voyageur de l'espérance

"Le silence n’est pas un vide, c’est une traversée vers une plus grande écoute, vers une plus grande présence."

~ Francine Carrillo, Le Silence : Un Artisanat de Quotidien

To say traversal in this context would only suffice as a beginning, in describing a crossing-over, a voyage of transition, through a dense wilderness, a desert, a night of the soul. I once traversed a very long and unknown causeway bridge during a road trip, just after midnight, during a rainstorm, and could not figure out how far across I was advancing; alone on that road, my only visibility was about twenty feet in front of my headlights. The best and sole task was to steer straight and remain watchful. Having already driven about six hundred miles, it seemed endless.

Setting forth with all we have and all that we know, risks where and who we are. Yet we go. As my arms reach farther before me, what had been in my grasp falls away. Only when I momentarily stop to think about it, I am able to recall what residual weights had been released. Though new places, seasons, and identities may be uncertain, it is the promise of renewal that drives us onward. A most worthy crossing-over is that which traverses desolate stretches and into consoling solitudes in our deepest heart. It is a return, with the familiarity of my maternal language, but with the newness and assurance of a clean slate.


Being restored to ourselves, even in solitude, is far more than a tearing-away from accumulated anxieties, but rather a transcending of such disabling thoughts so as to descend deeply within one's gravitational center. The inner life cannot subsist in surface thoughts; the spirit is sensed in the still realm of our very respiration. An acknowledgment of weakness needn't frustrate, neither should it endanger hope. Instead, I try to remember times when I'd say, "well, if this doesn't happen, or doesn't work, here are some other things to try." At other times, there is someone near me who has justifiably misplaced their own recollections; and I can serve as a memory of what has been tentatively forgotten.

Leaving discouragement behind, leaving loss by the wayside, I am navigating the departure from wanting through my thoughts, to a heart's desire to trust anew.

a perch on Montmartre

"The Little Prince climbed a high mountain. The only mountains he had ever known were the three volcanoes, which came up to his knee. And he used the extinct volcano as a footstool. "From a mountain as high as this one," he said to himself, "I'll get a view of the whole planet and all the people on it..." But he saw nothing but rocky peaks as sharp as needles."

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

This is a time during which all things are taken close to heart. Surely not in the sense of being agitated at the slightest tremor. Immersion in one's being is not even close to superstition. Quite the opposite, to breathe in deeply of the Spirit is to realize the extent of one's strength. I have experienced joyful welcomes in places that are thousands of miles apart. It is as though I have many homes, when I feared I had none. Far above place, it is the enthusiasm of greeting which goes straight to my heart; honest kindness, gratitude, and openness.


In recollecting, I am brought to ponder how the precipice of despair has forced open my receiving embrace of mercy. It remains a wonder to me, and I believe it will for a long time. Changes of scenery, even for the cause of refuge, have become ways of returning to myself. I sought to remedy what was lacking, and as I emerged from the crepuscular void of grief, it turned out that nothing and no-one is missing. The fear of loss is gone. I am here.


As we return to ourselves, we go to the innermost realm where truth dwells; it is not beyond our reach. Indeed, the words of life are right on our lips. How I had lost sight of that! In retreating for refuge, all along the way I noticed beauty- the kind of plain eloquence that brings the brilliance of the spirit to consciousness. The shifting light of day, the taste of fresh bread and fruit when we’re famished (but trying to be discreet about it), receiving the presence of others, scents and sounds. Perhaps what was lacking, if anything, was perspective, and perhaps part of that was forgetting to be conscious.


Care must be taken not to be so quickly self-condemning, that I cannot learn simple truths the first time around, and that I must learn the same life lessons many times over. It is all to make emphasis that as deep suffering gives way to peace, what I saw as numerous "false starts" are actually increments pointed toward this very moment I am writing these precise words. Points of view I have wished to leave by the wayside now become incongruent to the extent that such negative perspectives simply no longer fit, and do not warrant another minute’s worth of time. Oddly enough, anxieties re-appear, even when I worry about maintaining the good momentum of renewal. The feelings are strangely familiar, but their substance is now simply out of context. Indeed, this forward motion requires some nurture, even after such inertia has been overcome, and progress will proceed. It will.


Innumerable "false starts" are still no cause for cynicism. And to be troubled about such things is as self-undermining as worrying whether I’ll wake tomorrow morning and wondering if I’ll wash up, have my coffee, and brush my teeth. Of course I will. I always have. It seems I need to actually see myself learn these lessons. Aspiration allows me to see possibilities, and in turn I continue to aspire. As it was for Augustine, to desire is to be truly in prayer; the two are parallel. And though I must fully engage the chaos, the silence of the monastery need never depart. Even in humble, workday parcels, silences bear the roots of the cultivated interior life, recalling how greater is that which is within us than that which passes through this world.

next right thing

"Take, take 'til there's nothing,
Nothing to turn to.
Nothing when you get through.

