledge. It’s not always the most pleasant thing to hear. Yet somehow just as a holding pattern is acknowledged, that’s just when the ground begins to shift. “Permanence!” shouts the mortal voice into the wind.

Still, the pursuit of certitude pulls at the soul. Straining to see far ahead seems a natural impulse, yet it isn’t always the wisest or most assuring action. Anxiously attempting to overreach loses the present and forgets useful past references. But perhaps there’s something necessary in recoiling and launching, hints of aspirations to aim higher than what is presently seen. The spirit needs to deepen and grow, or else it will stagnate. Turning a corner, discovering perspective, combines a wonder of new terrain with a facing of fears found. The desire for progress will interrupt the safety of sameness. On a practical level, one cannot advance without motioning forward.

When pacing nighttime floors, trying to comprehend life’s demands, I try to remember having surmounted many trials. There isn’t a set formula for trouble-free survival; but somehow a great many of us get by. Trust is as essential as realistic perspective. Those regrettable times of uselessness were real, as well as some good old days. Fears have ways of turning the mind back to longing for simplicity. A clear memory is enough to remind me there’s never really been an age without flailing. Time’s accumulation persists, and so must the crafting of vision. A prayer remains, for direction and paths on reliable ground.

There’s still much for me to learn about provision. If I try to imagine “enough,” it is surely more than I could procure. Sufficiency seems a moving target in this culture of consumption. The margin widens between necessity and what might be deemed as security. The “what ifs” surprise the unaware, and hunting for elusive stability becomes grasping at clouds. What purports to be “enough to live well” looks more like a mirage. Acceptance of uncertainty may be the best release that opens the mind to creatively persevere.

What of stability, if the playing surface has the fluidity of game pieces? Now I must apply the cumulative value of what is being learned and check the fears with reminders that my aspirations will come to something. Something qualitatively better. Even if I am not certain, hopes that originate far beyond me are those of certitude. Head-knowledge meets heart-certainty, and the encounter can be something of a struggle. Innately, I must know by now that I do not walk this road alone. Assessing what would be enough precariously lends to wanting what is missing, while not appreciating what is present. The ideal of “enough" is fantasy, and is as stagnating as dwelling upon what missing ingredient is lacking. With trust, the investment of time may embolden by default. As an elderly man, Brother Roger of Taizé focused much of his writing upon the setting forth from doubt towards faith. He wrote that in so doing he invoked, "I believe, help my unbelief," and "in growing older, faith becomes less arduous, certainty prevails." It seems that faith means moving forward without enough resources.

Though we may stall for time or wish it away, the advances of days, seasons, and years cannot be altered. Change is constant, and the attempt to freeze time is no easier than the old habit of trying to speed it up. Should it be possible to turn back the clock, wouldn't it be preferable to relive younger days with an older mind! But that, too, is as unreal as perfectionism. So today presents the stage upon which time can be sculpted. Without transitions and surface changes, meaningful developments cannot take place. Preoccupations about things too far in the distance must not subvert the vital stability that embraces what is. Inevitably, how much am I really in control of things? Day-sized parcels of hours: that’s even the way time is dispensed to the privileged and prominent. My own privilege and honor is to remember the journey with God is one of accompaniment and transcendent sense of home.

striving and striding

“Walking around,
You know I’ve had enough of this trouble
following me high and low.
Now it can go.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Walking Around


As with most weekday mornings en route to work, the postmaster and I exchanged greetings. “How’s it going,” I asked. This time, Jim replied with “I’d complain, but I won’t.” My immediate response was, “we each have a place to go.” A bit of work is a slice of sustenance. Having a place to go draws implications beyond the utilitarian trudge. As one’s work is a destination, so is a walk. Some people tell me going for a walk with no purpose is pointless. I must differ; indeed a meaningless stroll has great purpose. Less is more. From carefree jacketless jaunts to heavily-equipped winter expeditions, I remain deeply grateful for my mobility. Rather than appearing as obstacles, weather and terrain provide ingredients for the adventure. The paths of my upbringing wove through large, multidimensional cities. As a child, my grandmother and I would promener (go walking) together through our Arrondissement (the 17th); she would soften day-old bread with water for us to break off morsels to feed the birds.

Going for a walk, of any length, is a break out of the box. A taking to a trail away from the rutted roads of repeated routine. A means of escape? Perhaps; but if so, this is the necessary kind to re-engage the marches of time. A good walk comprises motion to slow things down. Just as going out with a camera to create a sense of a scene that draws your attention. An observation stops the pace, changes vantage point, and preserves an image. Teaching photo students, I’ll often say, “be a tourist in your own town.” Notice places familiar and changed. Turning corners and traversing roadways, thoughts will change- even opinions. As the mind diverts, what is cherished comes to the fore. Simmering the questions, strolls test and revise perspective. Blending the mind’s ingredients, an outdoor walk resembles the randomness of dreams. Notice how birds glide from tree to tree.

With paces preferring manageable paths, balance comes to mind. Striding and striving, often forcing matters becomes counterproductive. To strive, in this context, is to unnecessarily struggle and overattempt. To walk is to entertain patience. Aperch on a bench, amidst a city thoroughfare, the elements remind me to not be irritated by things removed from my control. Excessive striving is no friend of a good effort. We get accustomed to being so compelled as to force every detail into shape- and then to vigilantly guard these interests. How about an endeavor not to excessively exert? “Be paced, poised, and avoid burnout,” I mused while waiting to cross a street. Varying views change frames of mind.

There is middle ground between leaving things to be as they are (or as they develop), and constantly looking to adapt them (even compulsively). The latter viewpoint fixates upon the next thing. I’d be the last to advocate complacency; at the same time there is a worthwhile awakening in the consideration that one cannot get blood from a turnip. The preferable path sidesteps resignation, yet knows repose. The ancient gem, “study to be quiet,” originated in Paul’s criticism of materialistic and empire-building emphases among elites of ancient Greek society.

“Our dignity is tied to our ability to be thinking beings,” wrote Pascal. For me, this translates as the capability of conscientiousness. To think for oneself is to do so unabashedly- without façade. Technology and tools to be as gladly used as put away, giving priority to simplicity. Getting outside, away from the “virtual,” encourages continuation of cultivating skills that require thought and dexterity. When it can be done, easing the pace opens a view to observe treasures immediately at hand- and the trove may be that very midst itself.

publication and gratitude

typists need apply

“I told him what I came for,
when he in a rage did fly,
‘No!’ he says, “You are a Paddy,
and no Irish need apply.’

Then I gets my dander rising
And I’d like to blacken his eye
To tell an Irish gentleman
‘No Irish Need Apply.’”

~ John F. Poole (1862), No Irish Need Apply

At the Boston Athenaeum








Public Libraries in Boston (above)

and Portland, Maine (below).







* link to typist news article in NYC

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.