suffisante

“I’ve sat and watched the tide go out
But I did not chase- no I did not doubt
The water would return to shore
And meet me once again.

And I’ve known the truth and understood
Or thought I did, or thought I could
Be satisfied with points of view
But I’m tired of the din.

I never want to be satisfied.”


~ Pray for Rain, Satisfied

From a return to some of the wilderness sources of life, I have returned to daily routines. Over recent years, my intermissions have been far too occasional, yet always substantial departures from the ordinary. Extended stretches of hard work do lend well to building up a hearty appetite for retreating. Indeed, I’m one of those people who really enjoys a good travel, including driving very long-distances. Part of the enjoyment is in getting ready for an adventure. As with Chaucer’s Canterbury pilgrims, my journeys are preceded and accompanied by anticipation and aspiration. With concerted preparation and movement, I find varied environments and ideas. Experiences and imagery enrich the trove I am able to draw from, as with a reader adding to their personal library of prized tomes. And in the authentic spirit of pilgrimage, the return voyage is as integral to the adventure as the outward expedition. My gratitude for the witnessing of new places and acquaintances is often matched by thankful homecomings. When I sense some currents of disappointment upon returning, noticing myself let down by differences in contrasting settings, I’ve taken to making note how the pilgrimage of the spirit never really ends. Though pace and terrain fluctuate, the quest proceeds as surely as I breathe. Why not savor the quotidian? Getting away provides opportunities for re-approaching the familiar.

So I am making the effort to revel in the routine. Some of those daily and unspoken habits are actually pleasant and rather stabilizing. Beginning each day early, washed and caffeinated, with a few paragraphs to set forth down the granite stoop and out into the swirl of things. Tasks that make the day complete, whether necessary- such as workplace housekeeping and formalities, or the needed “unnecessaries”- such as lunch hours spent journaling in cafés. Puddle-jumping between blocks of work hours, to be able to regain a good book or a stream of written consciousness, offers modest rewards through the day’s portions. The rhythm can oddly resemble the monastic divine hours interspersed with the chores of employment. Integrated well enough, the two components actually inspire one another. As for what appears from a homecoming distance as drudgery, the best thing for me is to not look at such things in generalizations. If all is viewed as “routine,” the day’s graces are clouded over, and workdays revert to looking up at mountains in the fog. Find the enjoyable details, and even take note of what goes smoothly. Those subtle gems help offset matters that try our patience, that divert our paths. If I’m really awake to what I experience, I can derive something useful from the roadblocks. I once had a job which included some machine repair and a whole lot of maintenance. It was expected that all the intricate mechanisms operated as required. But, indeed, once something occurred as simple as two cogs falling out of alignment, everything would get thrown out of whack. Abrupt sounds of friction attest to opposing components “speaking,” demanding immediate attention. In so doing, there is reckoning to be done and something to be learned.

A re-approach accompanied by even a slight discord, draws my thoughts. Indeed, delineating the specifics from broad-brushed generalities is the same as evaluating a singular situation or method, away from cluttered collages of the past. Without rescinding some healthy idealism, yet refusing cynicism, I wonder about what I’ve come to deem as “acceptable” or sufficient. Perhaps the perspective an adult is supposed to have includes developing a satisfaction with measures of deficiency. Haven’t we all heard our elders invoke the “could be better, could be worse” expression? My reflex that challenges what is presented before me, and the responses are founded upon past situations tolerated too long. Memory is both a deepening wealth of reference points and an incessant force with waves to be tamed by stealthy navigation. Looking for purpose in experiential lessons causes me to question routines that are either unpleasant or resistant to improvement. Spiritual life implies a questioning of status quos, however this endangers generating a judging mode that causes more hurt than help. What is sufficient? What suffices? How much dissatisfaction should we expect to tolerate? Here is where expectations themselves must be specified and evaluated against the givens and the variables. Perhaps some new possibilities can be found. In these considerations, I start to think about standards- a word that’s been overused by this culture as if representing some type of vertically-moving discretionary threshold. However they may need to be adjusted, projected personal standards need to be realistically based. That surely means looking beyond self; the more isolated the person, the more impossible are the standards. Discord demands re-tuning.

Today, I’ve been reminding myself that presently I am not yet what I will become. Observing an undercurrent of discontent may be turned positively toward my desire to do better. The drive to improve can make wise use of past errors, however I must always keep in mind the reality between what was and what’s hoped for- and- what presently is. The idea of satisfying circumstances, in this society, entangles matters like remuneration, convenience, and intellectual rewards. Such thirst drives many to achieve and exceed with every step, but the dark side to motivations like this is the way it plays into egocentrism. Ironically, with each self-defining embellishment we are permitting the culture in our midst to define who we are. There are fine lines and edges for those who navigate between this consumptive, amnesiac world, and life in the Spirit. The latter sends us back into society. Now, there’s nothing to disparage about ambitiousness, and constructive ways to act upon hopes. Almost intangibly, there’s a force than compels any one of us to arise, look ahead, and seek inspiration- with enough motivation to propel a person along a quest into the unknown. Yet, even well-intended ambitions can present pitfalls, among which is that unquenchable desire to prove one’s “worth,” to impress well enough to belong, to be “acceptable” to others. Being in the midst of a culture that relentlessly conditions us- even steering us to posture and to claim titles and identities, it’s easy to get drawn into the ways our egos emphasize how we want to be seen. Thomas Merton often referred to the “false self” as a self-imposed autonomy that rejects all interaction with God, creating upon the bases of social myths and games of superiority. I call this the “performing self,” and I try to keep that inclination in check by challenging myself not to make the whats of life into who I am at my core. The crossroads are marked at places along the voyage when we must choose what we identify with, bringing me to merge contemplation with street smarts.

The silver lining of dissatisfaction is in a willingness to challenge and explore. But we must drive out of ruts, and choose not to park in them. This morning, I asked myself about what I felt to be soul-satisfying. Being in the stream of progress- of learning, of meaningful accomplishment; of partaking in something that brings me to a better place and mindset than what I’d departed from. (With journaling there is surely a way of verification.) Expectations are never far from aspirations. The heart of the struggle, around which these words revolve, is whether I expect in realistic ways. I grew so accustomed to living up to high expectations that my own for myself have rarely been forgiving. Setbacks have been historically more captivating than assurances and acknowledgments, and a little self-compassion remains a major undertaking. The mercy I practice has been resoundingly more outward than inward, and until fairly recently I began to reconsider regrets as practical lessons rather than as condemning mistakes. If each day confronts the decision to take to the sanctified inner road, indeed there must be a consistent renunciation of what fuels that “false self,” which at once judges and alienates. It is a repudiation of disingenuousness. In Contemplation in a World of Action (my favorite of all his books), Merton commented, “we renounce our alienated and false selves in order to choose our own deepest truth in choosing both the world and Christ at the same time.” If there’s an expectation that stokes up the false self, it must be that of perfection. Who among us mortals is perfect? Exacting it of ourselves and others is potentially destructive and surely unrealistic. And what of those purported high standards? Well, rather than to seek some sort of “perfection” in flawed situations, perhaps the more attainable sense of satisfaction is found in concept: in perspective and in philosophical outlook. These are transcendent of place and time limitations.

