here and away

"The water is wide
I cannot get o’er
Neither have I
Wings to fly"

Water is Wide, 17th century Scottish folk song

Perhaps this has happened to you as well as to me, just recently and as I type these words. Exerting forces and resources all waking hours, while pausing to realize the distances traveled and the arduous work done, a sudden sense of what has transpired and the unknown journeys ahead- has brought my steps to a physical intermission. An extremely rare halt, amidst a life of perpetual motion. It had occurred to me that I had been plodding through barrages of overbooked, restless, and multitasked days- and it was clearly displayed to me in an ordinary moment the other day. My workplace has a top-floor hallway whose length and breadth is encased in glass. Now, with the new novelty of lengthened light, the view outside has come to sharply differentiate from institutionally monochromatic interiors. With the usual returning strides to my work details, those wraparound northwest windows revealed a disruptively long view of bright beckoning blue skies beyond Back Cove. Living on an ocean-oriented peninsula, it’s easy to forget the higher elevations that are west of this place, always present. Racing along the hallway, I couldn’t really stop, but could surely hear my thoughts reflect, "how long away, so near and so far."

The soul longs for the world outside, paradoxically either to retreat or to be immersed. These exhausting days remind me of what a persistent and dizzying haul this voyage can seem. At times the road appears as a gauntlet; with some healed perspective, paths and horizons become invited vistas. Finally, noticing some symptoms of physical illness, I claimed the day off. Of course, it will take more than a fleeting day to completely recharge, but necessity dictates that I regroup just enough to return to the stream of striving. For the moment, I’ve been enjoying a day without a schedule. I get to see how sunlight fills my apartment in the midafternoon. In between intervals of repose, as I suppose it must be for most everyone, thoughts of what tasks need to be done, what ought to have been done, and what may potentially be demanded- introduces another unpleasant cycle. Imagine there are those who are brought to perceive the spiritual life as such! Part of sidelining oneself is the need to not do, to stop, and to recognize that overburdening can harm our souls. How easily we can be conditioned by this culture that ties progress together with over-achievement. On a day like today, I daresay substantial forward movement can manifest without doing- when perception can be cultivated in reflection.

Indeed, there are the myriads of practical necessities that send us all out into the often bizarre marketplace of work experiences, qualifications, ambitions, and titles. And for contemplatives who do not live reclusively, the chaos around us must be offset by tranquility within. And, ironically, the contrast can really energize us. At times it is as though inhabiting two worlds which, on occasion, cannot intersect. But the inner life calls, the Spirit tugs at our hearts- whether we are actively interpreting our lives, or simply regarding circumstances from what may appear to be an inactive distance. And I am finding the inner life to be something of an "outer" life, integrated so as to be indistinguishable and unsegregated from what happens in the day’s interactions. Indeed, a way of being in this world. Thomas Merton wrote about an intuition that transcends the senses- and even the intellect itself. Infused contemplation, he wrote in The Inner Experience, "is characterized by a quality of light in darkness, knowing in unknowing. It is beyond feeling, even beyond concepts." Merton continues by discussing "detachment from sensible realities." Surely no simple matter and indeed a challenge for those who must answer to employers, landlords, bill-collectors, and such unpredictable personalities of which we can each cite our own examples. But, truly, looking to the newly-accentuated scenery reminds me that moving further beyond means progressing deeper within. Engaging the great journey is not only to begin, but also to continue where we are right at this instant, in this one life we have in this world.


The long way ahead can overwhelm, when horizons exhaust and do not excite, it becomes vital that I be watchful of what causes my vigilance to waver. With this in mind, I might return to Merton’s corroboration with the ancients to try and transcend feelings and hindering attachments. But again the challenge abides, to move between detachment and affectation, between looking to unseen, eternal horizons and being very much upon the pavement in this world. Over the years, "looking ahead" has represented a mixture of meanings for me. For an extended period, beginning immediately after college, an obsession with charting my future emphasized my displeasure with the present as it had been. Apparently, what I treasured in daily life seemed to be whisked away from reach, along with elusive goals and breaks that appeared to be allotted to many around me that worked much less diligently than I did. Eventually, as the din of exasperation had been joined by unmanageable crises, it became urgently necessary that I change my perspective- beginning by cherishing the blessings at my door. When perfectionism possesses us, it’s easy to step over sturdy thresholds while lunging at shifting mirages. So I try to be watchful and at peace, liberated of those old unreasonable perfectionist leanings.