Won't you break,
Scatter pieces of all I've been.
Bowing to all I've been running to."

~ Silence, by Jars of Clay

Mountains of transfiguration are not purposed ends, but means. And indeed, far from contrivance, a life of presence that attends to the moment cannot predict whither the wind blows, where it comes from, or where it is going. What I can do is be present enough to realize what is happening to me, internalize what I learn to be new ways to reverence the situations and souls in my midst, and then to venture out. As in the parable of the talents, the investments of which I am entrusted are not for me to bury in the ground. Gifts are useless in underground coffers, and it would be an injustice to overcautiously squander wealth that is designed for gentle and generous conveyance. In my experience, there has been less emphasis and even nostalgia about places and events when there's a continuum of giving and receiving.


This new adventure bears the colors of paradox. By moving forward with a heart full of confident hope, I have also surrendered an obstructive resistance to the spectrum of this life as it is presented to me- of which I am undeniably an ingredient. Resisting the present is not only exhausting, but it endangers becoming a personal identity. Why be negatively identified, as those who are known by what they oppose? Resistance spends a whole lot of energy, talents as it were in the classical sense, better applied for the cause of encouragement and improvement.


What a worthwhile challenge, to engage in dis-identifying from the detrimentally cerebral sphere of unconscious thought. I say swing that wrecking ball right here, right on those obstructive barriers. And then suddenly there follows the prospect of not being identified with painful suffering. The landscape does change, when the outmoded, tyrannical East Bloc architecture is razed. But that deep inner pain can be so profoundly embedded as to become something of an implant. Crises which cause us to clamor for metaphorically life-threatening surgery, are really the crossroads between an interminable self-condemnation and what has been called by Eckhart Tolle as "a complete alchemical transmutation of the base metal of pain and suffering into gold."


There is a new season on the runway. Just a few days returned, after weeks of milder weather in France, through the bracing and icy Maine air, I can see an undeniably evident spring light. It is a Springtime of the soul. The passage of time needs no permission to occur, however it is for me to actively embrace the present, and not look backwards for either an identity or an approval. It is the worthwhile vigilance.

la nuit comme le jour est lumière

"My thoughts cannot comprehend Divinity, and so I prefer to abandon all I can know, choosing rather to love even that which I cannot know.

Let loving desire, gracious and devout, step bravely and joyfully beyond and reach out to pierce the darkness. Yes, beat upon that thick cloud of unknowing with the dart of your loving desire and do not cease come what may."

~The Cloud of Unknowing, ch. 6

Learning a new environment, so as to find the comforts and become aware of the pitfalls, means figuring out the preferable shops and eateries, understanding the local culture, and memorizing the streets and regulations. Hardly a week back into the routine again, my steps are simultaneously measured and bold, though surely borne from strides that have covered ancient and faraway paths. A life that proceeds cannot stand still, even in the glow of communion, and it is for me to cultivate, increase, and give of what I continue to receive.


Today, after too many draining meetings, I smiled to myself as I recalled one of the monks in Taizé gesturing with his hands clasped tightly together, describing to me how the more fiercely we seek the things of God, the stronger the response that comes to us in return. Here are my proving-grounds: the meetings, relationships, material concerns, and the day's extemporaneous situations that cause me to practice what I learn. Will it be a conscious attentiveness, or the old tiresome resistance? With old habits clashing with new consciousness, I am noticing a lot of new "no U-turn" signs on familiar streets. The unknown is preferable to what I have seen not to work, and now looks so much more inviting.

sólo la sed nos alumbra

"And you would think now hope would be tired,
But it's all right.
You would think tired, ragged and oil-brown,
But it's all right.

Since everything's possible,
We will still go,


~ The Innocence Mission, Go.

The phenomenon of an interior renewal, whether occasional or continuous, is a tremendous mystery. We might simply resign our thoughts with an expression such as "well, the sun rises tomorrow, and shall assuredly each day." But that is at best a surface observation, and is insufficient. How is it possible that a barely visible grain of hope becomes enough to move a mountain? What happens in the dark night of the soul when, for a seemingly interminable span of time, thoughts of an apparent tomorrow offer no encouragement- and then a palpable aspiration arises? Sure, my friends have heard my "I hope so's," and "I think so's," uncertain to the same level as my wonder that a newness of life should be delivered to a doubtful person like me. Is it a question of strength at all?


Breaking the bonds of time begin to resemble the ways we can jettison our past's dead wood. In this I am learning how the future lights the present, not the other way around. My natural skill at perseverance would now be little more than status-quo, without a mysterious undergirding force that has not emanated from me. A flickering signal light can increase to a persistent fire within, and beneath what I can hardly describe is the sure call to courage. Now to maintain this spirit. But then as a true paradox it would be subverting to be concerned with the distance ahead and any sort of grasping, rather than to be about the immediacy of being.

conduis-moi sur le chemin d'éternité

"Blessed is the one whom you choose and call
to dwell in your courts...
You keep your pledge with wonders;
The hope of all the earth
and far distant isles..."

