onward

"You want to follow Christ, and not look back:
remember that as you walk in his footsteps,
you will be irresistibly drawn to share,
and to a great simplicity of life."

~ Brother Roger of Taizé, No Greater Love


Whether we may be consciously aware, or only subtly, we may surely witness one another’s progress along the great voyage we are presently traveling. As with the writing process, the active life is interspersed with gathering times of recollection. The passage of time provides landmarks for our observances, and reflection may be prompted along our own lives’ calendars, or when transitions of seasons surprise us in our steps. Of course we all want to know we are making progress, and naturally thirst to be acknowledged. Just the other day at work we were talking about cherished old friends, and I heard myself say that my longest-standing friends and I can talk from the context of having seen many years of life on shared ground. The pilgrimage of friendship is not quite as linear as it may appear: we move toward our kindred souls while moving together in a much larger and subtler continuum. Some of this progress is apparent to me, in retrospect. But rather than to appropriate too much abstraction, consider what we mean when we say we are advancing on our way. For me, it is to say that I have learned and applied new themes, based upon my life’s diverse experiences. In that sense, my adventures- the major and unspectacular ones alike- have been converted into a type of currency that brings me further along in my comprehension of living the vocation that combines friendship, community, creativity, and trust. These and other related means will vary, but they each have in common an aspiration for holiness. Grand and lofty goals often embarked upon by the humblest steps. Noticing the passing of time and even of physical distance provides the opportunity to acknowledge how far I’ve advanced on this grand voyage. Indeed, I had long ago left the schoolyard, figuratively and physically, but was not fully cognizant of that difference until years later. Defeats and setbacks can clear away and become realizations. Perhaps I had been aware of the distance traveled, at the point in which I had clearly grown tired and burdened with the prospect of repeating exhausted old patterns and long-expired perspectives and indignations.


Moving forward is essential, especially as we aspire to learn and grow our perceptive abilities with our days. There is no standing still; no stagnating. Paradoxically, that would also mean there must not be fear of stagnation, either- in small steps and large strides alike. As well, the way forward is impatient, but demands all our forbearance. And the rate of travel is unpredictable. Those sparing increments may be all we are capable of spanning, in especially trying times. Then there are brave jumps to new levels which we can somehow providentially make. And, just as with any creative pursuit, those leaps and courageous changes are made because they are both necessary and possible. Moving to a new place, or to a different employment, or finding new social circles, or a newly found perspective, or even the discovery of a rarified hope that calls for the entirety of ones being. Slow and wintry processions break into sprints of springtime. In marvelously unspoken and intuitive calculations, we make our bold jumps into the charged air before us, when we recognize enough to justify the leap. Our activated hopes launch us into new spheres of our journey, even into deeper expressions of trust. For our careful and preparatory steps to come to fruition, we must invariably carry out the sort of movement which commits the entirety of our selves. Would we settle for only a fourth of our dreams fulfilled? Whether our circumstances corner us into making changes, or that we arrive at critical crossroads through our own steady progress, the desire to move onward is stronger than any hesitation about consequence.

Pressing onward also means departure from what is past. Amidst the healthy upheaval of forward-motion and transcending the past, comes the determination not to look back. When I have set forth in faith, it’s also occurred to me as to how much stock I’d put into seeking security in routines. But with the ground set into motion, my sense of God’s Spirit reaching from within resumes as the stabilizing beacon through clouds of unknowing. And if the closest thing to a rite-of-passage is a passing reference of written thoughts, at least there are reinforcing confirmations to say the setting-forth in faith was worthwhile. The fluidity of renewal outweighs inertia. Often this is realized in retrospect. With more of these bold and conscientious steps, we can see how what had appeared impossible, becomes attainable. Referring back to our own chronicled stories can remind us of the distances we’ve already covered- and that we are reaching ahead, with hope, to still more meaningful things. In similar spirit, the everyday ancient Hebrew devotion of giving thanks for the exodus from Egypt came to mind when, on a sojourn in Taizé, I heard Brother Roger say, "take what little portions you can understand of the gospel, and apply them." Our adventures help provide perspective, but staring back at the past demands too much of the present, and can derail what can guide us onward. So many remembrances are indeed dear and attest to faithfulness, but memory’s powerful pull presents a challenge to be tempered. A two-edged sword; is it good to remember so strongly? Of course, it is for each of us to determine what we leave behind, and what goes with us, when we move forward in the pilgrimage of trust. We can hold on to a few treasures as we jump, however more material only weighs us down. There are metaphorical artifacts that come with us, without our realizing it, reminiscent of the ways I have to bail my backpack during a long trip. But conversely, there are experiences and anecdotes which are very deliberately committed to memory and carefully preserved.


Pressing onward, with hopes that transcend fears, navigates through the mysteries of living an open-ended pilgrimage. As we set forth, the details are not always known to us- yet we go. At times, our closest accompaniment is our own voice. Leaping forward is a dedication. It’s fully placing oneself into a movement in a specific and committed direction. We are investing our energies and focus, and as we make the jumps, our confidence exceeds our comprehension of any subsequent setbacks. But, truly, the very nature of faith rests in the prospect that we needn’t know all the details- and thankfully cannot know- but are able to propel ourselves with just enough of a glimpse of promise. With the ancient expression, "seeing momentarily through a glass, darkly," there is a reminder that we are only now learning to perceive. And with the Apostle Paul’s "but later we shall know even as we are known," I will fully recognize even as I am completely recognized. When we are our truest selves, we can best recognize God- and be recognized and reconciled by God. In an observation of his own book "Til We Have Faces," C.S. Lewis asserted that we cannot meet the Divine face-to-face, until we can reveal our own face:

"A human being must become real before it can expect to receive any message from the superhuman; that is, it must be speaking with its own voice (not one of its borrowed voices), expressing its actual desires (not what it imagines it desires),
being for good or ill itself, not any mask, veil, or persona."

And perhaps, a corollary, in the advance onward to an unfolding faith, is the hope to better recognize the better portions of past and present, through experience and understanding.

recognition

Writing Award

To my surprise, and with much gratitude, I have received a writing award for La Vie Graphite, called
A Roar for Powerful Words.
A great thanks to Lissa, of Just Write

Such sweet news comes at a time in which I have been taking stock of how important writing has become to my life. Now I have a chance to encourage other writers. I’ve been asked to list 3 necessary ingredients that I believe to be necessary to make writing "good and powerful." Of course, in the open-ended world of journaling and creative writing, there will be many ways for very many writers, but here are just a few:


1. Authenticity.
Write what you have to say with your most honest voice. If you are remembering something from childhood, try to recall your points of view from those times. Describe places, textures, light, air, and feelings as accurately as you can- to the degree that you deem important. Details and emphases are up to you, but authentic representations and responses let you move further across your themes, times, and places.


2. Passion.
Take a strong position about your subjects, whatever they may be. Even if it may be unglorious or despairing. Stand your ground with your written voice; that is far more important than grammatical scrupulosity. Write as though if you left your page blank, the bricks around you would cry forth. You are writing what must be written- and it can be about absolutely anything. You are in charge; you are the wielder of words.