When I’m back at work tomorrow, that glassed hallway will become an iconic image. The water, skies, and hills represent a big-picture view of solidity transcending fluidity. I am reminded to look through circumstances, gazing toward the immovable without losing the moment. It causes me to consider what is steadfast and substantial. Is my trust consistently founded upon that which endures, the creating force that far out-endures my intuition? It is reassuring to even pose the question, as so many more thoughts and vantage points are prompted. And while looking forward to renewed strength, it is reinforcing to know that a burgeoning life of conscientious work is amounting to something, and yet even more consoling that it has become but a point of reference and no longer as important to me as it is to confidently move forward. Regaining strength, I hope to be equipped for the indefinite haul, and will embrace the signs of renewal as reminders. Perhaps there is even a spiritual discipline in the simplicity of being reminded.

substrata

"beneath the snow
beneath the dew
a seed planted in autumn
is growing through

a tiny leaf
below the grass
stretching upward
hasn’t had a chance
to be proven both
strong and true

within my heart
deep in my soul
a fire was started in winter
that cuts through the cold

a tiny flame
below the ice
reaching upward
hasn’t had a chance
to be proven both
strong and bold"

~ Vector, Watch Over Me, and I’ll Watch Over You


Early signs of spring, as the increasingly brighter light combines with bracing air and freezing temperatures, call to mind how struggle and transformation exist alongside each other. I can see how tiring the long winter has been for so many of us, and now there are tangible signs for us all to experience a general sense of catharsis. The sidewalks can almost all be trodden with normal and careless strides. During today’s mid-morning coffee break, a bit more weary than usual for a day so new, I remembered the all-nighters I’d work at my studio. Sunrises following sleepless vigils of hard work evoke the reprieving solace of late winter’s early thaw. The relief is not immediate, but its evidence is convincing. Beneath the frozen surface is promise, and even if the melting outer layers reveal last October’s dried leaves, its fullness is a harbinger of newness. Dormant life manifests from within the weakened crust that remains from past seasons- both physical and those of the heart.

Today, I remembered the fresh-start gesture of the New Year’s revelers who set a huge paper-shredder out on a sidewalk and invited the public to destroy written references to their regrets and misgivings. Though symbolic, the action represents a definitive discarding of the uninvited past. Now, fatigue, along with the scarcity of reflective time, makes for labored steps, it is still possible for me to see how lengthened light outpaces what has become irrelevance from past days. As with discarded words and directions, modest forays can set profound changes into motion. This time of the year provides us with images that attest to the mystery of renewal. Though exerted, the desire to recommence anew gives way for us to emerge from the shedding cloak of winter. Trust is at hand, and the day’s change from yesterday’s rhythm fuels a forward movement.

As natural elements change before us- and around us, these physical signs represent the mystery of transformation. The transition is gradual, and always recognizable. For me, this fascinating imagery becomes as sacred iconography, revealing otherwise concealed insights. Icons are often compared to windows, as the image subjects themselves have multiple levels, and like a window frame we can see through encompassing images into still more motifs. Further, as with photography, more careful observation reveals subtleties that are ordinarily hidden from passing glances. With our contemplative sense of sight, we can observe the questions we provisionally live with.

"Est autem fides sperandorum substantia,
rerum argumentum non apparentium."

These words of Paul, addressed to my ancestors the Mediterranean Hebrews (11:1), came to mind today, while pondering how we can comprehend through our inner stirrings. Surely, his poetic statement about the wonder of trust speaks across all generations and peoples. The context for so wondrous a definition of faith, "the substance of things hoped for, and the certainty of what we do not see," or what is not readily apparent, comes during a discourse about perseverance. We can all be patient to a degree, and amidst hardships, it can run thin. His paragraphs point to those lives have embodied steadfast trust. The Latin offers some vivid imagery: imagine a substantive argument for the unapparent. The words lend themselves, and our thoughts, to the essence of trust- as a cultivated gift of being able to interpret what is not concretely evident. Rather, this is the ability of perceiving the world, creation, the lives around ourselves, and events through eyes sensitized by faith.

