divine mercy

“For the days pass, and never return...
Take the Adventure, heed the call,
now ere the irrevocable moment passes!
‘Tis but a banging of the door behind you,
a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life
and into the new.”

~ Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows.






place

Pilgrimage blends together intention, travel, and place. Before any setting forth, before thoughts of destinations, there is longing, calling, urging for a communing with the wellsprings of creation. This type of thread has wound through countless lives, in entirely unique ways, over immeasurable time spans. The will to pursue purpose and fulfillment is as individual as a human spirit itself. We seek and we discover, as we are capable. As a soul develops, there follows an increasing ability to discover and appreciate. As well as an iconography accompanying roads, paths, and thresholds, there is double-meaning in the word intention, the term used both for purpose and for prayer request. Such concerted movement, driven by the seeming otherworldliness of prayer, represents a propelling ideal: hope. And that forward movement must continue, especially when there is no hope in sight.

Carving out some time, I chose to sojourn in the Berkshires, remembering the beautiful merging of the mountain landscape, the town of Stockbridge, and the Divine Mercy Shrine. The National Shrine of the Divine Mercy is a public place of prayer, and community of the Marian friars and brothers. The Catholic order originated in 17th century Poland, and established their community in Massachusetts during World War II. The congregation’s charism is based upon the devotion of Saint Faustina Kowalska, a Polish nun who died at the outset of the War. Her journals document her life, vocation, visions, and an extraordinary prayer that appeals for divine mercy for all persons. Her confidants successfully hid from the Nazis, and were able to spread the written prayers of Faustina. She was declared a saint by Pope John Paul II, in 2000. Some of her remains are in the church in Massachusetts.

My history with the Divine Mercy devotion dates back to an extremely difficult life-trial I had to endure thirteen years ago. Unable to right my ship on my existing resources and nerves, I sought the advice of a wise and trusted friend. My advising friend, Sister Sylvia, listened and offered her reflections. After one of our long talks, she gave me a recording which had been made at the Divine Mercy shrine church. I’d never heard of them before, though I knew the region of western Massachusetts and southern Vermont quite well. Sister Sylvia knew how much I love the outdoors, and encouraged me to make a trip to Stockbridge. Indeed, I followed the advice, made the pilgrimage, and have returned several times since.






prayer

The devotion prayer itself is sequential and repetitive. I find it to be a confluence of east and west. The practice of meditating upon the refrain, Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me, echoing the blind beggar’s prayer in Luke 18, is an ancient practice in Eastern Orthodoxy. A life’s adventure with that simple, poignant prayer is in the Russian classic, The Way of a Pilgrim. Saint Faustina’s Divine Mercy prayer uses the sequence of decades, as measured in rosary beads- a practice codified by Dominican friars in 13th century France. Faustina’s prayer refers to the suffering Messiah: “For the sake of His sorrowful passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.” Extending personal prayer to all persons reflects the young sister’s anguish of having lived through a world war, and witnessing the horrific beginning of yet another. In her journals, she emphasized persevering with this devotion,“to obtain mercy, to trust in Christ's mercy, and to show mercy to others.” It is a message of compassion in the midst of persecution and cruelty.

Considering its origins and its biblical focus, the prayer itself is intense. At the shrine church, the daily hour of Divine Mercy is at 3pm, following the 2pm mass. It is a solemnity, and to pray for mercy is to bring one’s burdens, along with those of others, into focused intercession. As a place of pilgrimage, many come from a variety of distances to the church, and the printed texts are in a number of languages. At times, I notice the others praying in the church, and am struck by the plaintive, earnest, palpable reverence shared by so many different people. The times of liturgy and prayer bring those in attendance together as a momentary community of fellow pilgrims. I, too, brought my intentions on this pilgrimage- along with those dear to me who asked me before I set forth from Maine. Some ask for healing, others for spiritual growth, a graduating student worker asked me to pray for him. As for me, it is for sustaining and healthful employment. Things have become quite urgent, and retreating to the community was for refuge. In all, the congregational cries for mercy incorporated mine, too. True to the legacy of Saint Faustina, we do not live for ourselves alone, but must uphold the intentions of others in need. So many people struggle.






pathways

After exiting the church, following the intensity of the services, I regularly walked the nearby woods. Balancing the structured prayers is contemplative open air. The region is replete with hiking trails, rock ledges, and the Housatonic River. Early spring weather is consolingly moderate. Rural New England is especially calm during the off-season. My week in Stockbridge mingled the built sacred space and nature. As many pilgrims do, I lodged at the Red Lion Inn, enjoying the leafy village as well as walks to the shrine, which is in an area called Eden Hill. To relax my thoughts, I brought some light reading with me; just before leaving, I borrowed The Wind in the Willows from the Boston Athenaeum. I’d never read it completely before, the story became a companion along river trails and on the front porch of the Inn. As I found, the adventure takes place along a river. Words and imagery in the story strikingly matched the landscape in the Berkshires.

