open hands

Deep water
Black, and cold like the night
I stand with my arms wide open
I've run a twisted line...

I could not see for the fog in my eyes
I could not feel for the fear in my life
From across the great divide
In the distance I saw a light...


~ Daniel Lanois, The Maker

My steps along roads and through woods had brought me to a captivating river. It was just the other day. Strikingly bright light and saturated blue expanses drew contrasts against flowing ice, breaking away from the riverbanks. I needed to climb down to the water, and establish a clear memory of warming sun above stinging icy currents. Amidst a voyage, even a personal exodus, arriving at the side of a river represents the accomplishment of having covered some rugged undetermined distance, however this is but an encampment. The river must be traversed. The arrival is but a departure, and my crossing-over is with gratitude rather than regret. So I go.


With open hands, my intention is to release and not grasp at what was, or is incalculably yet to be. But this released grip is not a rescinding of my responsibility, rather an embrace of the moment and to look forward. For me to extend an openness- to others and to this springtime- there must be an unburdening of all that encumbers my being. And further along, surpassing roads and rivers, must come the recollection of maintaining the true meaning of the open gesture and not to be brought down by the weight of what is past. For me to let go is to make room; not for more self-defeat, but for the presence of those I encounter, as well as for the present that is given.


On my work-day breaks, when I can collect my thoughts, a sense of what my inner vernacular calls "losing the silence" becomes troubling. And that seems to me as something contradictory. Experience is now reminding me how silly it is to worry about not wanting to worry! It is rather like Meister Eckhart, in the 14th century, pondering the notion of the feeling of God being far away. He wrote that when feeling a "loss" of the Creator's presence, one should return to doing what they did when they felt the greatest spiritual consolation. It is as if to say I must retrace to where I knew I left off, along many miles of travel. Even if that might be in the simplicity of sensing of my own breathing.

north point

“Have you ever been to North Point
To spend your time and pray.
The prison walls so cold and dark and grey.

Then on a bright day at North Point
The gate was open wide.
Chancing to look at what was inside.

And then it all came back
Somewhere far above has a new day risen
Way beyond the searchlight
Comes alive.”


~ Mike Oldfield, North Point

Though I have lived my life along the Atlantic, the sight of the ocean has always been a welcome refuge. At times, I will go to the water’s edge simply to look, to be near, to remember my point of reference in this vast world, and as the weather permits- to jump in. Sometimes during an intermission in the work day, there will be a pier upon which I can perch- even downtown. At other times to simply abide amongst the large and uneven crags and the sands that emerge from the sea-salted waves, is where I sense my consolation. Going to the sea is reassurance and solace, reminding me of the great incalculable and unbridled forces that are far beyond any of us, grander than any structure or squabble of the day’s details. All I have to do is show up. The ocean needs no help to be able to move; it is not borne upon any pair of undependable mortal shoulders. On the northern New England terrain, this is where one can see out to the horizon, and up to vast and endless skies.


Years back, my sister and I used to wade in from the beach sands and squint to try and see France on the other side. Of course we did not know that was impossible, but as little children we did know the Atlantic was the divide between our two countries. Or perhaps the ocean expanse is what connects the land masses. Our lights and shadows, our confidence and doubts, dwell within us at the same time. In the same sense, our isolation and our connection are at once before us. The ocean has helped me come to terms with desolation, as well as providing a powerful sense of belonging. It has been good for me to witness places so boundless yet intimate, ever-changing yet certain. A topographical end, with precipices of decision, however an immense beginning.


There is a dear and meaningful Jewish new year’s custom which entails casting breadcrumbs into a body of moving water. It cannot be ponds or lakes, but can be rivers or oceans. Tossing the breadcrumbs is a tangible action representing the rescinding of regrets and remorse, to be carried away with the forces of creation. To do this is to invite renewal. The ocean of light and rebirth supercedes the ocean of darkness. Newness of life is a new land, and such things can be called to recollection on the journey. I went to the water’s edge this evening. At first it was to distract myself from my thoughts, and later through the freezing winds it became an immense gratitude for the changes in my life. When anguish has been so pervasive an experience, there is a danger of it becoming an identity, and that must be prevented from happening. I cannot really tell whether it is visible to others, but suffering must never be an identity. It has been tossed upon the moving waters.

terra nova

"Mais la mort, ici, n'est qu'un indice. En christianisme, ce n'est pas la mort comme telle, c'est la résurrection du Christ et le monde nouveau ainsi inauguré, qui impliquent, à propos de la réalité, une véritable et indispensable conversion de point de vue."