Thoughtfully reconsidering my expectations is certainly not a lowering of personal standards. Seeing the broad picture makes it possible to weigh situations and objectives in context, and thus I am in much less conflict- if any- with my surroundings. If there are even the simplest hopes, there will be expectations in some form. I expect to continue learning and growing in grace, though it is a combination of consciously reaching and of openly and effortlessly receiving. I might also say that I expect my coffee-maker to operate according to its design. Expecting the courtesies that I enjoy practicing, in all situations, I must not be mortally let down either, if I experience rudeness or if my coffee-maker doesn’t cooperate. It may be naïve and unrealistic, but I’ve never questioned my expectation of fairness- even though over and again I am shown how this world, by and large, does not operate that way. Yet I expect it. Perhaps it’s an expectation blended with hopes that “good must always prevail,” expecting others to be as I try myself to be. Is that absurd? There alas, enter those high self-expectations of flawlessness. Livable expectations seem a whole lot more merciful to me! Letdowns and situational disappointments remind me that there is much more distance to be covered- and happily so. Perceptions are always to be renewed. And I must always remember the vitality of spiritual liberation and the treasure that is not subject to corrosion, and there will my be heart also. On one occasion, during some community volunteering, I described how a new project was dauntingly slow to start, but I believed in its potential. The director responded with, “God simply calls us to be faithful, that’s all.” Within the wealth of wisdom enwrapped in that little phrase is the ease of doing the next good thing. Faithful is surely more tenable than perfection. What a relief.

sources

“The spirit of prayer is a pressing forth of the soul out of its earthly life,
it is a stretching with all its desire after the life of God, it is a leaving,
as far as it can, all its own spirit, to receive a spirit from above,
to be one life, one love, one spirit with Christ in God.”

~ William Law, The Spirit of Prayer, ch. 2


The season before me is clearly one of reaching forth, of embracing the road ahead. Creation surely attests to this, with trees offering fragrant outgrowth excelling their abundant leaves. Lengthened days invite us outdoors, and in varying measures- due to the daily employs that usually occupy our waking hours- we are able to respond. Northern New England is a part of the world in which one needn’t venture far to rediscover a sense of a human’s context in the sphere of natural forces through which we can know the grandeur of creation. Winter’s contemplative inner spaces demonstrate fruition as all that grows openly rises to summer skies. I have been thoroughly enjoying a week of rejuvenating exploration, departing from routines, and on to something different enough to travel with new thoughts. Looking away from obstructive trappings so often tempting us with convenience, and diverting the sublimity of simplicity, I found means to reflect in beholding the humbling vastness. In contemplation that searches creation, we become able to see far more than self; it is possible to further view what lives above and beyond us. We can gaze toward what is greater, there for our aspirations. Now, as I regather again to return home and to work, with some renewed perspective, my hope is to keep close to heart the vivid images that my eyes have seen



When a soul “reflects” deeply, a crossroad is encountered. Aware that solitude’s fulfillment is found in communion, its underside is the danger of self-absorption. Of course the search for self-comprehension is necessary for those who make the pursuit. The journeys might be shadowed by wariness of a loss of grounding and grasp of self- and with that it is crucial to reach even farther. We can navigate right through the fog of our hesitation. William Law observed how our reflection can be a pressing forth, an extension of our yearnings for the grace and peace of God. Indeed, we are surely called to become more than what we see reflected at the surface, and to become that grace and peace for others in unpredictable ways. Looking through my camera at a mirroring stream, noticing the scene’s natural collage, the intricacies of reflected images caused me to wonder about how self-reflection can become a reaching forth. Still waters make it possible to see more than our silhouettes. My attention was drawn to what was above and behind the familiar. The real intrigue of self-awareness is in finding how vital is to reach beyond oneself. We want to know more, and the difference is in where we direct our energies when we strive. Watching the sky’s intensities in the water’s surface, while also noticing what is beneath the bands of water depths, is a testament to the forces of creation, of our very composition.

Johannes Tauler once observed that we have an inherent tendency to turn to our natural places of origin. He wrote of how we are God’s creation, yet “how could man alone be so self-absorbed as to not rush back to his eternal source, his goal and his light?” To determinedly venture out, we must consciously journey within. With each individual, the travels will vary, but for me the woods and especially the ocean have been steadfast signs of both my source and horizon. Both, in their presences, move with seasons and strengths of light, reminding me of what endures after contrivances fade away. Closing his observations, Tauler urged his listeners to make every possible effort to “behold this true light so that you may be able to return to the source where it shines in all its brightness. Long for it, pray for it, do all you can, with all the strength you can summon.” And so, in returning to physical sources- mountains, woods, waters, shores, even star-filled night skies, and the connecting paths between them, I consider how we can transition from reflections of our own selves and our impressions of ourselves, to personal visions of God who calls us to transcend self. What convinces us of the greatness of the world beyond our own business? What causes our spirits to soar? When I am reminded of good things I can anticipate. When something I have worked at produces new prospects. Yes, we must retrieve our centers of inspiration, over and again- especially as we desire the sacred. In this growth process, we want to move in the direction of being unified in God, and away from isolating ourselves into some sort of self-justifying fabrication.



As I assemble these thoughts at Acadia National Park, away from tired routines and immersed in diverse sources of life, the sense of having been “brought” to this place has been evident to me. The islands comprise the spectrum of fascination between dramatic tides and steep mountains- in close proximity- threaded with curved roads and paths, and occasional green-and-clapboard villages. Throughout this week, those numerous, still, glassy ponds and lakes were of particular interest to me, being more accustomed to the turbulent ocean waters around Portland harbor. The still waters invite closer examination, and reflected skies have been assuring me not to forget to look up. I remember an occasion, about a dozen years ago, being in the throes of personal crisis, when I had no place else to go but the university chaplain’s office. The wise minister stopped her work, and walked me out onto a very brightly sunlit Columbia Point, overlooking Boston harbor. The sunshine was startlingly forceful for a day in March. The minister sat me down and asked me to look at the sky, adding “how long has it been since you’ve looked up?” I honestly didn’t know, and had no answer. In the process, I was both amazed at the boundless blue, and confused at my suddenly diverted despair. Of course, no recovery from deep grief is instant, but the beginning nudge to simply look up has been unforgettable to me. Grandeur such as that of a vast sky or the panoramic ocean is a relieving sight for me, setting my notions and my own obstructive self into sobering context. I have since passed along, with great care, the eloquently simple advice to try to see what splendor surrounds us. We can remind one another to look up and out, in our own ways, thus offering our own small touch of the magnificence entrusted to us. The journey back must also be as a vast sky. Rather than a “return to what was,” before I left, I want to view the road home in the same light as I considered the trip to get here to Mount Desert Island. Each day a new adventure. I must continue to listen for those life sources, and how these are instrumental in creation’s speaking to me.

drawbridge

“The spiritual life is a long and often arduous search
for what you have already found.
You can only seek God when you have already found God.
The desire for God’s unconditional love is the fruit
of having been touched by that love.

Because finding the treasure is only the beginning of the search,
you have to be careful.”

~ Henri Nouwen, The Inner Voice of Love


This evolving voyage is well in progress, and I am still young enough to find it endless. And along this complex network of paths and way-stations, with an increasing array of experiences, places, and remarkable people, a broadening and deepening of perspective begins to form. We may even observe our own sense of self-possession, as it develops. During a pleasant and animated conversation with a group of colleagues, just last evening, I heard myself express a culmination of thoughts in response. Once in a while, I am able to enjoy the observations of others, with the addition of my insights; and in context, this provided some food for thought on the quiet ride home.


Exchanging stories occurs to me as a sharing of road maps, and in so doing it reminds me of the necessity of fine-tuning my learning as I proceed. In my deeply enthusiastic discoveries, I find that I have something to offer- although there are times for which keeping silence becomes equally vital, in a kind of self-preservation. When Henri Nouwen wrote of “finding the treasure,” he was referring to the biblical parable about discovering one’s life force. I think of it as having realized the purpose for the spiritual search. The basis is really an enduring beginning, and even if one’s faith may be sturdy and road-tested, there always abides a paradoxical fragility that reminds me of the vitality of nurture. And the carefulness that is implied here means that to prevent from burning-out, it becomes necessary to know when to attend to one’s spirit in silence. When our experienced insights can be retained enough to learn from, these adventures can become points of constructive reference instead of repeated pitfalls. To be able to retain those vital truths, we must develop ways not to be sidetracked from our sacred course, or be dissuaded from our ideals to the deathly point of cynicism. Is such occasional carefulness a holding-back? Is it fear? Must there even be a drawbridge at all?