By looking again at the long journey as the destination, while the months of tarnish melt away from the ground beneath me, levels and layers of raw, unflourished ground appear. In this season, it’s as though the earth has been sanded down to a surface that cannot be seen through autumn’s colors and summer’s density- or the deep snow, for that matter. March’s thin veneer brings to mind how real are the layered substrata we walk upon. Being mindful of what abides beyond the surface parallels a personal examination of conscience. The burgeoning season brings me to new vantage points, and indeed changed perspectives. Subtle modifications in living are indeed quiet changes, and though unlike pronounced crises, evolving perspectives are no of less effort. And beneath the surface is mystery, unknowing- yet fascinating and consoling. Renewal is a wonder, because it astonishes me to see how freshly we can start over and again- especially without the jadedness of what must melt away. Truly, a fresh start is one that is unfettered by cynicism and liberated from condemning.

If I am really living ever-renewing days, what changes have emerged from the depths of the surface? Being revivified means to live differently. For the past couple of weeks, my handwritten journal has been speckled with pencilled jots inquiring about what has changed. I’d try the question at different times of the day- alas always during fleeting breaks from work. Indeed, since the nature of reflective journaling is an evolving format, we can explore and revisit concepts, allowing them to develop. If we began with presumed conclusions, it would defeat the dynamism of the process. Contemplatives, in this culture, have to steer around society’s obsessions built around controlling outcomes. These days in reflection, I am only now realizing through conscious writing and reading, we can be the incarnation of our learning. Manifesting what one learns about, corresponds with how perception influences what we see and how we interpret the signs and images in our lives. Momentarily, the specifics of my own renewal are still elusive and, so far, can be articulated as changes in perception. A general, intuitive change in how I perceive, both what is living and what is non-sentient. Spiritual growth, or development, unfolds mysteries we can recognize, but it also seems there are always concealed truths we become aware of in a beautifully unspoken way. Continuing on, with just enough of what attests to a confidence unseen, may be considered an undramatic change. But gradual transformation is indeed silently noticeable- and perceptible in both our thoughts and how we communicate. Perhaps it suffices, even momentarily, to assert there has been a sea-change. Even amidst intense road weariness, I am certain of the voyage- with all its required rigors and the grace each stage of the journey offers.

light and shading

"Reach out to pierce the darkness above.
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.7

Swirls of billowing snow glittered over the narrows of Beacon Street outside, as I could see through the upward-reaching windows of the Boston Athenaeum Library. Prolific snowfall visible between the interior’s carefully stocked bookshelves provided the background for a midday Baroque recital. I’d already scavenged a few tomes from the lower stacks, before walking into the impromptu concert hall; and so I sat holding fast to the books lest a five-pound hardcover hit the floor during an adagio. Grateful for my rare, reflective pause, there was a noticeable stillness to find- between the sprightly trills of Couperin and Bach directly in front of me, and the noiselessly feathering snow outdoors. It was one of those consoling moments during which I felt pronouncedly rooted in the very space and time beneath my feet. As it is with a savory meal, occasionally a forceful sense of place can be as prominent as the action one may be occupied with. During a summer of landscape-photographing in Norway, I stopped in the astonishingly beautiful mountainous seaside city of Bergen. As anyone might imagine, the amazement of a new and enchanting place can inspire a visual artist to rather ceaselessly explore- without much thought of rest. Well, on an afternoon of a memorable day’s photographing in an area along a fjord, the combination of exhaustion and wonder had drawn me to an extraordinarily peaceful place. At the summit of a green and sunlit hill, with trees and small medieval houses behind me and the ocean at the fore, I set down my heavy backpack of four-by-five film holders, the large camera, and all the bulky gear, and enjoyed an indelible repose. Part of the memory is wrapped up in the terrain- so steeply inclined that although lying on my back I could see straight out to the glistening water. And, just as that instant in the library, there are moments and places that can assimilate our being. The long journey traces a delicate path, and if our soul’s yearnings are unclear in the flailing, they surely come to our consciousness as we welcome more consoling moments.