Hiking along the Housatonic, I made sure to look upward at treetops and mountains. The new spring growth in the forest sweetened the breezes, and with temperatures in the low 40s, I was not bothered by bugs. Such favorable conditions freed me to air my thoughts. It was a good thing I gave myself seven days, as I needed at least the first three to stop the workplace racket that followed me into my solitude. Gradually, the beautiful scenery, the equally beautiful prayers, and warm hospitality I received began to supercede residue from the situation I had interrupted for the retreat. As my steps followed a river curve, permitting a longer view, I told myself, “Don’t talk to the past. Just don’t. There’s nothing for you there.” Somehow, that became a refrain in a stream that flowed alongside the daily three o’clock Divine Mercy devotions.

Although the Divine Mercy prayer is repeated many times, it is so concise and poignant that my every pronouncement is entirely heartfelt. Along the trails, and even as my thoughts strayed, I noticed how the prayer would return to me. Recent years of tireless caregiving and employment turmoil generated a persistent insomnia. During my immersion of mountain air and the prayers, I found the retained refrains for mercy lulling me back to sleep. Involuntarily the words speed up and slow down. The prayer is with me, right to this moment of writing. A retreat is neither escapist, nor is it a problem-solving venture; it is an intentional pause, a surfacing for air. I return to the same difficulties that I’d interrupted, yet with some experiences for reflection, a little more strength, and new reminders of the broader universe. Matching the harsh roads of daily life is the terribly unreasonable holding on to hope. One cannot exceed one’s all, save for a trusting faith that extends beyond the all. That is the opposite of negotiating with things past.

berkshire pilgrimage

“Spring was moving in the air above
and in the earth below and around him,
penetrating even his dark and lowly little house
with its spirit of divine discontent
and longing.”

~ Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows.

Liminal spaces herald the passage of time. A threshold into a new season is a reminder of the close of what preceded it. Of course, the days and months advance, and we have no control of that. What we can do is take notice. Acknowledgment settles thoughts across thresholds. As I’ve often done, over the years, during the trudging drudgery of winter’s traversal I plan spring retreats. I’ve learned how valuable it is to plan some respite, while amidst particularly intense spells of work. Recognition prompts movement, and at this time of the year, I want to be able to see and taste the spring season I’ve only been able to notice as a backdrop. While juggling the daily business of life and labor, I noticed enough seasonal progress to decrease the number of clothing layers, parallel to increasing temperatures. As well, I’ve immediately cherished the return of post-6pm daylight. Surely a sign to pause the pace and savour the season.

A pilgrim soul recognizes the subtlest of ingredients as contributing to the grander journey. My hard-won earned time off is attributed in weekly increments of 2.8 hours, corresponding with my full-time employment. Indeed, calculation is part of the preparation for a pilgrimage. Also swept up in the planning are tasks such as paying bills, maintenance on my car, and gradually tossing provisions into a tote bag at the base of my desk at home. As the travel draws closer, each accomplished project, each lecture, each household chore joins with my pilgrim path. The early months of this year merged into a challenging obstacle course, yet I was able to fulfill all my commitments in time. During the two weeks prior to setting forth, I had been an organizer in two large community events, in two different Maine cities, and served a community dinner in between. Even my writing projects had to be postponed. Some holy adrenaline was followed by catharsis, all of which pointed me south and west to my chosen place of retreat.

During the winter, while thinking about a spring retreat, I thought of where I might find a lot of unstructured quiet. And fresh air. I wanted unimpaired aromas of the season. As usual, it needed to be a place conducive to spiritual renewal. With these things in mind, I thought of the Berkshires. The mountainous region of western Massachusetts- before tourist season- can be healthfully peaceful. Stockbridge has a pilgrimage destination, the National Shrine of the Divine Mercy. I had not been there in four years, and my first extended retreat in that area was twelve years ago.

the pilgrim arrives

Gathering these physical and spiritual threads is the act of pilgrimage. This is to say an intentional sojourn for the purpose of maturity and comprehension of the sacred. Indeed, I remain ever in agreement with the anonymous author of The Cloud of Unknowing, who affirmed that our advancement toward holiness is measured not my mileage, but by desire. “Love and desire constitute the life of the spirit,” he wrote. It is such profound and propelling motivation that brings souls to reach forth to holy sites and reminders of creation. Seeking and finding recurs many times. Continual searching indicates continual discovery. It is the deepening of a lifetime of faith.