To be soundly in this world, yet not owned by it, we find inventive ways to gain the proverbial field within which the treasure lies- even if it means exchanging what property and status we own. That restless journey to the place of rest means never losing track of that pearl of great price. The sacred journey began long before I knew what it was called; before even being aware that my life had significance. Last night, while winding with the curling roads of the Maine coast, between the pine forests and the rock ledges, I thought about my adolescent years on the merciless streets of Corona, in New York City. I had developed a survival instinct that looked to alternative ways to get from one place to another. In order to endure the dangers of gang-infested and crime-filled streets, hallways, basements, subways, and parking lots, I hatched multiple routes- as a kind of human chess piece- to get to places I needed to go. So many junctures had what-ifs and alternate plans through mazes of alleys and thoroughfares. Admittedly, my strategies of avoidance didn’t always work, but I was smart enough not to walk straight into the hands of predators. In the end, I survived with only a handful of muggings and a bunch of beatings.


But the self-conditioning of such impressionable years can really stay in a mature person’s psyche, and to this day I wonder at this childhood casting that combined standing my ground, with self-defense. When we think we are defending ourselves, what is being defended? When you’re a defenseless kid in the asphalt jungle, you’re running a gauntlet and trying to save your own hide. Even children are intelligent enough to see how unhappy such realities are. But then we raise ourselves into professional life, and self-defense often looks a lot less literal and more like an egotistical response. What is being defended, and against whom? What’s at stake? Is avoiding a “hurtful crowd” a wise move, or is it a manifestation of old fears? Those instincts from youth play a role in a developed conscience informing me as to what is permissible and what isn’t. Confrontation is also a conscientious decision, as much as a wise defense would be that attends to a sense of self-respect. Once more, there is a requisite balance between wielding strength and disarming by example. We can cultivate an innate knowledge that informs us when we need to fortify- and when self-fortification becomes obstructive. Indeed, for those who wish to “love your neighbor, as yourself,” with their lives, this implies forgiveness, forbearance, and maintenance. To others and to ourselves. Sharing wholeheartedly in Christ’s risen life is also sharing in his dying- even in the humility and humiliation of his experience. To follow is a call to be completely immersed: not simply to skim across the surface of still water, but to thoroughly sink into the ocean of living and be enveloped in God.

In his essay, “Control Your Own Drawbridge,” Nouwen observed a metaphor in the imagery of drawbridges in medieval castles and walled towns. “You must decide for yourself to whom and when you give access to your interior life,” he reflected, adding how there have been times when he has had to draw the bridge. This was his expression for exercising his commitment to listen for God’s spirit of rejuvenating strength. “Never allow yourself to become public property where anyone can walk in and out at will,” he wrote, “you might think that you are being generous in giving access... but you will soon find yourself losing your soul.” In my own way, I have known this endangerment, and return to the idea of losing track of the “pearl of great price.” Much care is needed when, in this world, we bare our hearts. Of course, there’s a chasm of grey area between living one’s whole life with the castle bridges locked up- and being a doormat. I think of how color transparency film can lose its entire spectrum of hues, when it gets overexposed. All that is left is blanched film with neither color nor outlined forms. Without looking after myself, I’ve often noticed being in a simultaneous state of being at once poured-out and saturated, to a detrimental extent.

Returning to the quest for what has been subtly tasted as enough evidence to devote the whole of life, my thoughts move across and around my own years, pondering how I have perceived my identity. In the context of the occasional “drawbridge” of self-maintenance, I believe the profoundest sense of self-defense is activated with a knowledge of what- and even who- I represent. Perhaps we realize what our core reveals, when we are brought to speak on our own behalf, placing our selves on the line. Surely, such revelation needn’t occur solely at confrontational crossroads; our pared-down selves may be wondrously disclosed when traveling, meeting people, and beginning new ventures. When identity loses much of its baggage, we can learn a great deal about ourselves. We can enjoy our simplified selves. When that happens, I begin to think of my human and spiritual roots. I imagine “representing” my physical ancestors, and how I might resemble them. Having been touched to the core by unconditional love, from almost beyond grasp, my ideas of identity cause me to wish to align with the author of forgiveness and reconciliation. For this communion, there are no fortifications. We discover ourselves as we discover God, and my identity is truly concealed in divine mercy. Thomas Merton once wrote, in New Seeds of Contemplation, “the only way that I can be myself is to become identified with Him in whom is hidden the reason and fulfillment of my existence.” Indeed, it is far more than an elusive impression that moves me onward; the inspiration is in the substance and assurance I continue to encounter along the way.

fathoms

"I can see night in the day time.
Into the woods I quietly go.
It takes all the strength I have in me.
These are the woods;
The night of the soul.

Painful to see,
Love without action;
Painful to see years of neglect.

Creatures we are worth defending
It takes the right word said from the heart.
Given to you without ending;
Given to you, the purpose of art."

~ Michael Been and The Call, Into the Woods


My recent extended time in contemplative solitude, quiet and uneventful as it was, has since been gradually speaking to my recollections- of this pilgrimage of the heart I have been pursuing. The paths and roads, my steps and adventures, since my retreat in the early part of this month have surely not congealed into complacency. Driving away from my wooded hermitage, aside from my gratitude for the repose, all that had been innately clear to me was a reference to a subtle change in my path. It had been a notably uneventful string of days- something extremely rare for me. Retreats can self-defeat, if they are over-planned (and thus become imitations of the work day), or if there are any sorts of expectations. I’ve made those mistakes before, and this time I simply needed a break in my pace and a recovered focus. The peace of that experience, effortless as it had been, is the resulting gift. Indeed, with days steeped in contemplative prayer, I should not be surprised and perplexed to sense a return on what was sown. Yet, a manifestation without striving was what I needed, to be reminded of the source of life originating- and creating- from (thankfully) well beyond my efforts. It’s had me thinking about an unforced, almost implicit spirituality. A proceeding without extraordinary labor; almost a reflexive sense of prayer. The anonymous 14th century author of the Cloud of Unknowing wrote some essays about a kind of "intimate counsel," in which he suggests a soul advance to a point that, after seasons of fascination with the intricacies of learning about God- should be content to let go and contemplate the very present reality that God is. Having had an eloquently unspectacular respite time, I noticed how even the spiritual life can be diverted by expectations. How sublime the simple! But one must be brought to recognize this: hardly emerging from some intense exhaustion, mine was a state between a vulnerable bareness and a plain desire for peaceful communion.

Indeed, the whole point of these thoughts is to not over-emphasize a place or time- no less while considering transcending the transitory. If anything, the silence reminded me that prayer- even a wordless stirring from within- and perseverance can be sown to become a root system which, in time, yields proof that living is a trusting progression. Away from facades and material trappings, our anonymous monastic author bids his reader "abide continually in the deep center of your spirit, offering to God that unarmed and blind awareness of your being which I call your first fruits." He reminds us of the inestimable gift of our profoundest and most unadorned selves. The illustration of first-fruits might be thought of as a "best of the best."