3. Internalization.
To go with writing authentic descriptions of what you’ve seen and felt- past and present, try and take what you are learning to heart. To your deepest heart. Surely not to harangue yourself into a paralysis of analysis, but to simply write your situations and challenges in such ways as to invite the possibility that you are recognizing a new experience. I find that I can "write through" a hardship, and emerge from it with more clarified vision. Yes, it’s a process, and so we all keep on writing because so many of us make this part of our lives.


Now I am pleased to recommend five finely-written and well expressed blogs:

Wonderwall of Words

Everything Needs Rearranging

A Priest's Musings on the Journey

Incarnatus Est

People Reading
(which includes Dogeared )

"There are in all of us
certain thoughts which seem to have
a character entirely different from others."

~ Novalis

élan vital

"The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood;
that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax."

~ Dylan Thomas, The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower.


After having looked at writing as a subject, I want to consider the experience that bids me- or any one of us- to gather or write our reflections, and to continue doing so. It is as though words need to be collected and configured, that they may be reckoned with. That spirit of recollection, thirsting to understand, attests to a vivacity from deep within- even when it seems our situations threaten to incarcerate us. In times of extended darkness, when the smallest particles of promise become undetectable, from beyond our limits embers emerge through sources around us. When finding my way has been daunting, there have been friends to help trace out those elusive coals. In retrospect, it is as though people had been assigned to the task, and I would like to think my own presence has served such roles for others.


How definable is the divine spark, and to what extent can we bring ourselves to comprehend the currents upon which we move? The smallest spark, the humblest scintilla, is both the seed of beginning, and the vestige with which to rebuild. That illuminating scintilla has been perceptible to me amidst the depths of extreme circumstances- and, if I am conscious enough, in the everyday ordinary. In comparing the extremes: those of hardship and fulfilling joy, that essential ember would be palpable to me as I was reminded of my own context as part of something much larger, and boundlessly vast. In the darkest nights, listening to the words of friends (even writing some of them down for me to re-read), and the words beyond my musings that I could offer have been simple and vigilant prayers. Acknowledgments of consoling expanses.


At the other side, enormous and abiding joy attests to the common spark in the community experience- or in simply becoming aware of being some part of a greater sum. It’s a marvel to reflect upon the many forms this takes: working on a project with a group of people, listening to one friend, or even this very day’s "stolen moment," very early in the morning (with the window whiskered open so as to sense the cold air), reminding me that I needn’t supply each and every ingredient beyond my self in order for things to happen. What a relief. The pilgrimage experience illustrates this well for me: traveling alone with a sketch of an itinerary, and then arriving and becoming enfolded in a brief common life of buoyant sharing, music, and strengthening communion (often crossing paths with people I will only see at that one instance). With the journey home, there are enough stories and images to remind me that my deeply-ingrained aloneness had been but a passing mirage. That divine spark manifests so clearly- from outside of me- such that it is both pleasing and assuring to rest in my very "covertness" as a grain of leaven in this world. Problems that had previously seemed monolithic begin to pale in their significance as obstacles, and it is the clear knowledge of the scintilla that motivates.


Part of what amazes me about those subtle embers is the aspect of life force in its grandeur emanating from comparatively lowly and almost unnoticeable sources. Nearly hidden, but never out of our reach, and what may appear to our human senses as a sparkling ember of a vestige is indicative of the infinite. Still further, if prone to claim the divine spark to one’s own self, I invariably find the source comes from beyond me. Another relief, even if the respite follows intense struggle. The value of continuing to realize this, is for me to see what I can influence- and what is essentially out of my control; all in the context of being at peace with knowing I am among many others and am not alone, in the larger and greater entirety. Perhaps this was how it occurred to Paul when he alluded to the assuring and encompassing cloud of witnesses, inspiring patience and endurance in those who move forward in trust. The scintilla we recognize, which drives us onward, represents the incalculable; the source itself has no point of origin. And, as the day unfolds, and the bright sun stirs the January air, I know the winter does not wait for spring in vain. My words and steps have great distances still to travel, and though I follow trails that precede my days, my path is uniquely my own. In the paradox of distinction and disappearance- the desire to set oneself apart, with the wish to covertly dissolve quietly into the mysterious communion of faith- come the added paradoxes that blend the small and grand, the humble and magnificent, the new and ancient, and the transitional and rooted.


When a flash of the divine spark captivates and encourages, wonder and gratitude may cause us to want to somehow capture and preserve that light. Surely, we cannot own the universe to which we belong. Can the clay claim the potter? Now I am thinking of the junior high school teacher I had who used to ask us to "bring in a jar of moonbeams tomorrow." Indeed, the ember is here within reach- regardless of circumstance and strait; though out of our control, this abiding proximity is within our ability. What I seek has been seeking me, for a much longer period of time than I can reasonably guess. And I’ll gladly leave it at that, grateful to simply honor the wellspring of life, the source of wonder, so as to cultivate a solid yet flexible foundation, and to continue in the spirit of trust. As the cloud of witnesses has provided unseen guidance upon my life- even the divine sparks I have very much needed, mine may hopefully be part of an unseen grace upon the lives of others.

j’écris, donc je suis

"My dark and cloudy words
they do but hold
The truth,
as cabinets inclose the gold."

~ John Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress


This time, the prospect of an unfolding and new calendar year is less about resolutions and more about what I would like to continue cultivating. And though, in these pages, I have visited the concept of journaling before, this time it’s a gratitude for the writing vocation itself. Those slivers of time between portions of the workday, intermissions of varying duration, when the first reflex is to pencil some words- is the very thing for which I am taking stock. No matter the metaphorical terrain, or the temperature of emotion, there are always ideas, words, and things to comprehend. And the jottings draw energy from both silence and conversation. Often the first spark of realization comes when we notice what we are communicating. Hasn’t it happened, that you depart from animated exchanges, quizzically reflecting upon what transpired. Numerous written entries, over the years, begin with "I heard myself say," and there begins another stretch of the reflective life.


Indeed and with respect, not everyone will seek to frame thoughts and realizations with words. And still further, there is thankfully no "correct" way to write one’s expressions. Quite like prayer. For me, there had been many fits-and-starts, especially while still in the mindset of having my writing graded by school teachers. Things began to really change, when I convinced myself there is no intended audience to enforce any rules. Later on, my steps turned another corner when writing became absolutely necessary, as headlights at midnight, to find my way and somehow balance what transpired before me with a wavering will to live. Long before I consciously noticed its value to me, I had been filling notebooks and traveling with enough writing materials packed so that I could continue. Somehow, the recording of thoughts became something vital, some sort of vigilant acknowledgment to be preserved for the moment- and for later reference. Faithfulness to some form of creative expression implies a commitment to consistently and closely consider one’s circumstances. In the easy times and the harsh challenges, equally. And by doing so, what evolves is a written narrative of gradual transformation, which is to say the purging of old notions like resistance, fearfulness- even the comparison with others- and taking on a more ‘realized’ life that focuses on the more creative present. Moreover, for me, part of the full process has been to record words that have been said by those around me. As with photography, the trivial may be aggrandized, and by articulation fears can be dispelled and brought down to a manageable size. While taking on new ways of perceiving, it becomes possible to diminish and discard outdated notions.