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


To feel the strength that new vision is enduring the tests of time and of the banality of the commonplace, is convincing me of its manifestation. Yesterday, I drove what we call the "airline road," which connects Bangor, Maine and New Brunswick, Canada. The nickname is due to the way that slick bending roadway rises, drops, and banks over scenery. Some of the views give an impression of being in the air, looking down at fields and water (but surely not as the above images of my approach to Iceland). I've driven the Airline Road many times, although with this recent adventure it all looked quite new, and somehow the grey backdrop of winter sky added a reassuring sense of serenity to all that was presented before me. Bare trees laden with ice were living black and white pictures. When I reached the Bay of Fundy, seeing evidence of extreme tidal movement demonstrated the certainty of change and the solidity of the ground upon which such transition takes place. As surely as morning after night, the spring tides will continue to bring the waters in close so as to immerse the land beyond the shore. Now that I have reached the new land, I can inhabit the new places with care and gratitude.


The landscape is familiar, yet different. I know enough to find my way, and yet the old Portland streets of my day-to-day reflect an evolving perspective. Is it what we see, or is it how we see that which is present to us? In a similar sense, there is a contrast between considering a statement like "things will never be the same" as something once having a connotation of fright, becoming an exciting prospect. Embracing the transitory aspects of living allows me to thrive in its very dynamism. Contrasts add dimension to our sight. Doubts and confidence coexist side-by-side. And so, if stress reveals the darker side of uncertainty, how shall I tread the trusting side of journeying into the unknown? Perhaps it is to root myself well in the terra nova, and to fully hope in what renews. I walk gently and solidly on this new land, with new steps. Hope is a correspondence between the present and the alighting future. Holding fast to hopefulness is showing me to die to discouragement, to release the grip on defeat. Often it has been the self-defeat of believing I will never be "good enough." But from whence comes the criteria? Truly, this voyage of advance can only happen in steps, and the movement proceeds at a pace I cannot predict. But my thirst leads me onward.

momentum

"Your rebirth has come, not from a destructible
but from an indestructible seed,
through the living and enduring word of God."

~ 1 Peter 1:23

In an irony that causes me to laugh at my self (just the thing for a solo car ride), I am noticing my thoughts turning to some kind of maintenance of a sense of present-moment perception. If there is indeed a foundation, why worry about having one? And then again, is this new spirit as new as I think it is?

In its own silly way, my former life as a commercial photographer comes back to mind. In retrospect, how we would often nit-pick photographs into a visual numbness, now looks absurd. Back then, to say such things as "better is the enemy of good" would've been the medium's own version of blasphemy. Certainly there is much to be said about striving to do a job, and do it so well that new standards of craftsmanship manifest, but this was something of a side-category. This was a crossing-over from healthy pride in a job well done, into a fearful streak of perfectionism. We've all seen this: multiple entanglements in details, much of which are inconsequential, head-trips a success into something unnecessarily out of reach. (Notice I did not say "failure.") Moreover it is not the product (and in a situation like that, one daren't say "finished product") that suffers, it's the adventure of the process and the people involved in its accomplishment. The moment would so easily be surrendered to the ego. Art college had far too much of that. Anxiety too easily defeated the creative process, and competitive resistance would get the best of what can really happen in an environment of more than one soul.


That was then, and I was swept into that competitive tension just as much as anyone else. Twelve years of it. Now I want the ego to surrender to the moment. Maybe all of us now look back at that craziness with a more forgiving vantage point. I try to, at least. And along with that, I am trying to look at situations for the moments they provide- even with all the interactions. Worrying about maintaining a new perspective loses the simple fact that I already have a new way of seeing. Perhaps that is enough. There are few things as preposterously unrealistic than perfectionism. To mindfully go forth is simply self-explanatory. It is perhaps not quite as hard-worked as I am presuming it to be. I have come to understand this, even through reminders of hardships and rejections I've endured. The losses get their respects, but they must be terse glances. Staring back is potentially obstructive to the present. What is unfolding now is lit by what shall be, and it is captivating and hopeful. I dare say one maintains hopefulness simply by being hopeful. Could I have known this years ago? Should I have thought it trite? Would I have listened, if such things had been said to me, in my darkest nights?


All this happening simultaneously has the sensation of a molting experience. Familiar and unfamiliar reside side by side. Perhaps this pervading sense of seeing what I have known with a vision I have not known, is an assurance of a momentum that needs only to breathe to be nurtured. Just this past Saturday evening, after we played music for several hours, a wise friend made an observation with the parable of new wine being poured into a new wine-vessel. Fresh new wine, he said, cannot sustain in the old container; a new one must be made. New ferment, new vessel. Both have been wondrously given to me, and thankfully neither originate with me. This time, Passover is a passing- over from the doubts that came with desolation, into the trust of forward-moving faith. I am beginning to dare to believe this momentum will hit a stride that will continue, though at a rate-of- travel that I daren't predict. That is not for me to ascertain. The most precious gifts will never be confiscated, and the sense of love and beauty need never leave me, especially as I become better able to see the essence of being, beneath the trappings of materiality. Here, a loss of perceived power is a very present consolation.

l'élan de repartir

"Mais tu veux
au fond de moi
la vérité ;
dans le secret
tu m'apprends
la sagesse."