While pilgrimage is a physical stretch forward, and retreat a contemplative pause, struggles can follow the traveller. Along with the forward advance are invasions from the past, especially the recent past. To better appreciate and savour beautiful surroundings, it becomes necessary to shard off the accumulated detritus of anxiety, worries, workplace hardships, and lingering negative thoughts. That takes time. A good change of scenery helps to balance perspective. I used much of my four-hour drive, diagonally across the heart of New England, to lecture to myself about my recent ordeals. There’s nothing like a solo road trip to give yourself your undivided attention and set things straight! As the scenery rolls along, traffic thins out, and my own recognition gives way to acknowledging fatigue and longing for positive change. My self-talk runs its course, and words advance into prayers. The Massachusetts Turnpike finds its westernmost terminus in West Stockbridge, and I depart to mingle with curved and steep little quiet roads. My back seat is freighted with clean clothes, books, and writing materials- and I have a head filled with thoughts and hopes. Retreats are lifelines, liminal spaces between treacherous desert stretches. Gratitude comes very quickly, along leafy and lilac-scented lanes.

Wheeling into Stockbridge, and recognizing some familiar places, I checked into my little 18th century room. There was a welcome note on the writing table, with some baked treats. The blended aromas of linens, the ancient interior, and lilacs at my window reminded me to make note of the present. Monument Square suddenly felt at least 240 miles behind me. There was no more travelling or arriving to be done. And I proceeded to do the “what tells me I’m here” things. That’s my way of beginning to absorb a place long-awaited. I took my camera, and walked a few steep hills near the shrine church; I walked some bucolic pathways, looked skyward, and drew in deep breaths of sweet mountain air. I wanted some new imagery to fall asleep by. Writing and reading followed, after which I sunk into an antique bed. The arrival to a retreat is simply for absorbing the surroundings. It is a place for inquiry and intention, not for problem-solving. In a short evening’s arrival, I already saw I’d chosen the right place.

writing pilgrim

“Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage,
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage...

...Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.”

~ Sir Walter Raleigh, The Passionate Man’s Pilgrimage.

Optimism is an increasingly grave matter. By this, I refer to upholding an earnestly positive perspective. More than that, to do so, full on, through all circumstances- even in these times. With each day, there are more than enough current events stories to erode heart and hope. I try to limit my exposure to news media, and long ago gave away my television. With scarce time to write, I’d rather not be immersed in continuous streams of advertising and superfluous, avoidable noise. Not enough time for reading and writing; too many excuses that lead to fear and a sense of insufficiency. Claiming some safe space, at least enough for a good night’s sleep, takes as much vigilance as the simple- yet vital- will to be creative.

There are many plausible reasons to just give up the effort. During a recent lunch hour’s journal scribbling, my recorded thoughts included the phrase, “why persevere?” Later, that evening, the philosophical discussion forum which I moderate elected to use the question as the shared topic. I listened to a variety of definitions to illustrate the meaning of perseverance. In the usual Socratic fashion, the discussion moved from the human will to live, to continuity, to whether altruism exists. Philosophy tends to beget more philosophy. Hearing so many insights spiral out of the idea of persevering was much more interesting than expressing my own doubts.

Going to work every day, with an insistent drive to see better days, has been my unworded answer to the question. Of course, persevere. If I don’t, I’ll be out of a place to live (if gentrification doesn’t strike first), or employment (if budget cuts don’t strike first). There’s no standing still. That’s a persistence related to survival, and at second thought seems rather shallow. Shouldn’t there be grander goals than water-treading persistence? The great work cannot merely be an ascent to the surface; baselines are not suitable destinations. An enduring image is brought to mind from my adolescence, when my father would take me on long walks. I loved doing this, just tagging along and absorbing his observations. Sometimes we’d stop for a breather at park benches, during which he would tap the bowl of his pipe, to shake out the old tobacco in order to replace it with new. When he’d do this above an ant hill, we would watch how the ants furiously dug out from under the ash. It never mattered how frequent, they would always upwardly clear away their places and paths with the same persistent urgency. I found this really fascinating, and the memory of this has visited me at many of my jobs, and when I have to exhume my car in the winter dark of early-morning.

It was no less than a seasoned monk (in a monastery) that called me a “cockeyed optimist.” Maybe he saw something that I couldn’t. Persevere? Well, of course. Why not? Making some measure of progress, however modest, is vital. When there are no through-paths in sight, looking forward is a foraging for escape hatches. Keep aspiring, stay productive, and continue reaching for a better situation, despite the dead ends in sight. Beneath this activity, within all the improvement attempts and hopes, is the pilgrimage spirit. Reach forth without the solidity of reward.