In a letter to a friend whose work was helping people with career changes, Thomas Merton wrote, "...writing has always remained secondary. What has been important above all has been living in the most meaningful possible way, at least for me. This has meant, again, a lot of conflict, questioning, searching. Entering a monastery is only the beginning of a long road." In a compact expression, he observed the written word as a means- and not even his primary avenue- along a committed life of spiritual development and belonging to his espoused community. But here, we are interested in the means, and grateful for it. The very nature of the temporal is its inviting dynamism. Coincidentally, enduring a career change of my own, the very natural means of cameras and darkrooms were joined by the very portable means of written words- all of which have contributed to a rejuvenating sense of interiority.


Surely, what has been of far more vitality are the manifestations of journeying through the contemplative heart. We may persevere with these practices, even through deserted spans of time, because we innately know that spiritual heights are not climbed without struggle and endurance. And, of course, the adventures are far from being all trials and grimness. Reflecting life, there is levity- and satire. Inevitably the written inner voice serves as the silent, grounding witness of our voyage: acknowledging, recounting, observing, and looking ahead. Re-reading is yet another reflective adventure. While hiking the Appalachian Trail in Vermont, during a scorching stretch of August days, I stopped and sat on a big rock to write, and my solitary reflection turned into a description of how I had been unwittingly providing a banquet feast for numerous consuming insects. The pages are smeared with swatted bugs. And still I wrote, with pen & ink, until what needed to be said was stated. Then I rinsed the pen-point in a stream, packed up and moved along, smarting through the oddly-mixed odors of sun-drenched paths and deet. "Though we travel the world over," pondered Emerson, "to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not."


Writing the progress of process emphasizes how life-lessons can develop into derived truths, and the experiences are recorded in their real-time. As time passes, our perceptions of past, present, and future change. I sometimes wonder if the grammar-school me, or the high-school me, would find the present me of interest. After all, it’s still me! In very dark times, some years ago, I determined to write straight through countless forbidding nights of the soul, while referring to my days as "The Continuum," refusing to call it "life." Then, much later, I found it disdaining and outmoded to speak from such vantage points, and thus began to write about living as "Pilgrimage." A simple exchange of terminology attests to more than mere words. Living, and all it implies, warrants a more accurate description. My narrative needed terms to reflect the changes represented through all the written observations. New colors for new scenery.

In varying forms, as journal-writers, we act as our own chroniclers, setting forth and speaking on our own behalf. Content and formats do fluctuate, but the voice is the unique tie that binds. The other day, a Saturday morning, while ambling from my West End front stoop and across downtown to the Old Port- to my favorite café long known in my journals as The Familiar Perch (indeed not its real name), it occurred to me that for years this has been the most natural thing to do, given some unstructured free time. The friendly paths of redbricked walkways that angle and slope down to the shimmering waterfront, such that I look straight and slightly upward to the sky, as I wend my steps to hot coffee, reading, and written words, have been part of the framework alongside my own turning pages. Being reminded of such continuity tells us of our travels- and redoubles our thirst to learn more and be ever renewed.

At a New Year’s party, just this week, a friend asked me about writing. I heard myself say that I had been posting some reflections as a blog, and in response to his asking whether it was the same as writing in a notebook, I said the syntax of the two writing media kept the formats distinct from one another, even in substance. Further, as journal-writers we may write our inner observations in a variety of roles. At times, it is the narrative historian’s voice, at many others the editorialist, and primarily the reflecting explorer. And often- the reporter; this especially happens when I am in the audience of a fascinating speaker, recording words and ideas. Occasionally, there are portions of dialogues that I wish to preserve so as to revisit the spirit of a visit. Reporters always like a good quote, and I’ll sometimes ask friends to offer a few words of their own for me to cherish. Indeed, it all continues, in some open-ended form or another, knowing that constructing with words belongs to my day about as much as baths, coffee, and fresh air. Never out of season. Forever some discovery or intrigue to ponder. Always something to learn.

incarnatus

"You are like the ticket-half
I find inside the pocket of
my old leaf-raking coat.
There all the time, all the while,
forgotten.
I so often seem to leave You
in churches
and other islands."

~ The Innocence Mission, Every Hour Here


What we now perceive may essentially be a discovery of what we have been gradually deriving from our travels. Our gleanings. Like the shells and pine cones on my dashboard. The jottings in my journal. This season draws another year to a close, or rather to the next chapter’s threshold. Daylight’s brevity is no longer a surprise; we are all used to it, now. Dark mornings are times to gather thoughts. While the holidays punctuate work schedules, magnetizing many to malls, I have been cherishing all the quiet I can find. A cursory glance at last year’s journals verify the enormous transitions of the eventful months since last Christmas. Perhaps appropriately, my thoughts turn to the idea of gifts. And surely, I had no such thoughts at this time last year. When I am unable to see what changes may have manifested, amidst the day’s immediacy, it is thankfully evident in the archival record of written musings. My gratitude for all my adventures of the concluding year is a wonder that is regenerating into a strength of hope.


There is a gift to be found in simply recognizing the value in each preceding step. Material gifts in themselves mean a great deal less to me than ever, not just because of a recent burdensome relocation, but also in my yearning for substantive simplicity. The less, the better; the humblest, the most meaningful. I find that I am re-defining the gifts I have known, be it through the eyes of a recipient or those of the giver. Increasingly, I’m giving gifts that I’ve made myself, as well as treasuring the written words, calls, and embraces (and home-made gifts) I receive. An emphasis upon honest purpose flies in the face of the fog bank of mass-media-driven consumerism, which attempts to convince us all that our lives are incomplete. Don’t buy it, friends. The sublime indescribable beckons so much more forcefully, though indeed subtly, than breakable plastic. The other evening, around the table, I asked each of my gathered friends for a word that came to mind, and collecting them, as one might with exotic postage stamps, I wrote them in my book. The savour of an occasion. Such gifts take on an enhanced significance: the sight of familiar faces, with the ecstatic greetings of friends. We give and gather acknowledgment of one another’s presence.


A lunch hour turned into a barrage of errands and forgettable things nearly forgotten. With a few moments to recharge, I stopped for coffee. The above picture attests to a serendipitous moment of reflection and a few vital tastes to balance a day which otherwise would not have afforded the chance to pause. Balancing time and spirit requires a deftness similar to that of composing a photographic image. All the forms cannot be weighted to one side, or to the center, at the expense of the sum total of the picture. Angle of view is as critical as the image’s contents. I like to think of Robert Capa’s adage that said, "if you’re not happy with your pictures, you need to get closer to your subjects." Defying my old tendency to skip meals in order to get things done, I stopped in the middle of a long road trip; the idea was to avoid arriving at my destination on an empty stomach- as usual. The looks of the little roadside diner in northern Vermont instantly produced a surprising appetite. And when the hospitable waitress set down the aromatic home-made meatloaf at my place, I set down my writing and suddenly saw a grand image for all the senses to absorb- from the bustle inside the tiny diner, to the snowstorm outside, to my table. Discreetly taking a quick photo (below), the waitress later asked if everything was all right. I assured her the meal was truly a thing of beauty. And it really was. From my place setting, fleeting beacons of sunlight interrupted the pensive gloom of winter. These graces may be quite commonplace- and though they know no calendar days, they are no less rarified to behold.