~ Psalm 65

The ancient life-practice of pilgrimage extends to far more than a limited journey. Yes, there is a setting forth, with a destination that combines spiritual and physical places. The way-stations in between are limitless in form and personage. My own life of pilgrimage has involved numerous homes, roads, vehicles, airports, diners, offices, and welcoming ambulatory personal spaces. They are unpredictable, and that is the beautiful and formless nature of a pilgrimage of trust on earth.


In 2002, after an immortal experience- and nearly home to my doorstep in Portland- I stopped at a convenience store at about 1:30am, realizing that for a long absence from home, I'd not left any perishables at home. Setting the half-gallon of milk on the counter, the equally-drowsy cashier exhaled with, "what brings you out this time of night?" I simply responded nonchalantly with "I just drove fourteen hours from Toronto," that was enough to bring the cashier to tears. Apparently, she had been watching the World Youth week of events on television; over and over she said, weeping, "I know where you were. I know where you were. I prayed for all of you." Somehow, she knew correctly. The moment was as poignant as anything I'd experienced as a simple musician amidst a million pilgrims with Pope John Paul. My own extraordinary pilgrimage wended right through the aisles of a Cumberland Farms store on Woodford Street.


We needn't deceive ourselves into thinking that our journeys are without significance. It surely isn't about pursuing the next morsel of personal recognition, or making achievement into a narcotic. And once that burden is thrown off, but the positive momentum maintained, the pilgrimage continues as a flourishing voyage instead of a closed loop. For myself, the sea change is so powerful that with this return I will cultivate what has taken root. Moving from belief to convincement is to realize the pilgrimage of trust is eternally hopeful- and- that just as those I welcome are strength for my travels, the welcoming souls I encounter embrace me in turn along their ways.

mon âme se repose, à Taizé

"L'espérance ne consiste pas d'abord en un mouvement de l'homme vers le futur, mais en un mouvement de Dieu vers l'homme, en l'initiative de Dieu, en sa venue à partir de son avenir à lui."

~ frère Pierre-Yves Emery de Taizé, Le Souffle de l'Espérance


Taking up the quill (and the graphite) a month ago, and pondering the recent months from 35,000 feet above the North Atlantic, I saw that it had been far more than my labored steps which had brought me aloft- but truly the Source of all gracious substance. Rather than resist all that illuminates my present from what awaits, my thirst brought me to gladly unburden and surrender to what I could already see would be magnificent, without even knowing the details. With the hum of the large jet, and amidst the silent, sleeping passengers, the Psalmist's words came to me,"why are you cast down, my soul?" Surging waves of indignation have passed over me, and healing calm has taken hold. It is a literal and heartachingly humbling passover.


Now, just resuming the quotidian life I had stepped away from, there is as much that is familiar as there is which I no longer wish to consider routine. Bittersweetness is a spice sprinkled upon all our days, diluted or concentrated. However the peace that surpasses even a surface understanding brings me to discover consolation when it seems obstructed. The weeks of writing, visiting and celebrating, hiking, and reflection are only beginning to come to fruition. Each experience builds upon the value of accumulated adventures. Bringing it home is the challenge, and as with any life, be it sentient or not, nurture is essential. When I settled into my place on the TGV train between Taizé and Paris- at the midpoint of my journey- it was clear to me that while I hungered for my heart to be simply patched back together, what I had actually experienced was a subtle transfiguration.

landfall

"Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and you shall live:
And I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring flesh upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live..."

~ Ezekiel, chapter 37

It is no longer a wait, but an arrival; not a longing for the irretrievable past, but a looking forward that centers on the present. What had been a dagger in my chest is now grazed cannon fire of which I have been spared. Yes, this is a new land, and my steps are just at the beginning- however I am tapping into strength that is profoundly rooted beneath these experiences. There is a rush in the air, and something wondrous is happening right at this moment.


Well before dawn I awoke, and from my window much of the results of last night's snow remains untouched and reflectant. The voices and faces of those who have blessed me with their presence fill my light recollections, and I want to honor them all with what I can make of this life given to me. These times are simply shadows of what is to come, and even if what embodies the now constitutes all I really have, the embracing of this moment gives way to confidence that can see beyond the confines of expectations and setbacks. I was sure I heard the double bolting of slammed doors, but now it appears the door may have been bolted only from the inside.

the end of the land of exile

"One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it unless it has all been suffering, nothing but suffering."

~ Jane Austen, Persuasion

bonum est confidere

What more appropriate time than the Eighteenth of this month to pause and give thanks for the written word. Let's consider why we write, why we tone our muscles of orthographic articulation to record our thoughts and observe our ever unfolding lives.