Our truest, most authentic selves. Much is said, these days, about the subject of "authenticity." Perhaps the interest is inspired to contrast this culture’s currents. Recent studies outline our essential psychological needs as being competence, a sense of relatedness, and authenticity. In this context, this means a self-determination defined by acting in accordance with the "core self." I think of it as perceiving and making decisions from the vantage point of my ideals. Carrying our medieval monastic author’s phrase a little further, by living as our authentic selves, we can approach our profoundest potential as created and creative beings. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve found the concept about as elusive to think about as to write about. As with the spiritual quest, I am brought to try to verify my impressions and notions. More than asking if I am true to myself, the second consideration is whether I am faithful to my renewed self. I’ve noticed a problem with writing about "authenticity," is a confusion between what authenticity means and how I want to embody that definition. Granted, part of my aspiration is the desire to live from a personal core that is cultivated increasingly by a conscientious correspondence with the Holy Spirit. When I begin to fathom what is meant by core self- even beneath my identity and history- the next thoughts are to my deepest intentions. A fathom is a depth, but its alternate meaning is to comprehend. Often, I think of my desire for mercy, above all, for self and for others- to see and help realize merciful actions in all spheres of life. I’ve known enough mercilessness to deeply oppose it, without deliberation. Mercy can mean many things, but in my interpretation it’s the offering and renewal of hope that encourages life. It is the noblest of intentions and an ideal worth seeking and practicing.

Seeking, practicing- even an unarticulated aspiring toward more satisfying days- means motion. There is no such pilgrimage as that which does not reach forth. The desire to move forward, with any kind of practical learning, indicates the sort of passion that propels us through our various kinds of inertia toward our dreams. And in that purposeful reaching, we notice how far we’ve already traveled. As the parlance of the spiritual voyaging goes, forward motion can be as tangible within our hearts as upon physical trails and roads. Life in the Spirit is intrinsically transitory. The other day I said my farewells to a friend who, with his family, has embarked upon a cross-country relocation, where he will lead a congregation that awaits him. In our conversations we recognized the different ways the both of us have been in transit.

Even long after dramatically fresh starts, journeying souls are ever in a trusting pursuit. The spirit of God, going before us- preceding our thoughts and movements- exemplifies the trusting steps of faith I so cherish, even without knowing the specifics. Be it a journey of uprooting or one of perspective, we must continue to renew our vision- and with that comes the chance to reflect upon living from one’s "core self." In my own evaluations of conscience, I am the astonished scholar, leafing through memories both near and far, often indexing through the archives of the mind which are categorized by experience type. Noting all the miles I’ve covered, recalling pleasant situations and regrettable pitfalls, it amazes me to consider the sheer diversity of places and circumstances for which the sole common denominator has been me. It is, then, for me to thread the experiences together, make sense of what there is to learn, and try to recognize familiar signs along ways I am yet to see. Thus far, I’ve come to see how ethics and perspective are transcendent of setting and task. These are all collocated by my continuing path.

Finally, in his "intimate counsel," the 14th century monk weaves into his essay a kind of prayer for his reader, that "God be the ground of your being and the focal point of your heart." And thus I return to these subtle new steps calling me to a more permeated, a more implicit, spiritual life. A lesson from the silence was the idea that quiet need not mean nothing is happening. The café table, from which I write these words, is in the shade of a solidly spreading tree. I am looking at the innumerable leathery leaves and thinking, "truly something is happening, as surely as this tree is alive." Like the paces I followed from the woods and depths of my retreat, this new season may be the calmest and most unnoticeable I have experienced. But it makes sense that after such intensity, there must be a simple exhaling, a quiet consistency that moves with the spirit. Elijah’s place of communion was in the solitary presence of the "still, small voice." All he could do, after his desperate searching and physical turmoil, was to cathartically reverence the Divine presence in his midst. I believe part of that catharsis was the assurance of God’s enduring presence- regardless of situation or visibility. With such fears surmounted, it becomes possible to shift the focus away from personal stability and make room for grander things. This is a time to take stock of what these roots are bringing forth, remembering that although contemplation begins on earth, it is eternal.

hidden yet certain

"For the unseen love of a sincere heart persevering
through that dark cloud of unknowing between you and your God
in a hidden yet certain way includes in itself
genuine humility without the help of particular or clear ideas."

~ The Cloud of Unknowing, ch 14.

Living in a northern and coastal climb as I do, the pronounced seasons of the year are such that all may notice and many of us change the paces of our lives alongside these transitions. As with all life forms, we move with nature’s passages. Following a drawn-out winter, the natural response to dramatically lengthened days in northern New England is to be outdoors with all that is verdant and reaching up to the bright skies. It is as though the elements around us prompt our changed perspectives, and even how we greet each day. But what of the bidding from within, calling a soul to times of contemplative solitude, governed by seasons which know not a calendar? Dispersed through my weeks replete with work, I manage to include very brief silences- almost borrowing the time, even if to simply collect a few thoughts and write down some references. The humblest fragments of respite have been valuable breaths for discernment, and thus I continue weaving recollective moments into the most demanding of work days. The balance is not always consistent. Invariably there are points for which the most constructive and healthiest movements forward in the direction of all that is in my life... is to retreat for some open-ended moments that are not wedged in between demands. I began what became a nourishing personal practice of pilgrimage fourteen years ago, and continue to be astonished at the powerful draw of contemplation and the vitality of stopping that perpetual motion which can burn so many of us right out. It is for the individual soul in communion with God to determine the season. The less structure there is, the better. St. Bernard of Clairvaux worded it beautifully:

"Aided by God
the soul gathers itself
into itself
and
withdraws
from all affairs
in order to contemplate God."

I recently returned from a long-awaited retreat, and while in transit my thoughts turned to what gifts these times have always been. On some occasions the retreats have been anguished searches for spiritual shelter. Other times I’ve used liminal spaces between chapters in my continuum to pursue reflective journeys. For the most part, the retreats are about all I can do to regather when my strength seems spent and my soul saturated. Ah, but it is a travel along the grand and eternal pilgrimage! Whether it’s been flights across the Atlantic or drives across New England, preparing for a sojourn to a sanctuary is itself rejuvenating. As I drove the newly-greening country roads a couple of weeks ago, I noticed myself savoring the humblest of travels. Although the routes were very familiar to me, the difference was in the purpose of the trip- already teaching me something about the commonplace for me to bring home after the retreat. Years of experience, both as a pilgrim and in the spiritual life, help me to know the essentials to bring on such journeys. I’ve learned to bring coffee, so to be better able to appreciate those pre-dawn monastic vigils, and indeed there must always be writing materials and a camera. Still, my tendency is to pack too many books.

For me, a retreat is to rediscover stillness, and that includes stilling of thoughts. Through these recent weeks, the idea of maintenance has been prominently in mind. For many lives that value conscientiousness and sincere communion, contemplative retreat is a form of healthy maintenance. In order to continue in a consistent energy and intention, there must be spiritual maintenance. What does this mean? When anything is to be maintained, it’s to be kept in working order. Keeping in being. Upkeep. Safekeeping. The word "keep" is part of the equation. Keep confidence; keep various things in mind and heart. A professor once graded a paper I wrote with "keep the fire." I remember that comment far better than the project.

With requisite traveling, some provisions, and a head full of clutter, the pilgrim arrives at a place of respite. The change of scenery and air, not to mention the welcome, help the spirit renew. The best places of pilgrimage are those which do not make demands upon the retreatant’s time. Those of us who have temporarily fled rigidity and information overload can thrive in those boundless days which, in a monastic environment, are simply punctuated with communal meals and the Divine hours of common prayer. On this occasion just past, I requested solitude- and so the meals and prayers became the parts of the day in which I had company. The situation was perfect, considering the level of exhaustion at which I’d arrived. My hosts gave me a cabin in the woods, providing a contrast to my usual city life. From my sanctuary I could hear the subtle sounds of the outdoor life around me, and the wind currents through the trees. With an unimpaired view of the night skies, it was possible to see the weather develop as the clouds drifted eastward. The day after my arrival was steeped in a torrentially soaking rain. I loved it. God was slowing me down twice over: a little cabin whose distant next-door neighbors were monks, and a soothingly rainy day. The cabin had a front porch, so my reading and writing could continue in the fresh air, while the cleansing rain spattered on the stone steps beyond my canopy.