Excessive thought can become an obstacle to action, especially when it comes to weighing justification for not trying. Blind faith is, admittedly, quite unreasonable. As a pilgrim soul ever explores and navigates, it seems to me that hope often defies reason. And amidst reasonable hopelessness is some kind of unreasonable aspiration. You may not understand this. It doesn’t really make sense, when considering what little is immediately visible. And that’s just it: we have to size up and interpret what we can see, against what we cannot. Consider the contrast between an after-midnight sleepless gaze upon motionless and darkened streets, compared to the same window view to a sunstreamed landscape hours later. To my ears, it seems rather absurd when an athlete on a last-place team says something like, “we’re making great improvements, and with a few adjustments we’ll succeed.” But absurdity, in this case, is in the ears of the beholder. By contrast, how does the athlete perceive their own situation, and the way upward?

There is much to overlook, in order to see straight to the horizon. I have to visualize past numerous daily reminders that are capable of convincing me to simply give up. It is a struggle in itself to protect clear and well-intending vision from exhaustion, resignation, and anger that can easily harden into cynicism. There is a life-threatening, cavernous drop from such a steep precipice. Still more perseverance is needed, as if there’s an endless supply. But how much and how far is unknown, and that is an uneasy dimension of pilgrimage. On this hard journey, perhaps I’ve accomplished much, but admittedly I haven’t done a tenth of what I’m well prepared to do. Time does not stand still, and neither does my patience. Should I see the present as the start of what is yet to fulfill, or as the point from which to measure my time remaining to try correcting my failings? There must be good enough reason to soldier on, better than meeting creditors’ deadlines, making the digging out of the ant hill worthwhile. Without a tidy conclusion to these dilemmas, work commitments demanded that I close book and pen. Retaking the crosstown pavement, I chose to walk along Pleasant Street, and to think about that.

Several evenings ago, while waiting on a long line at a supermarket, the customer in front of me noticed my lapel pin. “Love that typewriter pin.” The next comment was memorable: “Are you a writer by trade, or is it your passion?” Much is implied in a question like that. Sometimes avocation and vocation do coincide. Because I don’t punch a clock as a paid, professional author, I balked in my response. “Oh, it’s a passion, all right,” I replied, righting myself. Within these little interactions is another illustration of the life of a pilgrim of trust. Pilgrimage, by definition, is a one-way voyage through unknown passes, en route to an eternal destination. The way is indefinite and unpredictable. Incorporated into the grand voyage are months, days, and hours of stages in the journey. For the writer, the increments are paragraphs, sentences, and jots. Indeed, there is always something to write about. Our “scrip and staff” relate to the instruments of our craft. With fellow journeying writers, we compare our notes. There are trails, paths, and desert stretches of road; there are tasks and trials. With our companions, we regale one another, continuing the ancient ways of storytelling as we see in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. A writing pilgrim often must create their own maps, and surely the scrolls are of our creation. Among prized instruments that permit us to make our marks, are our collected words. With our words and inspirations come our functional metaphors. In this context, a great example is the word compass.

Places of respite and pauses are sparing, brief, and never quite satiating. Perhaps I must take that to mean I cannot rest long on the sidelines. There is no shrinking back from the continuum. Within this is the most difficult terrain for the pilgrim soul. Proceeding without good reason. Invest the entirety of one’s life and energy in the midst of waste land. Do it anyway, and wholeheartedly. The immediate is tangible, the hereafter is accepted on faith, but the intervening span is the greatest unknown. Uncertainty must be armed with readiness, aimlessness with direction. In motioning forward is the brashest boldness.

change of pace

“If you don’t like how you’re feeling,
change what you’re doing.”

~ Fr. John Tokaz, Capuchin Franciscan friar, from Boston.

Over the years, I’ve absorbed friendly jabs for making round-trip journeys using two different routes. As an example, the outbound trip using highways is complemented by an inbound return trip using country roads. I do these worthwhile things without much thought. Another recurrent set of curiosities has to do with all those solitary retreats and pilgrimages I’ve made through the years. I use hard-earned vacation time for these travels, which continue to be very worthwhile to me.