In Scott Peck's opening chapter of his Road Less Traveled, he is sure to establish that if anything at all, life is difficult. By setting this in context, we neither rail against the absence of unrealistic perfection, nor do we hold assumptions that things must be easy. But I would add that when we write, we are sure we are not alone.


The written word can vindicate, as well as advocate. Considering how persuasive prose has advanced major causes, it brings to mind the shortage of sharp wits in these times of sullen mediocrity. We can easily call to mind the power of well-constructed words during the Reformation, or the American Revolution. Not to be forgotten, amidst a horrific civil war- the bloodiest in the history of France- the massacred Huguenots could not match the resources of the armies of the royal courts. They stood well on ethical high-ground, having been hideously wronged and flagrantly murdered, yet undefeated their circumstances fuelled the spirit which helped them survive. "We had beaten them over and over again," said a king's soldier named Montluc, in a rage. "We were winning by force of arms, but they triumphed by means of their diabolical writings."

Lift your graphite, or inked, or pixillated swords, and persevere !

unanswerable impressions

"Something quite unexpected has happened. It came this morning early. For various reasons, not in themselves all mysterious, my heart was lighter than it had been for many weeks."

~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Even as the old spectres await my waking, as lance-bearing centurions keeping watch at my bedside and poised to pierce, things are suddenly different. In a homecoming, the winter freeze has taken hold, and under the frigid grip, I feel warmth burgeoning beneath. It is as though compression and the contractions of raw temperatures force a response, and that reaction is not a numb lifelessness, but instead a geothermal aspiration radiating through layers of ice.

You withheld sleep from my eyes, said the Psalmist, "I was troubled and could not speak." The writer of these words confessed that his soul actually refused to be consoled, as if there had been a choice. Sinking more profoundly into grief, remembrances of grace came to mind. The past right away became the dynamic present. Love has not vanished. The pondering of grandeur gives way to all the trust that is needed at this moment. This afternoon, faith means throwing on my wool coat, wrapping my scarf around, and going back to work. We are each needed. We are each awaited. Happy those who anticipate, for they are anticipated, too.

always and never

"‘This is the land of Narnia, where we are now’, said the faun. 'It is all that lies between the lamp-post and the great castle of Caer Paravel on the eastern sea.’ It is winter in Narnia, and has been for ever so long. Always winter and never Christmas."

~ C.S. Lewis, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe


It is in the very face of howling winds that I listen hard for the still voice of mercy, and on dry, barren lands I am pursuing new growth and living waters. This winter I was anticipating encouraging a loved one for whom winter has a depressing implication. Ironically, in the wake of loss and grief, I am the one that is being consoled by every other caring person in these times. Indeed, as I strengthen- I, too, can continue being a consoler. It has never been certain what events and people are found beyond the known lands and boundaries, but there must always abide a confident hope, an aspiration that breathes an affirmative to go forward.

harrowing movement

"Now I climb the steps to freedom.
The open gates, I can see them.
Hands that I once knew
Beckoning me through."

~ Mike Oldfield, I Can See the Light


My town, my home, my place of refuge has been strangely unfamiliar. New eyes battered by crisis cause me to see the known as unknown, ground to be explored afresh, acquaintance to be made. To be re-known. A ship guided by radar and sonar proceeds, notwithstanding the white void coming over the deck that makes the sky undifferentiated and seamless from the ocean.

I have set forth undaunted, and must have enough trust there will be calmer and better waters. An authentic pilgrimage is an earnest one-way voyage; it is the opposite of a closed loop. And it is a voyage of faith. Maps and prescribed descriptions may indicate localities, but these are merely two-dimensional representations of living and breathing places whose futures are as provisional as mine.

ne laisse pas mes ténèbres me parler

"There is a light, a light that never dies
See it shine, shining in my sorrow
There is a light, a light in my desire
See it shining, shining for tomorrow

Only love can give me an answer
Oh I know that love can heal
From the dust a new hope rises up
Only love can set me, set me free"

~ Mike Peters & The Alarm, Only Love Can Set Me Free


Just as I have begun to resume a modicum of regular sleep hours and at least a daily meal, the restless nights have returned. This time, though knowing I’ll pay for it later this evening, I simply woke and washed at 4am. It was a chance to watch for the gradual sun rise by candlelight. In due time, the exterior gradations of ambient illumination exceeded that of the lit votives and tapers on my writing table.