As contemplation balances action, reading balances writing, and learning balances application, marathons of striving are offset by a solace that surprises. To arrive at a stride without overt or adversarial struggle is an entirely new predicament. So many of us become conditioned by enough discouraging experiences to expect "another shoe to drop," when our attention gets momentarily diverted from a joyous time in our lives. "Hope for the best; expect the worst," goes the old Mel Brooks song, and perhaps that speaks for a great many of us who call ourselves optimists. Indeed, it’s long about time this shoe-dropping business gets shaken away from its axiomatic pedestal. The cutting edge, as I’ve been recently learning, is not to stand still- surely no less when turning a corner onto level and well-lit roads, but to continue building upon the hard-earned aspirations that have brought me to this day. On this day of frosted exteriors and hushed, white-capped surfaces, this time for listening is not passive, but is a movement of trust. Here is an open door to meditate upon what I’ve learned, and also to challenge that veiled pessimism which has conditioned many of us to negatively anticipate- when we see goodness (and more potential for still more goodness) around us. Indeed this is an uncharacteristic frame of reference, but a welcome one: to explore and inhabit a new reality of evolving awareness and concerns that extend far beyond immediate survival.

Reaching a place of contemplative calm, this time, is without thunderous spectacle. But this is a turning-point, and these are steps I have walked with circumspectly in the past few months. And, as the paradoxes of grasp-and-release come to mind, we may revisit the ancient words that speak to the familiar scenario of pursuing conflicting ends. In Matthew we read the expression as "serving two masters," and we might adapt the concept as "playing on two opposing teams," or as I’d seen in the corporate sphere, "working for two disagreeing bosses." In the discourse following the Sermon on the Mount, the essence revolved around giving the all of oneself to the Eternal versus enslaving oneself to material trappings that intrinsically do not last. "Care not for the morrow, but let the morrow care for itself: for the day present has ever enough of its own troubles." In that bidding is an exercise of faith- of trust that there mustn’t be an apprehension about what may follow.

The crossroad of trust and fear is constantly presented before our steps. In that sense, there are numerous turning-points, whether or not amidst personal quiet spells. And somehow, by turning one’s attention away from self, and onto the fullness of this voyage, the range of what we can appreciate attains an expanse. Indeed, within that expanded awareness are innumerable treasures. Thankfully, we loom less largely in an aggrandizing milieu, and with an awakened vision the ordinary is transfigured. Commonplace occurrences, such as conversations, noticing the symmetry of street corners, meals, baths, and streams of inspired written words, draw us to tastes of rarified grace. I am relieved to look away from outdated notions, and to turn to things that are more complete and full. Out of the lengthy and deliberately-paced film Into Great Silence, the portion which has remained with me- more than the mountainous landscape and the ancient stone monastery- is the sequence which shows a monk repairing one of his boots. He aligns the pieces and applies the adhesive with a sacramental attentiveness, and then has the patient wisdom to allow the glue to very slightly begin to dry before finishing the job. Assembling the essentials takes time and devoted care.

If by releasing our imagined hold, we more fully comprehend, then indeed by unknowing we may come to know. For me, this has been a consoling relief, not to require some sort of highly-detailed itinerary of life (if such credible things ever existed). I appreciate that not all things are spelled out- and further how not all concepts are meant to be scripted outside of being lived realities. It seems for us to really set our hearts in a particular direction, we need to know- whether cognitively or intuitively- just enough so that we have the essentials to move forward. I have not minded the mixture of verifiable knowing, with a purposeful obscurity.