It is possible to see a renewed way of perception has taken root, when there is an emphasis on the interconnection and interrelation in a life as diversified and eclectic as mine. And it is for me to notice those connections, allowing them to influence one another and add the color of cultivated vision. On a given day, for example, I’ve witnessed a common thread tie together something I read, with something my landlady said on my way out the door, with something an old friend told me on the street later that day, with yet more random thoughts the janitor at work told me that evening. The raw ingredients are for us to discern; we become the editors of connected events from fascinatingly unrelated sources. If we are awake enough to distinguish one day from another, we may surely embody our own evolvement, and recognize the passage of time as a renewing gift. Somehow, through barricades "inclosing all paths with hewn stone," the anguished and tortured Jeremiah found enough shreds of light to remember that so long as he was alive and breathing there was mercy. The verbal ocean of severity he composed, in the Lamentations, is ironically the source of the phrase, "great is Your faithfulness."


At times during which stagnation seemed certain, I had been unaware of what had been forming beneath the visible surface. Revised perceptions inform us that we are awake. And how we perceive the benevolence in our lives, humble as it may be, does attest to how our tastes- and even our spirituality has begun to evolve. A paradox comes to mind, which finds the seemingly lowly as greatly exalted in one’s heart. Our heart’s desires also develop, as do our wishes for one another. And for me, it is to be something of a tabula rasa- as much as possible. All transitions challenge us, even the ones that present new gifts to our lives. Even the positive changes ask our time for adjustment. Keeping perspective in the mixture of frustration, trepidation, homesickness- and- yes, excitement. And somehow, in the midst of this mélange, is a detachment that inspires an odd, gripless strength. It seems that with less to hold on to, there are fewer tangible reasons to tempt me to look back. With less grasp, there is an expanse of an embrace for others, and for what is both now and shall become.

graphite bright

A very colorful Christmas season to all,

and a sharpened New Year !

belonging

"Love is our true destiny.
We do not find the meaning of life
by ourselves alone-
we find it with one another."

~ Thomas Merton, Love and Living


In this recollection, in this foraging for signals of grace through the season’s incessant and thick snowstorms, it becomes vital to revisit my purposes. Nature’s encroachment has a confronting beauty. Even if to remember that clouds of unknowing are part-and-parcel of the life of faith, and the key is to simply continue with a consistently hopeful and grateful spirit. Sowing and seeking compassion must be undaunted. Perhaps it is natural that when our steps fail us, we begin to look back. I am trying to transform that reflex into some kind of balance between a forward perspective and the search within, though it can occasionally send us back in time. If I am to plumb the depths of the soul I have journeyed these years with, I must dare to consider the volatile theme of belonging- one thread which has laced my days from earliest memory. It is a life theme. When absent, an anguish; when present, a sublime joy.


To be integral to something greater than our lone selves is a universal longing. In varying degrees, founded upon our earliest experiences, we desire the assurance of belonging. There is a strengthening comfort in knowing we are anticipated and accepted for nothing other than who we are. For some, "fitting in," implies more impact than for others, coexisting with a hungering for our own distinguished identities. At some point, just about all of us dressed and talked like our friends; we liked what each other liked, though we’d all claim our own unique style to our selves. My personal adventures, having been in such far-flung places and demographically diverse situations, all have contributed to a scrapbook life of savoury kindred and community experiences. Indeed, many of us can pause to notice layers of concentric circles of friends and colleagues. Many an academic workday has comprised nights of ESL volunteer teaching, with the next day involving a photo shoot, and the next day playing music in a church, with the next day taking to the road- or the air- to see more people in still more situations that I know. This has gone on for years. A perceptive friend once pointed out how amusing it can be to simply glance at one’s entire e-mailing address list, noticing all the names and the meandering ways we become a common reference point to a hodge-podge of individuals we can only imagine ever seeing all of them in the same banquet hall at the same time. An amusing thought. But, oh, how the soul longs for unity- and for recognition! We are created for community and we thrive when we are assured of our belonging, or our being as part of a boundless entirety.


In a life of opposites and paradoxes, belonging and exclusion are far more than vague concepts. These are powerful emotions connected to experiences, many of which are indelible still. It does surprise me, to think about how many childhood instances remain with me. These things, in the duration of their happening, had short-lived significance- and if any more than that, circumstances I simply wished to surmount. Getting through school, wishing to be anyplace else than where I was, escaping the grasps of gangs and thugs, or dreaming about leaving. Quite often it seemed the idea was to move on to the "bigger and better" things. I used to wish away my time, having been one of those kids who was mercilessly bullied without defense, and that had profoundly affected my view of life- always between acceptance and rejection, and always looking to some imagined destination. It took years to sort out these ingrained self-assessments, and the challenge occasionally amplified when I could recognize condoned workplace versions of schoolyard bullying. The relentlessly abusive production manager at a studio I worked for, echoed the aggression of muggers in the elevator of the high-rise project I lived in, during my grade-school years. During a misunderstanding in which I stood alone in my cause, it was as though I had been back in one of those summer camps, teased and maligned, suddenly tossed from the garden as it were. Being shunned by colleagues blurred into the shunning of my co-religionists and family when I embraced a new faith, and the gauntlet seemed to go on and back to the snarls aimed at the youngest, smallest, weakest kid in the class. Once, as a ten-year-old, I took an unwarranted thrashing from a bigger kid- and got sent to the school nurse, who turned out to be the kid’s mother. She did not know who had bloodied me, and when she told me who she was, I simply said that her son was a nice guy. Why I remember such things is beyond me.

Perhaps there is a cutting edge, when enough ostracism, disowning, rejection, and undercutting becomes a costly self-underestimation. Surely it has not all been negative, and the pendulum would often get pulled in the very opposite direction when I would find welcome company. And it has been, and remains, in many unrelated places, tastes of spiritual and intellectual kindredship. Part of its beauty is in its very unpredictability. If you treat everyone well, there is always an open door for something new to materialize. Then you can be the one who includes others. And when things descended to their very worst, and I had been certain that I walked this earth alone and unwanted, my steps brought me to the little sign along the path to the Weston Priory that reads, Know That You Are Welcome. There, on the first of countless pilgrimages, I began to pull the experiences of acceptance together with the nurture of an encouraging community, and build enough strength to begin applying all the good which had been shared with me. If it has been an odyssey to find where I most clearly sense that coveted attribute of belonging, I have been learning to gratefully recognize the fleeting situations and the companies of those among whom I find the deepest joy. When the inward cry of "where is home," is contrasted by the presence of compassionate friends, it is impossible not to connect the two scenarios. When we have had to navigate the darkness east of Eden, with some patience we can surely learn to savour the sunlight.