So very hungrily and tirelessly I have been pressing on for wholeness, navigating the dense and grievous haze. At times I can wake with a forward sense of the moment, otherwise my thoughts are invaded with imagined reasons why I must be so detestable. But then, if loving gestures reflect the hearts of those who give, perhaps in a similar sense hateful actions reveal the essence of their origins. While the life of the mind lends itself to the temptations of rationalization, my recent learning is giving way to regarding such thoughts from more of an observer’s vantage point. Indeed, there have been- and there will remain- unreasonable actions and sentiments that will never make sense, however what is always at hand is my ability to go forward without capitulating to morose principles. Even this far down the line, after things that would desensitize anyone, I am positively sure I will always love and proceed from my heart.
It is the only way.

resist voluntary squalor

"Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
and death shall have no dominion."

~ Dylan Thomas, And Death Shall Have No Dominion


Though I move among all of you, chatting with you, serving you, sipping coffee, and doing the normal day’s commerce, my open gashes are invisible to all. It is a tangible perplexity I have known before, in rare instances, that I pursue a normalcy albeit in the form of some eviscerated animal. Indeed, this is self-perceived, otherwise the responses in employment, cafés, post offices, and shops would be entirely different than the usual cordialities. Nonetheless, emotional wounds can cause a sense so pervasive as to debilitate. Or, at least to feel as if this is really so.

Surely, I have enough presence of mind to draw contrasts between the actual and the unreal. That is among the fringe benefits of gainful employment. No matter how I am feeling, I know what is required of me, and how to make the best connections between what is needed and what to provide. It is an undersold skill, and I’ve seen myself capable of such acute performance in the midst of harrowing grief and desolation. And yet, even now- as then- I count it a blessing that I have refused to opt for the cowardice of frivolous amnesia and willful squalor. Rather than slink away, I am engaging the battle to decimate the cumulative pain-body. Non-dealing is no way to deal. Even with the rawness exposed, I could never imagine squalor to be an option. Hardship indicates that sights must be set higher, not lower. Even the depths of crepuscular valleys can reveal gratitudes. One such unwitting blessing is the flat refusal to embrace insensitivity. Feeling wretched may run its temporal course, but it certainly does not imply a choice in favor of wretchedness.

dodging a mighty bullet

violent for mercy

"God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind."

~ 2nd Timothy 1:7


My physical steps are labored, on the steep uneven sidewalks of this seaside city, under burdens of books, work accoutrements, and this anguish that can tether even the strongest soul to the hard pavement. But with each day's worth of measured strides, with each planting and pushing-off of my feet on the bricks, I am sensing the depths of my strength. I look at the skies, even at night, and begin to ponder the concern and uplifting love that is around me, that is presented to me. When I can't find healing imagery within, my friends provide the healing words and gestures. When I have not been able to cook with my usual alacrity, I am breaking bread with dear souls who invite me to their tables. And so many, with such astonishing abundance. It makes me spin. I wonder if all these good people know who they are talking with, but I can do nought but to trust. To be loved is an even greater wonder for me than to love others. Pangs of abandonment cause me to flinch. Ultimately, I believe, we all get to serve one another and it must never be about keeping tallies.

And in the numerous conversations, I get to be thankfully distracted from what grieves my heart. It is the gift of the present, and I am able to view my life in the healthier context of being part of a great many lives. No person's life is perfect, least of all mine. Ironically for these times, I find myself in the familiar place of pointing others to hopefulness, and in the process there is the sprouting seed of encouragement within me. My profoundest wishes and desires are released into the universe, and now detached from me. It is all so raw and paradoxical, but now impossible not to notice this is the eve of the feast of the Epiphany.

anchor of my soul

"O that thou wouldst rend the heavens, and wouldst come down: the mountains would melt away at thy presence."

~Isaiah 64:1

i'll fly away

"sunlight has not found us
over forty days or more
while the flood outside proves no guide
to bring this little boat ashore

what we know this hour
is not what we will know
when these liquid days are done
in a turn of light like sun on subtle rose
we will see what’s just begun."

~ Charlie Peacock, Liquid Days


Simply the intense desire to turn the corner, to wish with all my strength that I be awash with the tide of sea change, is the tiny and extremely fragile mustard seed of trust. If it is so, as with ancient traditions, that we can keep company with our forebears, those who lived in other times with other deprivations and challenges, then I not only begin to sense their presence but as well that of my esteemed and living friends. The communion of the saints comprises those I know and trust, but also the comrades on the journey who have been corresponding with me. For years I have served and given, to the point of physical and spiritual exhaustion, and suddenly in the vulnerability of feeling the depths of the backstabs of time, I am recipient of the gifts of the graces of others. Grieving has broken me into many pieces. The wings of entrusted friendships have just begun to bear me up out of the trench of miry clay. All of which causes me to redouble my honest endeavour to be healed and whole, so that I can continue to be a presence to others, as I am gifted with the sanctity of the precious souls who give safe harbours in the torrent. Indeed, one might say hurricanes have eyes. I want to return to being a refuge, and as well nurture the trust that is being recovered.