An integral component in how I made my livelihood for nearly 14 years was to create imagery in a completely dark chamber. From the crepuscular pitch blackness of photographic darkrooms, I would bring forth colorful and silver-engraved imagery on every manner of still film and paper. The only light, when there was any, came from the pinpoint-focused enlarger light sources which blended the mixed colors and densities that I would very carefully calibrate. It was a way of daily life and living, and no matter the weather or current events outside, there was the darkroom: an otherworldly blending of the intense stresses of production, a pervading element of uncertainty in the accomplishments of problem-solving, and the oddly tranquil bandaged darkness that would prompt meditations to offset the output demands. Always in very close quarters, and ever with muted vinegar-like odors. Between occasional consultations, those long stretches in the darkroom tended to exaggerate whatever I would seem to carry in with me from outside. Perhaps it is inherent to solitary darkness, that both solace and anxiety alike would be subject to the effects of confrontational shadows. In that combination of practicality and mystery, and when I’d be absent from the studio, the consciousness of the work of crafting light out of the darkness would remain. Many times, during the height of production, it did not always occur to me that I was working in lightless spaces; imagine doing extremely precise work- more by intuition than by sight.

Workplace adventures join with the lengthening reach of all life experiences- even the humblest and most unspectacular- or those "pictures" our minds might "take," when we find ourselves beholding a veritable collage of image and sound (and weather). Foraging through literal darkness and light alike lends profound metaphor to an evolving contemplative life. All that we go through- discoveries and setbacks- enrich our inner solitude. In his book, The Inner Eye of Love, William Johnston wrote:

"When the eye of love becomes accustomed to the dark,
it perceives that the darkness is light
and the void is plenitude."

By such perspective it is possible to see how the Spirit guides us through every form of life-situation, and the force of creation indeed originates from beyond ourselves. Dionysius the Areopagite wrote of "the ray of Divine darkness," and how a prayerful life journey teaches us to know with our inner eyes. In the fullness of the spiritual journey, he reflected that love- in the entirety of its meaning- is the motivating force. Using the example of Moses’ ascent into the dark and clouded mountain, it was "by great love" that he was drawn forward and on to unprecedented heights. To embrace the darkness and unknowing- not as forbidding obstacles, but as brilliant passages- is to welcome the mystery of calling yet to be finely articulated.

advance and aspire

"Comment tout voir à la lumière du Ressuscité et de l’avenir qu’il inaugure? Et l’on discerne soudain ici le rapport intime qui articule l’espérance et l’éverveillement. Car c’est le propre de l’espérance que de vouloir tout considérer à partir de cet avenir de Dieu. C’est elle qui voit le monde et notre vie de manière symbolique."

~ frère Pierre-Yves de Taizé, Le Souffle de l’Espérance, p.127.

Much as I would delight in the immersion of my musings in uninterrupted pensive reverie, alas that has been the exception to the rule. Being constantly about the work of my employment and the oftentimes relentless web of peripheral logistics, my settled thoughts have been fragments at best. Those occasional exceptions, the retreats and pilgrimages, are all the more appreciated as they contrast the chaos and permit me to take my mind off the "next order of business." Here and there, a spell of time to write, that exceeds an hour, allows for a little taste of quiet recollection- rather as a single savory chocolate truffle amidst the perfunctory quotidian comestibles. In that light, I like to think of monastic writings as coming from working hands whose stopping to write has been as occasional as mine. The pauses to recollect being incidental and en route to various portions of the day, airy counterforms between rigid tasks- all of which offer their own sense of the sacred. Surely the day’s obligations, interactions, and surprises add color to the moments during which we can reflect. Ensconced in the ancient volumes of The Philokalia, the gently scribed words of St. Diadochos of Photiki encourage meditative remembrance. His writing, in short paragraphs, may have been pieced together throughout a life of work, instruction, and thought. There’s a lot about conscientiousness and entering into the love of God, and wholeness of heart. From there, and with consistent application, one "never loses an intense longing for the illumination of spiritual knowledge, until he senses its strength in his bones and no longer knows himself, but is completely transformed by the love of God." Time is never specified, fortunately, neither the duration of the "untroubled silence" he wrote about, which is to say reflection that is not centered on self. For Diadochos, lowliness unites us with God, and his expression of the spiritual voyage is both modest and profound, describing the seeker as one who "ceaselessly journeys towards God in his soul."