In his book, Love and Living, Thomas Merton adds, "We do not discover the secret of our lives merely by study and calculation in our own isolated meditations. The meaning of our life is a secret that has to be revealed to us in love, by the one we love. And if this love is unreal, the secret will not be found, the meaning will never reveal itself, the message will never be decoded." Adding this to our equation, we may reconsider the impact of belonging, for us and those in our midst. If we embrace the call to belong*, then we see our role in the lives of those we meet who wish not to be islands unto themselves. (In this respectful context, nothing is to be enforced upon anyone.) So who makes the rules, anyway, about who "deserves" sympathy and respect, and who doesn’t? Who’s in the "club," and who’s out? Upon reflection, for those whose impressionable exclusions have forced themselves into self-imposed lives as outcasts, perhaps it is that we have the power to include ourselves into our own environments, and conversely to embrace those around us- those kindred souls each of us will invariably find- into our unique spheres. For me, it’s been helpful to think about the gold I have emerged with, through times of trial. And when I see those contrasts of rejection and belonging juxtaposed, my resolve is to continue being mindful of others’ circumstances, and to be sure to contribute positively to wherever I am. Time may not reliably heal, but it does shape our perspectives. And there is always that open-end, that beautiful way forward that is extended to us each day. This morning my thoughts were captivated by simply acknowledging the amazing mystery of not being able to fully know what I may be equipping myself for.

* Romans 1:5,6

horizons

"You cannot discover new oceans unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore."

~ André Gide

To realize whether one has a place of departure still prominently in their sights implies there has been some straining in a direction opposite that which they are heading. Some distracting looking-back has been diverting the focus. And that seems a natural, though a pivotal, juncture to follow any major transition. Here is where it becomes essential for me to keep the courage and lose the departed shore. Just as surmounting the inertia with energy to "push off" into a new direction is itself a marvel of self-propulsion of the soul, so is the resolve to continue on, reaching forth to that which is forward. Such moments may manifest between horizons, when the one ahead is too far to unambiguously delineate, and the docks left in the wake are still near enough to revisit. But the courage to lose sight of the shore calls forth an abiding trust, and that is both conscious and surely not passive at all. Indeed, far from a gesture that simply allows things to leave what may be perceived to be "in my control," but consciously desiring and aiming for a life that is not mine alone. The courage to fly to the unknown implies a boldness to keep going, even if through miles of disorientation. The substance of things hoped for is sufficient bread for the journey. Choosing to move in a specific direction does imply motion away from another destination: my intended course becomes worth losing any other that might diminish the great hope that has been given to me. And when my long-held hopes reveal times of fulfillment, I realize how I have often created a sense of permanence out of very tentative and temporal circumstances. Cultivating aspirations became more an end than the means it was intended to be. Do we hope without the wholehearted expectation of reaching the other shore? The temporal has a dynamic that can propel us forward without even wanting to look back, and thus a life of ever moving forward maintains a fresh view of each moment.

Desiring to pursue dreams, choosing to continually reach for holiness instead of refueling the past, causes me to ask whether I have been asking too little of myself. When a wondrous way is prepared and presented to me, how astonishing that I should even hesitate to give my all, in a grateful spirit of trust. It seems easy to cling to what we know, even if it may pale in comparison to the brilliance arrayed before us from the horizon. What is familiar is meant to be exceeded, and indeed if we fear surrendering the known in exchange for frightening things, conversely we can trade up to far better things- even if we may not immediately know any more than the assuring certitude that it is the next right thing, and our souls are peacefully elated with the new reality. If, in this context there is a trial set before us, it is to move right through the jarring displacements and unrelentingly find enough balance to start ever anew, make ourselves at home, and continue to aspire. The change of perspective then becomes a change in that which we find our identities.

John Stuart Mill exemplified the transition from viewing life as despairing trials, to what he called "the maintenance of a due balance among the faculties." The simple recognition of the supreme value of seeking within and cultivating his soul was enough to draw him forward. For Mill, writing in the early 1900s (A Crisis in My Mental History), it was the music of Weber and especially Wordsworth’s poetry that sensitized his heart enough to transcend his defeats and find what he described as a "Source of inward joy." "Through my dejection," Mill wrote, "honestly looked at, could not be called other than egotistical." He connected his disappointments to his ego, and determined that "unless I could see my way to some better hope than this... my dejection must continue," concluding that a perceptive hopefulness is connected to the peace within that allowed him to see the world in his midst with hope. In Mill’s emergence, he let go of his despair, while keeping the poetic sources of his inspiration close at hand.


Maintaining a solidly hopeful perspective and becoming more fully conscious of life’s changes demands a new frame of reference- one that ceases to look at this moment as a succession of times past. I can begin to take stock of my life with the undisputed given fact that I have a life. And perhaps, like Mill, I may call upon my own heart’s muses. Meister Eckhart, of the 13th century, considered humanity’s goal as being a complete union with God, and in order for a person to become divine it was necessary that they "detach themselves from all that is creaturely." For his monastic mind, he referred to detachment as the condition of our transformation into the things of God. Such profound and thorough development seems to me as incremental advances- and the thought of manageable steps is in itself heartening to me. An organic process can occur at any pace- the one we can each comprehend. Perhaps we know we’ve "advanced" to a new chapter of our lives, when we notice, ironically, that some things are taken for granted (and are no longer worries). When we move away from a shore we can still see and reach, we may endanger a longing for what we’ve concertedly pushed away from. But still further, the departed land may have simply lost its savour and thus our interest. Do we, in our heart of hearts, long for what was- more than what is set before us? The mirages are subdued by reality, when we see how our days have taken us to the threshold of this instant. Open doors may imply an undertone of another closing, but for a moment; all succeeding considerations point to new and beckoning horizons.

chronos

“Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky;
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.”

~ Rumi, Quietness


There seems no end to the mystery and perplexity of the passage of time; at times grievous, at other times in reminiscence, still again in a wonder which evades words. We seem to think we can do things to manage time, to stop or accelerate, or slow down the advances of moments, hours, and years. Of course, we are well familiar with the increments against which our days are structured. At my place of work, there is a large grandfather clock, with the name “Regulator” engraved across its face, lending itself to plenty of irony. Lesser portions of days are irritable games of “beat the clock,” but with renewed perceptions the day balanced with obligations and unstructured moments develops into a sentient puzzle. As a child, I would muse about the meaning of the recollections of those around me, those elder voices explaining times past. Had “a long time ago” disappeared into a darkened lane, to be retrieved? Or as it turns out, is the retrieval only at our summons? And the witnesses of time’s advance do not always remain with us, and accompanying our cognizance of this reality we find ourselves witnesses of our own times.


Moments may become landmarks as tangible for us as any boldly-planted granite memorial. And perhaps, with that consideration, we may be the iconoclasts operating the demolition equipment. But we may also be the preservation historians. One which stays with me proved to be a turning point. When I was seventeen, it seemed opportune for one of my most loving elder family members to explain the harsh truths to me about what had happened during the Holocaust, and actually took me on walks to see the actual places in Paris that- for us- are landmarks. It was all so profoundly astonishing to me that, for days, it was very difficult to sleep. Among many thoughts I had been trying to fully comprehend, was that of time. Staring out from the balcony at midnight, above the darkened street in Montmartre, my evolving thoughts dwelt upon the idea that it was time that divided the perished lives of my own family- from mine at that present moment which suddenly occurred to me as a life spared. In my stupor, my thoughts turned to imagining the divide of some forty years between a hopeless, unimaginable, brutal end- and- the found realization of looking forward very freely. What can one do with these truths? As well, during those wakeful nights alone on the balcony, I would look up at the charcoal skies and, in my thoughts, ask “what is out there?” “Who is out there, and why am I spared?” And it was up and out to the same skies, but months later above the coast of Maine, that I began to entreat with the simplest prayers in my own unpresuming vernacular words.