Though overwhelmed and bereft, it becomes necessary to go forward. It is vital to call to mind that what is ahead is what exceeds that which is before me. The movement cannot wait until tomorrow; it must urgently happen, and in that uncertain dynamism I can just start to sense the excitement of the unknown. Daring to reckon with fears, and not delaying the process, is to throw off the burdensome yokes of servitude to negative forces of betrayal. The new and reinforced self is forced to leave behind the obsolete. Inertia will be overcome, and it is surely easier if we support one another, and it is certainly sweeter when we can share the good momentum.

in with the new

something more than this

"I'm hearing right and wrong so clearly
there must be more than this
it's only in uncertainty
that we're naked and alive
I hear it through the rattle of a streetcar
hear it through the things you said
I can get so scared
listen to the wind

I want you close I want you near
I can't help but listen
but I don't want to hear
hear that voice again

what I carry in my heart
brings us so close or so far apart
only love can make love"

~ Peter Gabriel, That Voice Again


The desert of exile is so unpleasant a constant, that despite any familiarity it is entirely contemptible. And the very distaste of this refuse of rejection is enough to force my reach to higher levels of meaning and understanding. In so doing, I may have established a vital ingredient to turn the wilderness wanderings into a directed emergence. Though I may have an evolving comprehension of the ultimate destination, the way there is replete with the unknown. As surely as there will be users and vicious players, I know enough to leave room for the always-welcome serendipitous. There is more than what is past and immediate, it is ahead of me now, and I am regaining a sense that it is so well worth the reach there will be no nostalgia for the refuse pile of carcasses.

All the good I have wished and created for others is also worth sharing with my own self. For those of us who assure every civil right to the people around them, yet play the despotic tyrant upon self, we must stage the sort of revolution that forbids all persecution- even toward ourselves. If we believe that each of us are beings of infinite value, including ourselves, then our constitutions demand an amended charter of rights.

yet to be

“You will have nothing but love
Nothing but hope, blue sky above
You will find nothing but peace
Nothing but the sun shining on your face

When you open your eyes

You will feel nothing but free
Nothing but trust that's how it should be
And one who cares about nothing but you
Watching close by the whole night through

When you open your eyes.”


~Mike Oldfield, Nothing But


Indeed it is a gift not to be dismissed, to have the ability to see. Clear vision is an almost effortless ingenuity that allows us to recognize a situation and notice open doors and possibilities. For those whose perceptive skills are finely tuned, potential can be glaringly obvious. Conversely, visionaries have the added dilemma of respectfully comprehending those who, for their own reasons, cannot bring themselves to see what is good. Frequently, the limitation lies in forms of prejudice- an irrational unwillingness to acknowledge worthy promise. The prejudging can take on varying aspects of unchecked bigotry, as much as a constricting naïveté that has yet to be challenged. Still further, the formidable twin saboteurs known as apathy and lethargy serve as obstructions to clear sightedness.

A wise and trusted friend and I were talking about the two-edged gift of sensitivity. Amidst intense anguish, with a memory of how this culture frowns upon the sensitive and vulnerable, I denounced the worth of compassionate awareness. It all looked to me like a debilitating course of overconcern and so much more work than the average person should be subjected to assume. But the alternative state, that of insensitivity and neglect, is so much more detrimental to personal growth and to participation in this existence and in the lives of those around us, that one would find themselves in far worse of a disjointedness from this precious life through which we only travel once. My good friend pointed out that as much as those who are sensitive are open to the pains of rejection and misunderstanding, we are equally open to the sublime, to beauty, and to profound joy. The successive outworking is that we who choose not to be calloused and cynical are also those who freely and gratefully give.

leave the schoolyard

"When we were children,
we thought and reasoned
as children do.
But when we grew up,
we quit our childish ways."

~ 1 Corinthians 13:11


Growing up in the asphalt jungle of inner New York City amplifies the metaphor all the more. Schoolyards are nominal, hard-paved spaces between the school building and its neighbors: chain-link enclosed, inhospitable, littered, constraining. If indeed it really is our tendency to carry deeply ingrained childhood experiences into the collective mélange of our adult years, we may even find that we take some kind of twisted comfort in the familiarity of penned-in incarceration. Though known and seemingly safe, the vandalized schoolyard is the narrow world of irresponsibility which we must all outgrow.

Our school districts may graduate us, but truly we must each decide to graduate ourselves out of the confines of bullying, pettiness, and puerility. Such cultural phenomena as that which sees numerous individuals dragging their adolescence well into their grownup years demonstrates a bizarre pulling-behind of the schoolyard. The intersection of current and counterculture forces the choice between apathy versus awareness. The cutting edge is in the realization there are others around us in this world, and that our thoughts, words, and deeds actually have consequential effects on those whose lives we touch. But we can’t embrace this difference, this challenge to pursue an expanded life, until we boldly leave the schoolyard.

simply broke

"I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow however turns out to be not a state but a process."