Unlike the daily routine I interrupted for the cause of respite, the retreat days themselves brought back to mind the subtleties- even the sublimities- of midmornings and midafternoons. For many of us full-time laborers, the day can wind up divided such that we focus on the opposite ends: before and after the chaos. The full spectrum is to be savored, no matter what is (or isn’t) going on. I’ve spent enough of my life wishing time away. After the days of spiritual and physical rest, as I packed my things to take to the road home, I noted in my journal: "The sojourn has brought a quiet refreshment to my soul. Nothing drastic, since I slept quite a lot, and enjoyed the silence I needed. Now, I’m all assembled to return, and the rest and safety I experience at this moment must accompany me- and be reminders for future days."

As a stage along the pilgrim’s way, extending by trust into the mystery of the unknown, temporary retreats have a finite duration. Setting forth takes a natural course, after our intuition tells us we’ve had just enough rest so that we can resume our steps. Similarly to the energy I find when preparing for a sanctified journey, so the re-ignited sense of wonder propels me from retreat forward onto the road home. I press on with assurance, even without knowing exactly what may have been derived from the silence. The ground of my faith is sown anew, but the manifestation of new learning will be subtle and perhaps unnoticed. It is all entrusted to the mystery of a pilgrim’s continuity. "Hidden yet certain," wrote the anonymous author of the Cloud of Unknowing, accentuating the beautifully discreet bond of guiding love between Creator and created. The assurance cannot always be articulated. Even the obscurities and hardships tell me to persevere. The heart can listen and respond- even without description, and with St. John of the Cross I can say, "things so interior and spiritual are such that words commonly fail to describe them." From our contemplation, words may emerge with us, as well as silences deeper still. The drive home offered renewed angles toward familiar scenery. It remains an impression of being home yet continually setting forth, pacing myself confidently onto unfolding paths.

graphite night

"Sweet night, in whose blessed fold
No human eye beheld me, and mine eye
None could behold.
Only for Guide had I
His face whom I desired so ardently."

~ San Juan de la Cruz, Dark Night of the Soul


When darkness befalls, or when our steps meet paths of unease and obscurity, we must navigate forward, come what may. It is crucial to move straight through, and not fear to confront our nights of the soul. It seems the more active and conscientious one’s life becomes, the more susceptible to exhaustion, and so in this natural course, reflection and retreat become more than medicinal- but maintenance. As with weather patterns, the dark nights happen; they neither pursue nor do we necessarily pursue them. Indeed, along the voyage of the spirit desolate places will dot our unseen maps.

Crossing deep waters and enduring deserts is not necessarily neatly alternated with pastures and respite. At times, an obscurity that begins to lift from the road will abruptly plunge it back into a thick darkness through which we cannot see. But the survivor within us, honoring the adventure so far, sets us toward navigating a dark night of the soul. The only landmarks are those precious assurances we can recollect. Our coordinates, for a time, must be the blessings we can count (and must trust). We travel on, and that movement is the embodiment of our hopes. It is also our refusal to stand still. Our days on earth are of a duration unknown to us, and so we cannot and must not go backwards. A memory comes to mind of an after-midnight crossing of the vast and lengthy Thousand Islands Bridge in torrential rain. It was impossible to see in any direction- or any other vehicles, for that matter. With just a wisp of a guard rail’s punctuation, I just drove straight ahead.

Venturing through darkness with faith means we do not anticipate in vain. Experiences- both those we are assembling and the stories of our friends- attest to the resolve of wholeheartedly engaging the voyage. The ancient Psalmist emphasized that "weeping may endure for a night, but at morn there is rejoicing." Shadows need not always be perceived in a fearful frame of reference. These may be the places out of which we discover our profoundest consolation and creativity. Formless mysteries call to the hearts of those who long to commune with their Creator, and my own journey has brought me to traverse deep waters and ascend through darkness, plumbing the unseen. It’s rather as one who longs to stagger off for a spell, from the scuffed-up playing arena to the sidelines to regather. Or to the darkroom, after recording images upon many rolls of film in the field. The latent impressions must be processed and developed. I have intimately known the texture of the dark as both cradling consolation, and as fearfully foreboding. As a season of the spirit, the Divine darkness is navigated by spiritual means, and for one who writes, the journey is also explored by the written means that have become vital directionals of navigation. And I am now able to keep in mind how critical are the crossroads through which we can guide ourselves away from the lures of dwelling in darkened false securities, choosing the routes that weave through the seamless, edgeless unknowing and out to open horizons. "The light of grace," wrote Johannes Tauler, "raises nature far above itself."

la nourriture spirituelle

"To the one that overcomes will I give to eat of the hidden bread from heaven,
And I will give to each one a white stone,
and on the stone will be engraved a new name that no one understands
except the one who receives it."

~ Revelation 2:17


"For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.
And having food and clothing let us be therewith content."

~ 1 Timothy 6:7,8

Beginning again, as I am brought once more to see the ends of my own self, this has evidently become a time for rebuilding. Recommencements are not quite as rare as they might sound, especially in the espousing of a life that is in essence a succession of beginnings. Indeed, as no two starts are alike, so our reasons for rethinking our realities must be unique to our circumstances. Ideals are not produced by pre-made molds. Thus, personal renewals manifest in various forms and for different reasons. Our explorations and discoveries may bring us to new realizations- or- new reluctant perceptions seem forced upon us by the elements outside of us within which we play a role. Still, new insights, whether through challenge or welcomed gift, are for me to actively engage by perceiving anew and adapting my efforts. It is easy to lose sight of essentials when days become crammed with complicated demands and extraneous distractions that proliferate as weeds, winding around the cultivated vines of vision. As I continue to learn the disciplines of balance, I am not always tenaciously weeding the garden as I ought, and so eventually many of my restarts become something closer to excavation projects. When a renewal must become more of a resuscitation, not only is a rebuilding from one’s foundation needed, but also the alarms of exhaustion are implicit.

A sure way to change how we perceive and move in this continuum is to amend how we nourish ourselves- physically and spiritually. On this blustery and empty-handed day in May, memories come to mind that cause me to recollect how I’ve had to confront my life with fresh starts for the sake of my own constructive survival. One such occasion entailed making a leap of faith, leaving a university without another opportunity in sight for me to continue my work and learning pursuits. Leading up to the breaking point, each strand of my life’s situations had deteriorated to despairing extents. All that was left, it seemed, was my determination that there were better ways for me to invest my heart, soul, resources, and valuable efforts. Within the protracted anguish was a near-fatal accident which, of course, intensified the sum total of the experience. On the afternoon of the sole occasion in my life in which I had quit something, a job unfinished as it were- but more accurately having leapt from a sinking ship, I set every swirling and burdensome obligation down and made it all stop. While speaking to my best friend on the phone, those immense research projects suddenly looked like absurd piles of paper. My friend persisted in asking me about whether I had been eating properly; "brother, you need to rebuild," he added, giving me his version of a dietary prescription. Through the fatigue and anguish, I could just retain the advice, but putting down the phone, all things hushed, I went outside. No longer facing down, I noticed the late-April sun as I set my bicycle on the pavement and pedaled for the oceanside meadows of Gilsland Farm- a place I hadn’t seen in far too long. Setting the bicycle down, I reclined on a hillside and gazed up at the vast and clean-slated sky. The moment was a cathartic and unexpected gift. I had taken my journal and my tattered Thomas à Kempis with me, and before setting forth to find healthy food, I read a few wise words to begin replenishing my empty reserves and opened my journal to write. "I have come back to life," my words began, realizing I hadn’t written in five months.