We find ourselves inhabiting the context of our times, inherited- and occasionally also freely chosen by us. And when we can embrace our own direction, from our hearts and with the ingredients which have brought us to this very day, we know our spirits are unconstrained by the limitations of measure. Yes, with an apprehension of our own time’s landmarks we can see our paths as part of an immeasurable continuum. We know about the superimposed units of measure, but we cannot presume to determine the pace. When he began to create a summation of his experiential discoveries, the ancient apostle Peter went so far as to stipulate that if there was even one thing of which even the most bewildered- or the most knowledgeable- must not lose sight is that in the context of creation “a day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as a day.” With the illustration of extremes, the man who witnessed the Transfiguration assures the reader how the Divine is transcendent of time, “the Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness, but is patient with you.” In that unpleasant habit of wishing away time, frustrated by what may appear to be a lack of progress, it’s easy to miss that many steps are unhastened for our own undetectable sakes. And thus it becomes possible to be reminded that places and situations may test the limits of our strivings, but is less essential than the very action of setting forth.

graphite delight

"In this quiet moment
of a changing season,
We are called to remember:
Never stand still,
but move with one heart."

~ The Monks of Weston Priory, Move With One Heart


A universal transformation, even within the simplest of lives, is at once formidable and humbling. In my experience this has been so, through efforts to recover from loss, and, yes, in the reception of unexpected blessing. Hoping, as a human can, in fits and starts- but rarely with a sense of expectation. And perhaps the latter aspect is the defining corollary of trust. When we say we are in awe, we call forth a word that represents the paradox of both reverent inspiration and fright. When we are in awe, Webster’s Collegiate refers to our being in "an overwhelming admiration, fear, or wonder produced by that which is grand, sublime, and extremely powerful." Such descriptive imagery does not easily come to mind during times of tragedy, but it certainly does when we are overtaken by blessing we may not have dared to expect. When he retrospectively looked at his career, the apostle Paul advised his students to know how to "be both abased and abound;" through the spectrum of circumstances he viewed his life as a conduit, and not as the ultimate source of strength and inspiration. I think he found this powerfully liberating and humbling at the same time. And the wonder of this moment surely has no time to think about dread. To realize hopes I hadn’t dared to fully presume is cause to be abound. Yes, it is humbling and there is the awe of the road ahead (and remembrance of the ground already traveled), but the unfettered gift of joy is to be savoured.


A dear and wise friend recently wrote some poignant words to me about the joining together of souls, expressing, "the holding of hands can heal all the wounds of the past and the heart." The modest eloquence of the gesture manifests the unity that dwells within. I remember the occasions when I would be in attendance when a monk would make his profession, and at the Weston Priory they dance in a circle, hands clasped together, celebrating the circuitry of their kindredship. The living parables of drawing together and moving forward never cease to amaze me, considering how no two lives, no two histories, are exactly alike. But it is the mysterious combination of trust, unanimity, and pluralism that makes things continue to thrive. Considering again the words of my quoted friend, those observances of kindredship do neutralize past anguishes, and the pains which had only persisted to exist in their phantom forms, are finally washed away. And though we may set aside some long-established facets of our lives, we do so with a jubilant enthusiasm for the embarkation upon new beginnings.

The new chapter of the evolving journey moves between recovery and discovery. My origins and experiences serve me well in their context as reference points, not as focal points. When the ancient Psalmist settled his heart after having traversed intense duress, across the expanse of thousands of years it is still possible to hear his sigh of gratitude at finally being at peaceful respite. The depths of his gracious utterance amounted to very simple words that sufficed: "my heart is not haughty, neither are my eyes set on things beyond me; in the quiet I have stilled my soul." As the humbled David, in this instance, it is a wonder to be awed by goodness. And I’m willing to wager that even he never received a love letter, written all in pencil! Oh, but I know where I came from (and know not to ever belittle the disenfranchised), the journeys and places well known to me, giving enormous savour to something not quite comprehensible, yet renewing, and delightful.

anam ćara

"Nothing has been
what I guessed so far.
Unforeseen,
This most sweet
Beautiful change."

~ The Innocence Mission, Beautiful Change

For those of us who have grown so accustomed to contending with life’s challenges, often steering our vessels through and around treacherous seas, and then find ourselves unlearning such ideas that have solidified our notions of life as some barrage of conflicts, the prospect of profound joy is both disarming and exhilarating. Aren’t the humbled visited by the sublime? Can we dare to really believe in the actuality of things we have hoped for? Of course, it’s all very well to speculate about hope, but what of the faith to consciously live one’s days with the certitude that we will see joyous times? Indeed, there’s enough in this society to persuade anyone to develop a habit of expecting the worst. Yet the force of such conditioning is thwarted and subverted when our souls behold something good. Though we may not know the forms in which goodness comes to us, it is at once sufficient and daring to desire the will of God, come what may. "Joy is never in our power," C.S. Lewis once wrote, and part of the surprise of glad tidings is the realization that change can surely be for the better. And all I can do is embrace the one who has come into my life, and be heartily grateful. Much like the very timely description of the Advent, the deepest fulfillment is a consistent and often quiet celebration.

The course of my pilgrimage steps evolves still more, with the new dimension of sharing my life with another’s. It is a living miracle that has taken time for me to believe, firstly because enough past failures obscured my vision of human relationships, and due to my plain astonishment with this advent of two soul mates finding one another. I have loved much and lost much, and yet am now mysteriously certain of being loved. Did I honestly believe years of those kinds of prayers would be answered? It is both expectation and surprise; recent years of adventures left me strengthened and prepared, though also quite delightfully unready for this new course of life. Beginning leads to beginning. Transition is a certain aspect on the voyage, and for myself this has been an evolving series of seasons of change. Through it all, I am still me; somehow that is sufficient. Surely my perspective and context are changing, but these are things that must develop with the days. And this raises the question, not of identity, but of how one identifies oneself. Soon, I shall cease to think of myself as solitary; and indeed it has been my wish that solitude be temporary. It has had great value- right up to the crossroads of this new threshold.

By embracing any new way of living, it has been necessary for me to surrender old notions: to understand the differences between how things may seem, and how they really are. And the best uses of the past, as any other historian would advocate, are in the lessons learned. For many years I have known how the soul longs to be recognized and understood, for its own intrinsic value, but what happens when that recognition is realized? When I did not strive to be accepted, I found myself embraced and esteemed. Seeking and finding by being. Still further, if seeking does preclude finding, have I really understood the meaning and the potential of seeking? Producing an answer will probably take even longer than it took to procure the question! Indeed, my healed heart has been awakened to something new. Life is changing and astonishingly so, in the ways I have wished for it to change. And through these transitions, I have glimpsed at how little I really need, and how complete my life has become- solitary or not. And now, it is both desire and time that hurtle the days forward.