My own journeys have taken many forms- the inward descent to the heart, purposeful physical travels, and even the workday steps which may seem, outwardly, to be mundane and unextraordinary. Again and just as fortunate- time, place, and duration of journey is gratefully undetermined, and one’s heart need only to be open as circumstances constantly unfold. Just this week, while traveling home from a pilgrimage, my thoughts turned to this curious rotation of advancing and aspiring in the spiritual life; and indeed the learning and doing often occur simultaneously. This culture and these times do challenge our aspirations, yet we must remind ourselves that our fields-of-vision cannot reveal all that is. And the unseen can point us to an amazement we can only occasionally and acutely sense. Like Diadochos, though present in this life, we are not solely entrenched in it; though dwelling in what we readily see, yet we depart from it.


From the unseen, we draw references to the eternal- and we can recognize those signs in the beauty we see in our midst. Often, as I continue on, I find the powerful intuitive impressions to be more compelling than what I immediately see. The lines, so to say, and what is read between the lines. What we see, and what we clearly know without seeing. Becoming so accustomed to sound-bites that we even begin speaking in that fashion, and can easily neglect to explore beyond what appears on the surface. It seems there is a societal fear of silence, and that becomes evident in the ways we fill spaces with "white noise," including muzak in elevators and even tiny televisions above gas pumps. I’ve visited churches within which bland recorded music is piped in through sound systems, lest anyone be made uneasy by disarming quiet. What frightful thing could happen, when the controls are shut off, and we can hear our own thoughts? What can emerge from our silences, the quiet contrasting the chaos, that we can carry with us through our days? Need everything be overt and ostentatious, without room for subtlety? The vigilant can develop their own sensibilities, and not passively acquiesce to what gets piped into our environments. Kempis, whose own life was both contemplative and public, said "no one speaks with certainty except the one who would gladly keep silent," adding that it is laudable for spiritual people to be seldom seen. Perhaps that conviction flew in the face of what he saw around him in his time. Pascal, as well, spoke of the hiddenness of the Divine. Concealed at times, but not such that a seeker cannot find. He wrote that "God wishes to move the will rather than the mind," and what may appear to help the mind can harm the will. The glimpses of God’s presence that we experience provide a clarity that dramatically contrasts our obscurities.


While in transit, whether traveling a long way or walking to work, our steps envelop an assortment of paradoxes: seen and unseen, commotion and quiet, surface and hiddenness, spectacular and solace. The other day, I noticed how the late skies reveal this now changing season, and considered what points me toward perceiving the future with hope. I might take the point of view that looks to what I try to keep away from my life, or rather what I prefer to embrace. Indeed, we may concertedly reject indifference and negligence, as a kind of subtractive approach- and we may reach for influences that inspire compassion, as a kind of additive process. Surely, both do occur, and we witness this in our own progress. More often than not, I’ve been pursuing my own forms of purgation and absorption. Though, at times, parts of my life seemed to purge me from them- and after assiduous rebuilding efforts I’ve reached many gratitudes, not only for what I came to live well without- but also for knowing what to keep away from myself. And recently, while making my way home, my thoughts turned to the everlasting pilgrimage- the one that goes on regardless of time, place, or momentary destination- whether the scenery involves a shrine or my place of work. Knowing the source of inner joy and a compassion that benefits others, how is it possible to continue returning to that rejuvenating source? As well, a knowledge of ones spiritual center is one thing, but it would be of little avail without cultivating an inherent nature that knows to consistently orient oneself to that Source.