But it is good to change the pace. This culture incorporates more than enough unquestioned repetition, especially the endurance-contest life of multiple and full-time work situations. The better employment settings allow for some healthful variety. When it does not, the sanity factor depends upon what can be done during time-slivers between shifts. Early mornings, earned-time breaks, and late-nights offer some opportunities for diversions. These have taken shape among the simple forms of writing, reading, observing by camera, and thoughtful reflection. Routines repeated over a protracted period of time cause things in general to lose their tastes and stagnate. Stagnation is the enemy of creativity. The long-haul challenge is to blend changes of perspective into the desert stretches that dangerously devour precious time. It can’t all be about punching the clock with time cards. And though it may seem counterproductive, when it comes to fitting activities in between blocks of obligations, my preference is to slow the pace that I’ve interrupted. Reflective quiet is a replenishing change of pace. Silence and savour actually help me re-enter the frenetic fray. Though the passage of time cannot be slowed, our tempi can be changed.

While I was working my way through art college, one of my jobs was a graveyard shift from 8pm to 8am in a newspaper printing pressroom. The best part about that job, aside from all the free blank newsprint paper I’d use in my drawing classes, were my benchmates. I worked with a father and son, both named Tony. Tony senior, a military veteran and single parent, was a walking trove of wise aphorisms. With Tony junior, the three of us had a lot of laughs, even amidst the roughcut brutishness of the factory-like workplace. We kept each other sane. I’ve committed some of Tony senior’s wisdom to memory, such as his advice to walk to and from work different ways. He would tell me to change sides of the street, just to shake up the daily routine. The spice of life is found in variety. My grandmother used to tell me to vary my diet, lest- as she said- my “intestines would get bored.” Those little reminding shreds are road signs that I continue to see in my mind’s eye. A memorable colleague used to tell me that, “hardship is inevitable, but misery is optional.” This is to say there are some margins for choice, even under limitations.

Baseball uses the term “change-of-pace,” to describe a kind of throw designed to confuse an opposing batter’s expectation. As a pitcher, you would throw a change-up, making a slower pitch seem like it’s advancing faster and straighter to the batter. But, by surprise, the ball’s velocity slows and its path curves, thus amounting to a changed pace. Diversion has the element of surprise; even the force behind the decision to divert will experience the unexpected. A collegial friend, with whom I keep in touch, likes to refer to his innovations as “troublemaking.” Essentially, he’s a creative thinker among bureaucrats, and he says that stirring the waters keeps him motivated. “I get up in the morning,” he once told me, “and think of what kind of trouble I can cause. Otherwise, it’s not worth it.” This fellow is something of a bureaucrat himself, and when he says “trouble,” he really means something more like changing the paces and perspectives of entrenched ideas.

We know how the elements in our midst can cause us to change our pace. An obvious example is the weather. Simple errands on frigid winter days require armor made of improvised clothing layers and heavy footwear. Vehicles must be exhumed, chiseled, and warmed for use. As spring sets in, the novelty returns which allows us to skip outdoors in shirtsleeves, start the car, and just go. More subtly, our social environments and influences weave into our paces. How about the other way around? Can our interior evolvement effect exterior change? Can an individual’s response to an unsatisfactory status quo hasten tangible, positive change?

Contemplative and active dimensions intertwine, in the expansion and acceleration of our paces. The liminal season between winter and spring provides some reminders. Appropriately, A.W. Tozer offered a description of the human challenge in keeping spiritually alive and what he called “personal renaissance.” In Winter Experiences, he wrote of the flagging soul as “going under for a winter.”

“In other words, something happens to you, little by little, until you get snowed under and frozen over. There is life down there, covered up by the frost and ice. It may be hidden; it is there somewhere.”

How can interior affect exterior, bringing the forces up through our frozen ground? Still further, what happens when new growth joins with old routines, after changes of pace? After all, neither dimension exists in isolation from the other. Far beneath the metaphorical frost-line is Ruysbroeck’s Vale of the Soul. The 14th-century contemplative exhorted his readers not to think too highly of themselves, but rather to see themselves as reflecting vessels. Ruysbroeck’s vale, stark and austere, is lit by the sun at its apex, as well as light cast from surrounding mountains. Implicit here is the necessity of the snowcapped heights as means by which we navigate the recesses. In this recognition, a person recognizes their own humility, “marking their own lowliness,” and “making of themselves a valley of humility.” Proceeding forward,

“This valley, the humble heart, receives three things: it becomes more radiant and enlightened by grace, it becomes more ardent in charity, and it becomes more fruitful in perfect virtues and in good works.”

Knowing to change the pace is a more complex discipline than mere vigilance. This is more about cultivating ways to intuit the need to vary one’s vantage point. Shutting out external noise is one matter, but it’s quite another, and more transcendent still, to keep from generating one’s own interior noise. Being right where you are, is already a way to change things up. Regarding the as yet unknown, the view might be more interesting from a country road, or the other side of the street.

See also: Valley Street.