~ Psaume 50

Going forward, with the resolve to be faithful to what has brought my steps to this new momentum, is daily put to the test. But as I proceed through my days, it seems that challenge needn't imply struggle or even resistance. This is more along the lines of a follow-through, a persevering continuance to keep still and attentive to each moment, and away from the wounds of time. It is itself a transition, to advance from deciding where we wish to focus our commitments- to setting out in fulfillment of these hopes.


So many countless intentions begin well, but end right at their own outset! But that memory shouldn't stand in the way of desiring anew. From that newly discovered source that ignites a fresh embarkation, the pace of such movement may not be immediately detectable. Quite likely, that tempo is not in lock-step with much of society around me; it is a rhythm that can breathe. Delays and (what resemble) setbacks can frustrate, and being true to new directions implies remaining encouraged. And perhaps it is that hope does not come from me. As it is with love, I am either a gracious conduit or a resister. It has been in my thoughts to see aspiring promise in this way, and in so doing, the pressure lessens for me to have to originate everything and to view my pursuit of authenticity as some sort of grim struggle. When a new beginning has been desired so thoroughly from the heart, and it manifests, a grateful life of faithfulness to this gift validates the permanence of change.

stillness

"Our inner life is not something to be sought up in the skies, but within ourselves; not in the abstract, but in little daily happenings and acts. God is at work there, within us, with us, correcting, polishing; until- and in order that- everything in us, our faculties and their acts, are under the sway of this inner principle. We should try to reduce everything in us to this inner principle."

~ Augustin Guillerand, Le Silence Carthusien


To leave discouragement and hopelessness behind, it is vital that I innately know to still my soul. Learning a new habit, a colleague tells me, can take at least several weeks. For the time being my version of "spiritual discipline" seems to be interrupting my thoughts with creative variations of tersely stifling the old routines of reaching backwards to fetch what I'd concertedly tossed in the dustbin. So this is no lofty exercise, but a ground-level aspiration for the enduring essentials: the desire to develop qualities that encourage others and build my spirit.


Quieting my insides is now indispensable, and perhaps while trying to dis-identify with thoughts of both past and future that obscure the present, inadvertent morsels of silence manifest throughout these days. Again, it is a means, rather than an end; in recollective tranquillity my resolve to move forward can reinforce the new strength. To reach for that which is ahead, and embrace the moments as they are given to me, is to refuse societal pitfalls that can alienate me from others' presence, and from those substantial things in life that getting out of my own way permit me to recognize. Yesterday, while driving on the highway en route to giving a music recital, it occurred to me that we are kept back when we don't look beyond our thoughts of ourselves. The winter-into-spring sky looked so vast, as a prepared canvas that was itself the completed art.


Surely, no process so personally integral can be finite. Perhaps, indeed, transition has neither a beginning nor an end. And truly, none less than Isaiah could observe that, "it is the living, the living that can give praise." The grave cannot celebrate, and the darkest pits of corruption are not sources of hope and promise. Our grieving figure poetically turns from the bitterness he disowns, and immediately recovers with music, with song! From such turning-points, if anything, we can proceed with careful steps- not fearfully- but mindfully aware of something new. Fragile, yet with incalculable fortitude. And from the stillness a vision to see the ordinary in extraordinary ways.

tension is a passing note

"tension is to be loved
when it is like a passing note
to a beautiful, beautiful chord"

~ Tension is a Passing Note, by Sixpence None the Richer

If I choose to give my all to the present moment, what of this penchant for preservation? With the mind's eye, we photograph the fleeting hundredths-of-seconds. It's what I see and hear, how a slant of light changes what I notice, often the startle of what I hear myself say, and in silence the still voice resultant after the earth shakes and the cataclysm dies. Noting thoughts becomes a mindful balance between enshrining days and events- and navigating paths that lead forward. I try to learn from my past, and that which is around me, and preserve in order to perceive. And then there are moments to gratefully relish, lights along the way, connecting reminders not to be disregarded.

How deeply has the Spirit taken root? Are things really different now, or is it that I see things differently? In stillness comes the dare to become aware of more than simply my own voice. Transition has neither beginning nor end, and coming to this, being both observer and active participant, provides much reassuring relief to me.

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.