In Wind, Sand, and Stars, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry wrote, "Love does not consist in just gazing at each other but in looking onward together in the same direction." Now I understand how soul-companions, those who consider the other as, in the Gaelic expression, their anam ćara, can be for one another reminders of belonging and home; their very presence a place of mutual refuge and nurturing. Now I know. As spiritual life draws us to embrace those around us, indeed our love and respect for each other is also a gratitude to our Creator. And renewed hopes can also mean finding new things to hope for, advancing from our hopes realized.

un chant nouveau

"Here at the portal thou dost stand,
and with thy little hand
Thou openest the mysterious gate
Into the future’s
undiscovered land."

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, To A Child

If the measuring of our days and years is a marking of events and milestones, this recent season of many changes is perhaps a small portion of one greater threshold I have yet to fully perceive. Each of us can be our own documentary historian or statistician, as our imaginations will incline, choosing to appraise the moments that re-route our lives’ directions. And points in time may not necessarily have standardized durations. We cannot always know what is happening beneath the surface. Can the momentous manifest over a lengthened stretch of time, as well as in the twinkling of an eye? In the same sense, there cannot be one rigid surface-measurement for a threshold of the spirit. I may consider a year of thresholds, or a threshold of years. Some of us may retrospectively notice finite spans of time, such as our schooling years, considering numerous transitions as part of one impressionable passage. During my first September after graduating from college, I finally noticed having advanced away from the long shadow cast by consecutive school years beginning at the age of four. Alongside our perceptions is the mystery of realizing avenues presented to us by our circumstances (seemingly enforced), balanced with those we can determine for ourselves. Occasionally, we actually have a say in the matter. For a number of years, it had been necessary for me to work three- and sometimes four- simultaneous jobs, in order to survive. When there were projects of fixed-length, I had to continue to find new ones, in a constant pursuit. But the rewards came in the form of being able to make many rejuvenating retreats, finding ways to coordinate the time with my employers. In varying proportion there are time spans imposed upon us, beyond which we can find the journeys we choose to embark upon- and even change.


Transplanting the personal effects of two decades of daily life into a new home has provided yet another tangible threshold traversal. Though not to draw an over-importance to the occasion, the lasting impression is that of an initial enthusiasm for a new context for a new life, mixed with nostalgia for what had been simpler and staid. After that, a focused desire to move forward, and leave behind portions of the past that can cloud the brightness of this season and those to follow. And the plain, exhausting physical work ensued- a combination of heavy labor and delicate transport; enough immediacy to divert from much self-reflection. Where will the writing-table go? From there, seeing the mixture of everything from childhood artifacts to the day’s mail, heaped into an undecorated, darkened, and unheated space, generated a restless regret for the comfort I left behind. Now, the irreversible barrier of time’s increase causes me to reckon, take stock, and know not to even entertain looking back. And the life-giving forward-looking neutralizes the lure of the past.





A year of travels and transition winds again into the country of cold weather. Pilgrimage may be comprehended as a year of many days’ transition, or more broadly as an unfolding voyage, prefaced and accompanied by years of transformation. But surely not simply change for the sake of change; by choosing to move forward, albeit while seeing through the proverbial glass darkly, we can indeed journey from one fulfillment to another. The future is not meant to be a replication of the past. At times the new scenery is tangibly before us, in forms of foreign lands and living spaces, or simply in the ways our vision of the ordinary is transformed. Though my hands are cold as I type these words, bundled in outer clothing in this chilled apartment, my books are on their shelves and I’ve put some pictures on some of the walls. The place is clean and presentable, save for the still-packed material that will either be kept or discarded. This process has permitted me to detach from such heavy anchors as material possessions can become. A sense of home will follow, just as it had in my previous place. Just the other day, during a respite at the Boston Athenaeum, something of a home from home, amidst many familiar reminders, it suddenly became possible for me to "re-approach" the new living space back in Portland. Sensing the connotation of importance in everyday occurrences, in the miraculous eloquence of the simplest nuances in this season’s light and air, in the cadence of familiar conversant voices, are subtle reminders of mutual encouragement between my friends and me. I know I am not alone. Such is the good sort of anchor, in a safe harbor; a homecoming following a tumultuous passage. Not only is it good to take stock in what I find hopeful, but it is a gift in itself to be able to take stock. The winter is indeed a fresh start, and it reveals within a springtime of the heart.

where the heart is

"Journeys ended
Journeys begun:
To go where we have never been;
To be beyond our past."

~ Monks of Weston Priory, Spirit Alive

Embarking still on another transition, along this unfolding journey, I have just moved from my home of many years. There surely was no great distance involved, but anyone who has packed decades of their belongings and vacated their living space, can understand that geography carries a separate impact from that of leaving behind the stable place called home. And this implication takes so many forms in these times. When I completed graduate school, I left the place of employment at which I hard-worked a living for nearly 13 grueling years. In such long stretches of time, places can become deeply personalized- and even internalized. Places that are thoroughly intertwined with our days become the arenas in which major parts of our lives are staged. At that job, I saw a life’s spectrum of individuals, situations, and emotions, all in the intensity of human lives engaged in stressed employment. The day I carried out the last of my personal effects from "my" studio space, I filled my car with supplies, tools, and manuals- along with cases of music discs, wall decorations, and coffee cups. When I did that last once-over, before turning off the lights, the bare shell of a space had the ghostly look of a lifeless cavern. I subtly realized how humanity combined with ingenuity can animate an ordinary space, making it into a place which emanates creativity and color, as a soul inhabits a body.

The home I’ve inhabited and cherished for nearly twenty-two years is now in the past. Only months out of college, I carried those first crated bundles of books up the steep narrow stairs and through the door. The place was barely affordable, but minutes by bicycle from work. Over the years, those three modest rooms in the Victorian mansard became something equivalent to a favorite pair of shoes: not the flashiest, but comfy and versatile enough to be favored despite its flaws. Convenient and hospitable. And in various combinations of my circumstances changing, and my challenges to transform my own life, I would reshape my home in numerous ways. That little configuration of rooms and nooks was a quiet study and a sanctuary, as well as a place of celebration and dinner parties. And indeed, aloneness and grieving. My long sojourns with the Benedictine monks in Vermont taught me to transfigure a place of desolation into a venue of friendship and warmth. On one of my countless retreats at Weston, Brother Philip told me that "it isn’t enough to say welcome; you must be welcome." Such thoughts bring us to realize the distinction between place and presence.

Throughout these years, there have been numerous times for me to reflect upon the definition of home. What is home, and where is home? Is this something that can be provided, or withheld, or even created anywhere? An ancient monastic saying exhorts the seeker to "carry your cell with you, wherever you go." This surely addresses our contemporary nomadic lives, and how families tend to scatter between chasms of large distances. Clearly the most joyful recollections about my home are connected to how it became a place of gathering and kindredship, and doubtlessly that will continue in the new place. When contemplatives were enjoined to set forth with their "cells," my understanding is that it was to express that they should wear their spirit of welcome and compassion in all places and at all times. Yes, Spirit transcends space.

And now life evolves still further. Recent years have seen increments of transition, much of it intellectual and spiritual. Transmuting perspectives. Now there is a physical transference. In those instances when I’ve noticed myself dragging my own absurd self, kicking and screaming, into all that is good about new life, I’ve had to recall the intertwined nature of stress and turning-points. Now it is useful to be reminded that just as we find our footing, after welcoming gifts into our lives, we must then move those feet some more, even in a seemingly unknowing faith. Admittedly, moving on- whether metaphorically or physically- surfaces the immediate temptation of regretting the benefits we once had, but that is invariably surpassed by the brilliant expanse opening before us. The present and future needn’t be replications of past things which surely pale in comparison to what is yet to be created.