Comprehending a lived sense of balance is to maintain steady strength and spirit, and not languish to the point of starvation. Revisiting old journals, I would like to think I’ve gained something. Amid currents of anxiety and instability, I am learning to balance my active involvements with a vigilant proximity to wellsprings of life. The call to pursue a contemplative road comprises a commitment to consistently cultivate a spiritual life. But, as I am finding, built into the pursuit is stewardship: care and repose for the earthen vessels that we are, as well as responsibly procuring spiritual food. Both kinds of nutrients not only strengthen and help us in our forward motion, but also build a resistance to the overwhelming threat of cynicism. Very late one night last week, unable to sleep and too distracted to read, I sought the consoling sounds of the radio. It never ceases to amaze me, when I stumble over one of these nightshift national talk programmes that serve only to stoke the fires of conspiratorialism and paranoia. And since we all know how misery loves company, long queues of listeners chime in and figuratively roll that snowball of destructive fatalism enough to prompt casual inquires to despair for their lives. Needless to say, hardly half an hour’s tales of impending doom, terror invasions, and space aliens were enough to produce a very disturbed night’s sleep. The next morning, I thought about the smokescreens of angst that I encounter at so many turns- including the social circles I daily move through- and could only hold fast to the precious confidence I’ve fiercely tended. Running some errands, my thoughts and my car paused long enough at a stop light for me to pencil these words in my notebook: "broaden the horizons and transcend the malaise." I remembered something I’d learned from the witness of monastic spirituality: to keep myself on the quest for supernal realities, or as Carthusian monks would say- the "superiorum appetitio."

With a few hearty meals and an accumulation of good words from wise and caring people, my prayers are accompanied, and I am looking ahead to some upcoming days of silent reflection. In my experience, a life of both active participation and solitude comprise two elements that nourish one another. Both are part of the rebuilding process, but in retreat, as Thomas Merton expressed in The Silent Life, it is possible to "discover the hidden sweetness of the psalms, the value of study and reading, intense fervor in prayer, the delicate sense of spiritual realities in meditation, the ecstasy of contemplation, and the purifying tears of compunction." Part of this stock-taking is to be reminded of my constant learning, and part of that is how I am informed through contrasts: craving solitude when encroached upon, authenticity when confronted with facades, and strength of faith when burdened by promulgators of fear. A great paradox that parallels the path of the spirit is how our ascending brings us to humility, while being brought low we are raised up to greater heights than before. Many of us recall old sayings about how the foods that are best for us are not always the ones that taste best. On the spiritual journey, a deepening sense of conviction and direction will subject a soul to face one’s own solitudes and even much disheartening disregard. Humility and a healthy awareness of context can help soothe the bitter taste of ignominy.

Being connected to this world (and not under the cover of a cloister), an awareness of my natural competitive ambitions cause me to temper the old desires for recognition, as they collide with the spiritual life of compassionate deference. The call to ascend sacred heights is intertwined with barefooted humility. How does a soul that aspires for holiness and the things of God make sense of a culture that is so propelled by such simultaneous conflicts as dismissive disregard and over-achievement? Admittedly, these are generalizations, and indeed there won’t be very detailed general responses. Matters of conscience are reckoned with, as they surface. Aspiring for better days and improved situations attests to our intrinsic properties as thinking beings. We advance to survive; the difference is in the spirit of our choices and how we act upon them (or not), and our considerations of others in the process. Those discretionary decisions bear heavily upon the human conscience and how we develop sensitivities to those around us.

For me, it is to always keep the sense of my life’s purpose in mind. Yet there remains the drive to excel, to do better, to make things work, and to bring goodness to others. To know that all the hard work has been worth something. To be known. Recognition, itself, is a topic intricate enough for many reflective essays. Sure, I’ve received some significant acknowledgments through years of toil- but is it sustenance? Is it nourishment, especially in this society of the five-minute attention span? How much is necessary, and in what forms? One wonders whether survival is the reward, especially with so much emphasis upon people outlasting one another. Perhaps the words and rewards are as precious as we deem them to be, as these represent encouragements for how we ply our resources- much as the biblical parable of the workers entrusted with their talents which were meant to be invested. Indeed, the good and faithful servants received the most meaningful kind of recognition, but that was after the tasks were done- after they had acted upon their motivation. Their principles were simply, yet poignantly reinforced. The treasures dearest to us are intangible, and thus unlimited, however vulnerable. Commenting on the tug-of-war between the extremes of humility and pride, Merton warned of, "the awful impulsion to throw everything overboard for the sake of fame and prosperity." Preparing to journey into some days of silence, I am taking comfort in the cherished hiddenness of consecrated life. Peace of heart is in proportion to our detachment from that which is fleeting in this world. My hope is to regain, again and again, a clear sight of what points to a good and peaceable future. For the time being, I shall endeavor to be content with the morsels on my plate and the raiment on my back- and to be thankful.

nada te turbe

"Do not think about the world,
nor about your friends, nor about the past, present, or future;
but consider yourself to be outside the world and alone with God,
as if your soul were already separated from the body, and had no longer any interest
in peace or war, or the state of the world.
Leave your body, and fix your gaze on the uncreated light.
Let nothing come between you and God."

~ St-Albert le Grand, De Adhaerendo Deo


Many of us, in the rivers of our days flooded with chaotic rapids, persevere to record words and events. The need to make sense of what we experience forces us to create spaces of time to reflect. So, also, is the need to validate our observations as witnesses of what we see and the realities of our movements in this world. Considering the incessant schedule I have always been able to juggle, I am often asked when I find the time to write. Since words and reflections are part of every day’s living and breathing, I graft the writing in between tasks. Rarely are there spells of consecutive hours to sit and write. For the most part it has been jots in tiny hardcovered books, or sentences typed on a laptop I tote around- just in case. Written words salt my days, actions, and aspirations. Pencil and paper are also there to record and attempt to make sense of difficult events. When such noted words stare back up at me from my notebooks, I become further amazed at the absurdities I have lived through, in this short life. And as these continue, the observations and struggles follow. By documenting faithfully, it is apparent how darkness and light really do coexist.

When the struggle intensifies, and fatigue prevents hurdling more barriers, an unchanged forging-ahead becomes counterproductive. Frustration and analysis can feed one another, giving way to spiraling despair. Realities remain, yet words often fail. That doesn’t mean an end to hope, but more a change of perspective- a regathering of embers to persist through the darkness. When social structures fail us, whether on a national or local scale- or even in our immediate circles, it seems quite natural to leap with so many others into the abyss of cynicism. How inviting to be in such abundant company. The pilgrim road can surely curve into cold and dark forests. Clashing perspectives, as the ancient apostle Paul once observed, fight within the aspiring soul; only the key of grace could liberate him from the despair he described as a captivity of the mind. Even when words and knowledge fail, compassion must not fall away. At times we must quiet our thoughts, in order for our hopes to abide. At other times we find our ambitions silenced by our circumstances. Compassion never falls away, "whether prophecies shall be made void, or languages shall cease, or knowledge shall be destroyed." When an active soul reaches points of saturation, having "seen and heard enough," it is really an "enough" that lays claim on both resiliency and hope. For me, it has often meant finding places of refuge, of civility and tranquility, in order to listen for the spirit and regain my ideals. Retreating is certainly not copping out, but a way for vital embers of hope to be rekindled. Apparently, we do come to times when the high pitch of thinking and doing must stop.

Over five hundred years ago, Thomas à Kempis asked, "What can you see under the sun that will long endure?" He wrote of the wisdom of withdrawal into silence, as a regular part of life. "If you withdraw yourself from superfluous words and from unprofitable business, and from hearing rumors and idle tales, you will find convenient time to be occupied in holy meditation." Within Kempis’ essay, Of Love of Solitude and Silence, he implies how the best we can offer is what emerges from conscientious silence. "No one is secure in high position save he who would gladly be a subject... No one speaks surely save he who would gladly keep silence if he might." Silent recollection is also survival. Consciously repelling the social currents that can poison our hearts, Kempis advocates we exercise ourselves to "shut fast the door of your soul." The sum total is the balance needed for contemplatives to thrive in cultures of carelessness and competitiveness. It is worthwhile to feel stable, and stabilizing to feel worthwhile.