On an occasion last week, I sought the quiet space of a large cathedral. Its greyness matched the monochromatic pallor of neighboring office buildings. I might’ve expected it, but was still quite surprised at the glowing ambience of brilliant colors and warm woodtones within. Cerulean hues and stained glass reflected and transmitted what the overcast skies and grey streets could not. The overall contrast was amazing to me, and it brought to mind the vitality of a quiet sense of wonder. I am finding that a contemplative sense of amazement in the ordinary is a way of conscious perception that prompts me to continue seeing things in new ways. Wonder is a stillness that remains in motion, allowing me to find the good in what I experience, and a way to continually renew my view of life. For the intuitive soul, when seeing and realizing have no words, quiet wonder is a calm that has no need. It is in itself a discipline, yet also a gift of the Spirit- and many times it requires an effort not to let my years and setbacks cause a jadedness to cloud my view of the present. And so that vital glowing ember known as wonder must be carefully and vigilantly tended. Wonderment and hope are interconnected, the two practical concepts inspire one another. In my experiences, when I have not been able to find either of these perspectives, there have been people in my life to bring light to what is astonishing and what is hopeful. As with vivid colors setting forth from ashen greys, from deserted places the soul takes flight.

Lest contemplative practice appear to be an end in itself, and it can, it most surely mustn’t be anything less than a movement from self-conscious, to conscientiousness, to a consciousness of others and, indeed, of God. The learning itself continues to be an immensely satisfying journey, expanding and focusing further as I go. Our perspectives are transformed as we advance, and perhaps we find our vision becomes transformative, as we interact and engage our lives with those around us. Last week, I listened to a monk of Taizé speak about the fire of reconciliation, distinguishing between the choice of faith compared to fear, and that in so doing we begin notice how much of our culture is based upon reactions to fear. Listening to this monk, while pencilling notes and propping my small notebook against my guitar and music-stand, his French translates to this effect: "Rather than to base our lives on fears, and upon what we deem to be impossible, consider how God gives us something else upon which to build our lives- in the Holy Spirit. That’s where we find freedom. Not in fear. To dwell in fear is to refuse life. The Holy Spirit is life, and that means we can and must take the risks to pursue lives of communion with one another." In the happy irony of celebrating risen life, I needed to stop writing and resume playing music. At the next interlude, I wrote further in my little notebook that our hearts bid us to advance further on, and we must have the courage to say yes to that with our lives.

(I am at the lower right corner of this photo.)

en route

"I loved to choose and see my path;
but now lead thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
pride ruled my will: remember not past years!

So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
will lead me on.
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent,
till the night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
which I have loved long since, and lost awhile! "


~ John Henry Newman, Lead, Kindly Light

the time being

"Listen
and gentle be present
to all you’ve ever
close kept in your loving heart.
Try to remember the moments
when you felt clearly
the gift to be truly alive.
Often look up
and see the splendor
of life suspended
in your heart and mind"

~ The Monks of Weston Priory, Listen

Stillness.
In the swirling sea of workday scurrying, the quietly written word is a ready refuge. Much as it is when savoring a hot cup of coffee, seated in a café or at my desk at home. Ironically, a beverage reputed to give one the jitters turns out to be a sane and soothing intermission. So it is just the same, once notebook and pencil are produced in just about any given environment. Recollection, it seems, is never out of season- and this occasion is as many: neither one of hardship nor extraordinary wonder. Not an extreme condition today, but one of calm waters- which is in itself an unusual experience for me. But gathering thoughts and making notes do not subsist on crises. Neither does an active life. Indeed, intertwined in the spiritual life, thought-gathering and prayer are for all days, and the passage of time simply draws connections among successive beginnings.


Contemplative disciplines are put to a challenging test, when quiet reflection must be pried out from between the day’s structures; and perhaps the extra layer of living a monastic temperament in a culture that insists upon filling each moment with noise, is to creatively find ways to nurture the spirit. Even stopping to read a few sacred words, and make some notes during my "union-made" coffee breaks, makes the day more of a puddle-jump than a desert- rather like "praying the hours," en route to a lengthier devotion. But, truly, those short recitations that punctuate the daytime do allow for just enough time to pause, sustaining just to notice all that is in motion. Indeed, being intuitive, there is no set length for a meditative silence; I’ve found that even through varying my walk to work there is a chance to sense the moment’s light and air, and learning to perceive my steps as a sequence of beginnings I am rethinking my views about the routines that can constrain. I’d rather look at what parts of the thought process, and ways of being and working, can be varied with a more appropriate attention to what is immediately present. Stillness and silence are not really necessary, although arriving at places of calm waters present images much more clearly- even as looking in a glass.