At home I experienced the full range of emotions-
lost love very painfully,
but found love, and was reassured of the miraculous
(see detail from top of wall, above, in picture below),
with a surpassing strength of hope and gratitude.

ar lan y môr

"God is the country of the spirit,
and each of us is given a little holding
of ground in that country;

it is our duty
to explore that holding to gain certain impressions
by such exploring,
to stabilise as laws
the most valuable of these
impressions, and,
as far as we can,
to abide by them.

It is our duty to criticise,
for criticism is
the personal explanation
of appreciation."

~ Dylan Thomas, from a letter to Pamela Hansford Johnson

“every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters”

~ Isaiah 55:1

Having journeyed long enough from shores no longer distinguishable, save for their impressions, now it is possible to notice nuanced changes in light and air current. The new season calls for yet another divergence along the broadening course I navigate. Emerson wrote, "the voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks," reminding me that even after steering through turbulence, the prospect of numerous turns under clear skies really is an appreciation of the finest course. A tidal reconciliation is surely more habitable than tireless resistance. And so the journey unfolds still further. And in this stretch, there seems less need to focus upon my own development. Momentum from pronounced personal sea-changes bring us to points beyond discoveries of essentials, and on to an expansive freedom to give myself more thoroughly to my relationships. The subtle change is one of emphasis, and just as the ancient Psalmist prayed to be upheld evermore with a willing spirit, such yearnings come from the place between restoration from anguish and having already reached a strengthened stride.


Our society's obsessive penchant for preparedness, the worst of which is really connected to fear of the unknown and securing what is already overfortified, makes readiness into an end rather than a means. And at the same time, we ironically revere such expressions as "life is not a rehearsal." But in the balance of things, so as not to let planning obstruct living, we can surely apply what we learn in the miraculous process of comprehension. I like to recall listening to a monk tell me, "what little you can understand of the gospel- live it." This perspective launches theory into practice, and so often learning and application occur simultaneously- even with the "order" reversed. Newly-learned discoveries follow actions, as well as vice-versa. Understanding the vitality of compassion, toward oneself and outwardly, the vast Atlantic reminds me of the vocation of embracing the lives of those around us, and finding our place in lives that parallel ours.


The nature of transformation itself is fluid and dynamic, yet it is forgivably natural to want to preserve that spirit. How is this possible, each day being distinct from the one preceding it? In photography, rather than to preserve a process we refine how it works. What is developed and affixed are images that are tangible. Thus far, I have seen that in the maintenance of a willing spirit, my own transformation continues. It doesn’t happen every day, at least not overtly, but a humble spirit that longs to be led by streams of living water is never far from reach. It is always both figurative and metaphorical, for me to go to the ocean; constantly in motion yet always present and steadfast. In a fascinating triumvirate: the biblical Jeremiah, enduring the tragedy of war, looked to God as the fount of living water; many centuries later John pointed to God as the giver of living water to souls that thirst; and finally John encourages holding on to faith, as that will inspire humans to become conduits of the life-giving Source. The water’s edge continues to remind me of light, the scent of sea air, and the infinite textures of this environment. Even how things taste. And what I thought to be daunting matters regain their realistic scale.

resurgam ; dirigo

"I must down to the sea again,
to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song
and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face
and a gray dawn breaking."

~ John Masefield, Sea Fever, (1902), st. 1.


"Right at the depth of the human condition,
lies the longing for a presence,
the silent desire for a communion.
Let us never forget that this simple desire for God
is already the beginning of faith."

~ Brother Roger of Taizé, To the Sources of Trust.

Within so many of all ages is a persistent longing for one’s origins. We want to know what has brought us to this day, and about the mystery of the sources of our lives’ very depths. And still further, we desire to plumb the strata of what distinguishes the individual soul. There are the obvious landmarks: physical places we can locate and make travels to comprehend such as memorials and structures, and even places whose significance is marked only within a person’s heart. Memory can have immense power, enough to either prompt our lives to add more experience- and also to prevent a soul from looking away from what is past. Indeed, remembrance carries with it a double-edge. Still there often remains an ache to experientially know the very sources of encouragement and acceptance that can restore and enliven us. Since my early childhood I’ve known a profound wish to belong, or as a wise friend once described, "to be recognized." And in this sense, recognition is to express a rarified yet somehow effortless and unspoken familiarity for the one who belongs. A treasure for the recipient and a shared joy for those who extend the recognition of their hearts. Such inner communion is beautifully stated by my friends at Weston Priory; the monks write:

"The human heart is nourished with yearning for tomorrow, with poetry and
devotion, with contemplation and the incessant thought of home."

Another fascination from childhood has been connected to seeing and knowing about what was and is no longer: abandoned buildings and houses, changed neighborhoods, monuments signifying an event or person having stood at a given site, and indeed hearing a story about an occurrence when passing by a rather unassuming place. The succinct little anecdotes added to visual impressions would strongly take root as memories- even for an adolescent. And such imagery would spark numerous musings about how the city "used to be," and "what would it have been like if I had been there." Like detailed and pictorial postage stamps in an album, I seemed to collect little veritable, yet metaphorical, compass points in different communities, sites annotated by stories. Most of the places were shared with family, friends, and classmates- places in cities divided by the ocean. But being the living common denominator, my return to some of these places retold their significance. The captivating difference was that of time: then and now- and the witness of locale and living beings who can attest to transition.

In more recent years, my sense of the physical landmark has been superceded by the sites and markers carried deep within. It became a spiritual lifeline, to know my sources of strength and compassion, and to pursue a presence of mind to continually return to these wellsprings. As it is also for many, it was in crises that a spiritual sense of place and context began to tangibly emerge; and in these experiences it became impossible to hold on to places and situations. That which was then, but ceased to be now. Even the historic connotation of the word crisis implies a compression, a turning point, a distinction, bringing one to a drawing-together, to a re-gathering. And when a sense of rootedness- and even home- becomes elusive, the assurance of belonging becomes all the more vital. Overarching the despair of where home has been, to my surprise I find it in many places and circumstances. And I find, by abiding near in spirit to my heart’s wellspring. I can provide that for others. If present conditions recall desolation, then conversely I hope to let the scars remind me of grace.

As with home, source is a solid word which can hardly describe the depths of its reference, and to remain substantial it demands some specificity. Going to the source connotes where and how we find our basis, our ground. For me, it has meant faraway pilgrimages, or simple walks along the ocean, and it continues with humble silences spicing my weekdays when all I can do is draw a breath of reminder that I am part of the world around me. Consistent returns to the source have become forward steps, trust which manifests in action, and thus transcending fleeting emotions. Such knowledge, however, can only be intuitively sensed, and not rationalized. As Thomas à Kempis wrote, "I desire to feel compunction rather than to know the details of its definition." It is a knowing from within. The soul’s longing is founded in hope, even if it is an unarticulated aspiration. Still it is a hope that comes from a realization that the way ahead is open and replete with potential and pertinence.