Our intuitions, our "insides," our spirits can testify to us that our times of extremely structured thinking and active struggle cannot be indefinitely sustained. There must be times devoted to simply abiding. This is even something we can provide for those near to us. Endeavor to be quiet, and walk honestly, Paul advised to his friends in Greece. Some translations read "study to be quiet," reminding me of how so simple an aspect of life is a cultivated discipline. In this sense, "quiet" runs far deeper than an absence of verbiage. I have met many people who speak with an impressively peaceful- even a quiet- spirit. It seems the greater discipline is in quieting one’s thoughts. As much as we can choose to commit our experiences to memory, we may also choose not to remember. Shutting fast the door to the soul is also to elect not to exhume detriments that obstruct the embodiment of compassion.

Just now, during a workday meal break, I am enjoying the natural light at the window after having looked to the wide sky outside, amidst aromatic wind gusts. Images of vastness, such as sweeping skies and the immense ocean, are consolations to remind me how temporal and small are my complaints. Looking at the small radio that accompanies me during many of my intermissions, I am also reminded of some attributes these humble and familiar consolers represent. Consider the radio. It has no memory; it does not accumulate its broadcasts. There is no baggage from the past, and only immediate moments are impartially transmitted- pulled from an unseen spectrum of frequencies. It must always be attuned to its source. It reminds me how so often the best I can do is to simply report, in faithful articulation, while receiving and transmitting the most lucid possible signal. The programmes continue, in the harsh and joyful times alike, undeterred by social hardships. From the warmth of familiar and recognizable voices and melodies, there are cadenced gauges for our precarious days. Over whatever is being conversed about at this moment on WBZ, in thickly-accented and animated Boston English, I am asking myself of the true source of my heart’s unrest- even beneath the misery I see daily in many around me. Yes, it is all perilous and we each crave reassurance in our livelihoods. But I turn from the despondence and see how the sun shines, and how even strangers greet me with their welcoming smiles. So little is within our own power. And yet I must bear these fragilities and allow them to be transfigured into something that can light the steps ahead.

depth of field

"Let no one hope to find in contemplation an escape
from conflict, from anguish or from doubt.
On the contrary, the deep, inexpressible certitude
of the contemplative experience awakens a tragic anguish and opens many questions
in the depths of the heart like wounds that cannot stop bleeding.
For every gain in deep certitude there is a corresponding growth of superficial ‘doubt.’
This doubt is by no means opposed to genuine faith,
but it mercilessly examines and questions the spurious ‘faith’ of everyday life,
the human faith which is nothing but the passive acceptance of conventional opinion."

~ Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation, p.12


These are the quickening days of spring. Those earthy aromas even visit the cities. Yesterday, I found a small mirror, and being well aware of its reflectance I brought it outside as a subject for some images. The glass itself has a surface, yet as many of us know, to be able to clearly see what is being reflected it is necessary to focus to the distance of the subject in the mirror- not the physical mirror as an object in itself. When we look within, the tangible surfaces in our lives barely begin representing an inner life calling from beyond our depths. What we see reflected are hints just definable enough to draw us onward.

The contemplative life is confrontational. A very clear memory comes to mind now, of my first visit with a Quaker congregation at their meeting-house. The large group unpromptedly descended into a deep, palpable silence. Not being certain of the procedure of things, I tried settling the racing thoughts that seemed to bustle in with me from outside. It also astonished me to see all the young children in the group also sitting in complete and patient stillness. Then I, too, entered the unspoken prayer of attendant silence. Between immersions into the quiet waiting upon the Holy Spirit, I sometimes opened my eyes and noticed the beautifully austere and ancient meeting-house church, bright floorboards as wide as my feet are long, and my ungrasping hands. And when I described the morning’s adventure later to some friends, I said "there was nothing to hide behind. It was unobstructed and confrontational." Indeed, a solid hour of unfettered silent contemplation has got to be an acquired taste, but for me it was surprisingly liberating, and both a self-confrontation and an entirely serene Divine encounter- much as I’ve experienced in monastic silence.

Contemplation calls the pilgrim soul; the Spirit that gives us life beckons and persuades us to face our creation and created selves as fully as possible. In responding by embarking upon a life of trust, it has been quite natural for me to be able to find the graces in my midst, wherever I go, but also the more difficult events and setbacks- even many uncertainties- can be stood down. Peaceful times of contemplation can burst forth into a focused and animated life, attuned to be offered for the service of others. If a sincere descent into one’s heart can happen in an austere room, we can surely be reminded of the immateriality of the contemplative life. There are no limits. Often, the language of introspection applies the comparison of the butterfly’s crysalis. Just as contemplative reflection is transcendent of place, so transformation is unlimited by time or circumstance. Transforming changes have come to me, both in the midst of fleeting workplace moments and during lengthy sojourns of withdrawal from the din of commotion. The image of a crysalis reminds us of the necessity to look deep within and focus, in order to heal those lingering anguishes that obstruct our view of all that unfolds before us. Paradoxically, in reclaiming my self and remembering what truly identifies me, it becomes possible to cut loose those past perplexities that can blur a clear view of the present. Revisiting the past runs the risk of entrenchment. When I find myself looking back, I try to think of it as glancing archival documents: they attest now to a time that was, or in the parlance of archivists these are "non-current records, of evidentiary value," based entirely upon their context. Research, like introspection, isn’t meant to be a dwelling place, but a springboard.

We don’t always choose to confront ourselves and challenge our direction. At times, we may innately sense having lost our way- or what radio listeners call "signal drift," requiring some re-tuning. Other times, our circumstances- or events within which we find our context- impose our self-evaluation. And, to be certain, the lure of contemplation cannot be for me to self-engross, but an understanding of my being and purpose actually frees me from centering on self. Contemplatives are often misunderstood, and I am long past trying to legitimize my intrinsic sense of introspection; or at least I should be undaunted. An adolescence of rejection gave me plenty of practice. So I say healthy doses of reflection are not excessive, but actually vital, especially if such exercises are means aimed at holiness. It is essential to know oneself. Our very complexity is itself compelling and demands some resolve. It sure doesn’t mean stopping everything until I can think clearly enough. Indeed, we can keep moving along with our functioning consciences! Strength from within lets us think on our feet and proves to be of great significance when we must stand solitarily upon our own merits. Our own voice must be so familiar to ourselves that our task is simply to connect our well-established convictions with unambiguous narrative, allowing us to listen for the spirit in our midst. Clarity of vision leads to the solidity of thought and direction needed to create and navigate wherever our steps find us.

Pursuing and continuing the inner journey can be undermined by our own doubts, inevitable as they may be, however these tentative impressions can be turned into pivot points against which we can draw confidence. Within our hesitation is questioning, as Brother Roger of Taizé wrote in his journal, Struggle and Contemplation, adding that "our basic doubt does not prevent us from constantly setting out, from doubt towards belief." Uncertainty can become dynamism. How many of our perceived limitations are of our own doing? One such way we self-undermine is by doubting our own voice, our own experiences; that is a hindrance we alone can lift away. Many of us have known that turning-point, when we hear ourselves speak a truth that is uniquely from our own perspective, worthy of a respect we didn’t dare ask for. Those who would not have expected much esteem have known the marooned experience of disregard. We might question the very validity of the truths we bear. Further, we may even wonder at the expectation of being taken seriously. But even through those kinds of doubts, our strength of purpose, modest as it may be, mustn’t be daunted. Recent days have caused me to consider what sorts of expectations I have and how realistic they are. Idealists- as well as those who have tasted some of their aspirations- must especially use care in what can be reasonably expected. Once more, we visit a paradox- genuine hope has no limit, yet being earthbound we cannot dismiss our respective contexts. When I regroup my thoughts, it seems that for realistic expectations to be grounded in reality, there must be some evidence of reliability; there must be a basis of trust. At the same time, it is vital for me to be always mindful of my sources of strength, and not to affix too many expectations in flawed institutions, mechanisms, and even personalities. I have had to beware not to become enslaved by temporal opinions, and weigh them against that which stands the test of time. We are all permitted our struggles, and no honest person is without them in some form. A great part of proceeding forward in the spirit of trust is continuity: having all the concepts spelled out is far less important that to go forth in faith. Remember the words, "seek first...and all will be added..."