~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed


It is Christmas Eve day, sometimes called Little Christmas. As it had been necessary in past times, amongst the polite festivities, I am seeking refuge in the constructive distractions of labor, assisting others and working at my employment with hopes of redeeming the time and just getting through the season. Notwithstanding, I can neither be immune to my grieving, nor dismiss the summons to offer prayers.

When I began writing, this medium so resembled the gesture of scrolling messages into corked bottles and setting them forth into vast waterways, not knowing where or how or if they would reach anyone or anything. The very act of prayer is itself the supreme gesture of faith, that my hopes and sorrows will be heard; they will not fall on deaf ears. Even to imagine human ears belittles the forces of creation and divine compassion. But my comprehension has its limits. So I send my prayers, albeit in my simple and imperfect words. And I know you are out there, reading this. Perhaps you are alone right now; perhaps you are at your employment while it seems the rest of the world is out doing their commerce and either tolerating or exulting in the pageantry. You read this because you may be curious, you may still value some connection, you want to see if I am enraged. But I am not. Last night I dreamed that I told you that when you used to prefer me, you saw and conclusively experienced that I put my creativity, energy, and genuine love right into tangible action. Action is not passive and compassionate action is not wasted. "Even if the truth is not heard," Mahatma Gandhi once said, "it's still the unmistakable truth." "Talking a good game," is something anyone can do, without risk. The cutting edge is to love and say it with one's life; to consider others. Such vulnerability reminds me of how breakable earthen vessels can be, but it also attests to the courage of the giving of oneself and the vitality of survival.

how can the forgotten forget

"The labor, of course, is in the unrelenting struggle to banish the countless destructive thoughts that plague our minds and restrain them beneath that cloud of forgetting. This is the suffering.
All the struggle is on the human’s side in the effort he must make to prepare himself for God’s action, which is the awakening of love and which he alone can do."

The Cloud of Unknowing, chapter 26

When those who have suffered- either individually or corporately- capably embrace their histories, the beneficiaries abound. The effect is likened to casting stones into a body of water, with the rings of rippled water reaching incalculable distances. Lives filled with generous acts affect those who reach others, and results become the kind of contagion that serves as antidotes to this culture fraught with disingenuousness and cruelty. Simply put, the benefits of learning from one’s (or one’s community’s) history opens doors to choose not to repeat it, and even to keep vigilance lest others not repeat tragedies we have known first-hand.

This seems so very elementary, yet barely anyone can assemble the simplest equation. Many descendants of the diabolically decimated population of European Jews are numbered among legal defenders of civil rights and liberties. One of the most noteworthy human achievements of embracing this principle in the past century was the humble perseverance of the French Huguenots of Le Chambon Sur Lignon, recalling their ancestors’ torture and persecution while openly defying the Vichy and Nazi regimes. It seems so basic and mindful, but hardly anyone will dare to practice a response to the injustices they have seen and known. As a result, the abused will abuse, the persecutors will persecute, and those who crave mercy refuse to offer it themselves. The tragic chain of neglect perpetuates as its own toxic contagion, leaving ripples of aggrieved human souls in its wake. The chain breaks when conscious choices are made to transcend malice. Having known only glimpses of goodness is all the more reason to make generosity one’s life mission.

But what of the unscrupulous? How about those whose relational burns have brought them to calloused, amoral cynicism? Whether unwittingly or knowingly, these become the carriers and spreaders of interpersonal disease. Those who have witnessed this can equate the experience with forms of addiction: individuals need either extraordinary personal strength, or the positive reinforcement of community, in order to stay "on the wagon" of healing and renaissance lest there be relapse and the all-too-inviting proverbial slippery slope pulls the person backwards. The betrayed too easily become betrayers themselves. Fear, it seems, is so much easier than faith. Sardonism sadly insulates us so much better than the disarming vulnerability of hope. My personal experiences of unjustified affliction bids that I comprehend and emerge in a spirit of forgiveness and confident hope. Optimism, but a cautious optimism. Assuredly the proof that I am not amoral is that I am completely certain that I would never dishonor another human with the weapons that have been fired on me. That, dear reader, is a promise.

heart open wide

"It’s funny how they put you down when your hands are held up high;
And you open up your heart and soul,
but that’s not enough for most."

~ Mike Peters (The Alarm), Going out in a Blaze of Glory

On the premise that all life and faith culminates in relationships, and still further that all relationships involve choices, I am determined to continue to develop my emotional fluency and spiritual articulation.

Even from the amplified vulnerability of abandoned ruins, this is still the course to take. It is a kind of responsibility. A response-ability, we could boldly say. To be a complete and self-respecting individual, and to be faithfully compassionate toward others, I insist on better comprehending how to love and how to enunciate it with the whole of my being. And I’m doing it. It’s palpable.