Today, a rare day off, is one of relief and simplicity. Sunny, mild, and uneventful, that is itself an event. This is the time being: a taste of Ordinary Time. In the context of Lectio Divina, Ordinary Time appears at first to be a demeaning term for those spans of days between the ancient liturgical feast days. If we carry the metaphor out a bit, we could say the unspectacular helps define the grand- even enabling us to blend the two. One can feast only so much, those simpler meals can be gratifyingly uncomplicated, and the cleanup is surely easier. Perhaps our own Ordinary Time constitutes the spaces of varying durations during which life really transpires. My own personal journey can attest to defining events, but that time being, those innumerable liminal spaces such as today, can teach us much about our approaches to the lives presented to us. Each and every time I travel on my pilgrimages, no matter their distance or duration, my heart always reaches a point at which I become so eager to return to the life-routine I had set aside, that it even becomes difficult to meditate on the Divine Hours. Is it unusual to long for Ordinary Time, for the lessons and exams that connect the recesses? Heights of mountaintops are best noticed from the familiarities of valleys and plains. Each time I conclude sojourns at the Weston Priory, or Taizé, I find some quiet space to write, collecting some thoughts, and each time I find myself impatient to apply new learning and to return to the turbulence of "the world." But at the instant I begin to separate the spheres of my life, I find they are really all enmeshed- and all essential for the long journey. "Prayer is the laying-aside of thoughts," observed Evagrios, in the ancient Philokalia, very, very simply reminding us of the portability and versatility of the contemplative life.


To be sure, Ordinary Time need not imply dullness or emptiness. Far from that. Moving through our days, with time’s passage as something of a separate pilgrimage parallel to our own, the ordinary need not be construed as some kind of frozen stagnation. We continue to breathe, move, and find our being. Using the lexicon of his days, the late-19th century Scotsman Oswald Chambers colorfully addressed the exercise of gleaning from the ordinary as "discipleship in the drudgery." One might superimpose the word "commonplace" upon "drudgery" of the 1890s, or just enjoy his austere language. "If we will arise and shine," observed Chambers, "drudgery becomes divinely transfigured." Essentially, the touchstone of character is revealed in how we live the commonplace. Chambers even added, "The great hindrance in spiritual life is that we will look for big things to do." The sublime is not found in the ostentatious, but in the proverbial still small voice. And even within Chambers’ puritanical teaching, a wondrously subtle appeal comes forth: "we have to take the first step as though there were no God." Ennobling what we might call the unnoticed, he offered, "take the next step when there is no vision and no spectator." The time being has a dynamism all its own, not to be wished away, and when our time is less replete with our own concerns, more room can be made for people and more in our midst to appreciate. Prayers fulfilled do not give way to emptiness, but indeed inspire more new aspirations.


Now these notes have seen my steps migrate from the staff room at work, to my neighborhood laundromat, to my desk at midnight, to this particular waterfront café as I assume the Familiar Perch at a round-topped table in the window. This morning February second pretends to be late-March, as the sun heats up this keyboard. We are months away from any tourist season, and so the street outside is animated with us locals, ambling the cobblestones and bricks, browsing and breathing with the mobility of not needing layers of scarves, gloves, and heavy coats. Not exactly ordinary. Indoors the din of chatter, music, and the grinding of coffee, provides the basis for the moment. This is the place where I’d escape to write term papers, with just enough "din" and just enough solitude- with a great view to the strolling street of shifting light. My steaming coffee turbidly vies for my attention, lest it cool too much for both scent and taste. Fear not the future, for the refill is free. Now, my hope is to cease perceiving the day-to-day as some sort of treadmill existence (as I used to do). This may be what we might call Ordinary Time, but the hours’ movement, by nature, informs me this moment is as provisional and fleeting as the more "outstanding" events. The familiar is now remarkable and noteworthy, and this very day is the journey’s destination. This precise moment, whether it be this one upon my writing- or another upon your reading- or ours upon our contemplating- is surely the precise place for a beginning.

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