I prefer it that way.

no insult like the truth

"First, there is the psychological conscience, which is better called consciousness. It reports to us the actions we perform. It is aware of them, and through them it is aware of itself. Second, there is our moral conscience, which tells us not only that we act, and how we act, but how well we act. It judges the value of our acts. The psychological and moral consciences are both faculties of the intelligence. They are two kinds of awareness of ourselves telling us what we really are."

~ Thomas Merton, Nul N'est Une Ile (No Man is an Island)

Taking a bold look at the big picture of real life- of reality- can remind us of our joys and consolations, and can also reveal that which is injurious and incorrigible. Nonetheless, the renewal of realistic perspective is the strong medicine that will help carry a person to the other side of despair and grief. Like prospectors who seek precious gems in mountains, while foraging through clay and rock and dirt, the stouthearted and diligent will discover the reflectant colors that shine out from the Pearls of Great Price.

When the contrast is struck enough times, between what is genuine and what is fool's gold, it becomes easier to distinguish all the love and cherished intention that surrounds me, from the impetuousness of intolerant rejection. Not enough of us know that ill will produces ill consequences. At times we are forced to accept the verdict of reducto ad absurdum, but there is still never a reason to resort to it ourselves.

cleaning house

"But that won't be enough for me,
Not this year not anytime soon.
I have got to clean house,
Gotta make my bed,
Gotta clear my head.
It's getting kinda stuffy in here,
Smells sorta funky too,
Like monkeys at the zoo...

Spirit, come flush the lies out..."

~Charlie Peacock, Monkeys At the Zoo

Readers be assured, and certainly all my friends and neighbors know that my housekeeping skills are impeccable. My humble home is always hospitality-ready. Part of my own spiritual discipline, over the years, has been to open my arms and heart to others with meals and a peaceful atmosphere.

Now, I am in the process of adapting the environment to be consoling and hospitable for my spirit. This is part of regathering and recovering. Somehow, the strength must return- and it's got to be some kind of combination of the spiritual health I had last summer plus the painful learning experience since. When a venture depends entirely upon myself, such as graduate school, employment, self-improvement, being a friend to others, I can carry such things all the way through to success. It's up to me. Of course, the success of a relationship depends upon both people involved, thus even the very best I can offer- in the finest spirit of generosity and understanding- can be refused and violently pushed away. Perhaps all a compassionate soul can do, as a result, is accept.

brave souls

"Nothing is more perilous to your own destiny, more unworthy of eternity, or more hurtful to your ordinary happiness, than being content to abide as you are.

Our whole life is given us with the object of going boldly on toward what will endure forever. The world slips away like a deceitful shadow, and eternity draws near. Why delay to push forward?"

~ François de Fénélon

Wishing only to be authentic, to be truly courageous while still being gracious, I try to understand- even through my own limitations (and those of others). There is nothing naive or passive at all about being real or by choosing compassion and forgiveness.

Some nights I look from my windows at the empty streets, and then up into the dark skies. It reminds me that I cannot know what is immediately ahead- what foregone conclusions will be forced upon me -or- what joyful news may be in transit. (For the September 11th terrorists, that day was was planned so far ahead that for them it was a stoic formality. For much of the rest of the world, that day began a gut-wrenching chain of events.)
The grieving process also forces a choice to make that very liminal space into a launching point into a greater strength.

I send wishes into the air and cast them upon the waters in little chips of paper confetti. I choose to be a brave soul.

pressens-tu un bonheur ?

"I have no fear of the future.
Let us go forward into its mysteries, let us tear aside the veils which hide it from our eyes and let us move onward with confidence and courage."

~Sir Winston Churchill


In times of crisis, such words as spoken during life-threatening warfare remind us of what bravery can bring out in us.What is courage, and what is cowardice?

Lately, I've begun to believe that hiding from enemies is nowhere as cowardly as shunning and running from what is good and what is benevolent. It is an action of fear- but not of reprisal from another. Instead it is the fear of the enemy within, and that life could actually improve- even if it means daring to leave the comfort zone of the known world of the substandard.

transcending defeat

"This overacted part from this never ending play
Is just her substitute
For reality anyway.
I've tried and tried to tell her
It's not what you do
It's what you've done with what you did."

~ Pray for Rain, Tried to Tell Her


Accepting loss and recognizing ineptitude forces a crossroad. One might choose permanent residence in the slough of despond, or choose the struggle to emerge from the trough. And this is not to attempt to build upon old ruins, but instead by reaching forward into the unknown I become aware I am no longer who I was a month or two ago, but am becoming newer and more improved. To be an appropriate steward of the life given to me, there better be improvement; otherwise it's back to the slough. In addition it helps to recall the transitory, provisional nature of the grand picture. It's a healthy sense of humility, the good kind of surrender, and the beginning of an openness to better things. But if the transition is growth in a positive direction, the invisible infrastructure of responsible love is revealed. Nothing in honest faith can be done at the expense of another soul.