In his journal, Dostoyevsky wrote, "I am a child of doubt and unbelief," continuing by offering that his praises, his exclamations of hosanna, "passed through the crucible of doubt." When the spirit of inquiry, or speculation, moves our questioning into an active search for assurance and holiness, those doubts produce emanate worth. But as with explorations of what is past, our uncertainties serve us best as road signs rather than as terminus points. I hope for my recollections to bring a dynamism to my perspective, not to tarnish my ideals but to help provide a sense of grounding. If we find, however, that our doubts sink us into our losses, causing us to deny our significance in this world, that is a sign to reconsider our criteria. My own inward misgivings turn me toward doubting my impact in the world and the worth and relevancy of my ideals. And from there, trying to transfigure doubts into vibrancy, I rethink the meaning and value of recognition.

In this society that combines perfectionism and "dumbing-down," with bewildering grudge-keeping and short attention spans, I am compelled to find light in the darkness. The bewilderment is part of the challenge to cultivate faith and intuition that accompanies confidence to stand- and even continue walking and working- with the doubts. I begin to reflect upon many gifts taken for granted; these are essentially left unquestioned when problems monopolize my focus. While moving forward, we can still be aware of how far we’ve traveled already. Strength and conscience grow from within, and add depth to our abilities to perceive- even becoming a means of verification. In formless times of contemplation, it is possible to verify recollections that tug away at thoughts. With a practical look at the past that was, I am driven immediately away to the steps with which I now proceed. "Test the spirits," wrote John, in the late first century. To me, this means to challenge one’s convictions. Are they encouraging? Are they life-giving? With the doubts and questions, I try to verify the ground upon which I stand. It assures me, as I glance between divine consolations and the floorboards beneath my feet, that my passing thoughts are undergirded by an infinitely greater and more caring eternity.

drawing strength

"Look to God and be radiant;
Let your faces not be abashed.
This poor man called;
The Lord heard him,
And rescued him from all his distress."

~ Psalm 34

For those of us whose lives find their contexts in cold, northern climbs, we can undeniably acknowledge the unambiguous departure of winter. Without overt contrasts between interior and exterior temperatures, moving from place to place resumes an effortlessness and a lightness not experienced since last year. A new season invites new views, even in old places. New energies that result from surmounting transition are often counterweighted by the exhaustion of having made efforts needed in order to arrive safely in a new place- or a new mindset. Usually, by this time of the year, I retreat for a spell of days or weeks, and my clear response to this being long overdue is to find strings of hours to help offset my hunger for regathering time. By comparison, one might imagine periodic cups of coffee between sporadic meals, or the way many of us can just occasionally close our eyes during those draining flights and travels before finding that elusive soft bed. Endurance challenges our abilities and drive to sustain our physical paces, but also our spirits are put to the test. Caffeine can help keep me in motion, but with each day’s arrival I must continually draw from the source of faithful, confident trust. Tiredness need not mean disinterestedness, and of late I have witnessed the effects of societal factors that grind spirits right down.

Stopping for a moment to reflect, even if just for brief distant views of the big picture, I realize how many people’s eroded aspirations I listen to, in the course of an ordinary day. Sometimes I hear overt discouragement from those who speak candidly about their employment, the political process, their churches, or other struggles in their lives. Other times, disenchantments are unspoken yet pronouncedly evident, apparent between what is said and how the words are expressed. And for justifiable reasons. I feel the same things, too, catching myself under the weight of similar ineptitudes, spite, and carelessness everyone else notices, responds to, and carries with them. Counteracting such burdens takes some conscious perseverance. Although most times I am unaware of my vigilance against apathy, occasionally the concerted need for an infused effort surfaces. And as with any spiritual venture, antidotes come in forms such as friends and reflection. But to recognize diverting currents before they can poison cultivated ideals is a conscientious endeavor. Conscience is the voice of the soul, it is what Karl Barth described as, "the interpreter of life." When our forces and creative reserves run thin, or appear set back, we can conscientiously take stock of what is around us and within us, and proceed. Perhaps an incident which only you have noticed sticks with you, or that your voice is solitary in a figurative wilderness. But, still, you search your conscience and explore both the disenchantments and the gratitudes alike. In defining and delineating the source of an emotion, I am applying some of the approaches I’ve taught in art criticism: first determine the appeal of an image, and then follow by articulating the basis of my response. Through that discourse of asking and seeking, we can find an assuring sense of self-confidence that we will surely need when conscience must be our spark of celestial fire.

Perhaps it may also occur to you, as new strengths noticeably begin to undergird your words and actions, assumed limits consequently follow as dissipating banks of dense fog. More road becomes visible, and the landscape widens. Many presumed impossibilities start evolving as the attainable, in some form or another- shedding old preconceptions. Last week, I asked myself about my perceived limitations- outside of practical and material constraints. What outdated ideas and goals need to be challenged which had been long deemed out of reach? As we grow and advance, so must our expectations and hopes. Reflecting upon the concepts of what I expect- even the words "goals," "aims," and "success," though representing necessary practical matters, also attest to the lexicon of these times: "what can one amass for one’s own self-aggrandizement?"

Throughout the 1990s, and a bit since, I’ve had to sit through a lot of bulleted and powerpointed lists of whatever flavor or method or series of habits and steps promised to make for a better person and a more productive workplace. Everyone had to conjure up and declare an altruistic "mission statement." Even the company that sold me bicycle parts by mail made a mission statement. These are really shadows of motions, neatly wrapped with a bow, that essentially changed nothing. Formulas, apparently, are easier than to simply profess working together and respecting one another, and follow it up by solid implementation. If there had been an upshot, it was the way many launched from the empty words into thinking seriously about living life authentically, more deeply than the perfunctory verbiage. When aspirations come to mind these days, these are honestly more about what I hope to accomplish alongside those around me. If realizing how the small and sporadic measures of encouragement have been as rare gems to me, then it is for me to be respectfully encouraging to others. To do this well implies a real desire to understand, and that means letting go of limiting mental structures and universalizing my comprehension.


Drawing strength, I aspire to run the race without regret. Reaching forth in an open-ended progress requires that I challenge and refine my perspectives. Sufficient for the moment, while reflecting upon ways to conscientiously persevere and dislodging presumed limitations, I would like to reconsider long-used vantage points. In photography, part of the skill of compositional dynamics is to vary your angle of view. Try to portray your subject from differing trajectories, and not constantly view from the same standpoint or always the same distance. Surely, and for so many of us, writing allows for a variety of ways of observing- as does listening and participating in the world that is in our midst. In the search to see afresh in this new season, especially along the journal-writing road, I am reconsidering the lenses through which I’ve been looking back and writing my history. Of course, there are the historiographic elements of accuracy and genuineness, but that is just the foundation. Reflection, by nature, is a patient voyage without deadlines. Plumbing the depths of recovery, resurgence, and rebuilding after past times of loss and brokenness- finds its fulfilment in an abiding thirst for the spirit that traverses the waters of discovery into involvement. I ponder how it is possible to regard afresh- even without the excess baggage of memory.

The other night, after helping to serve a joyous meal to a group of very dear friends, I dreamt about two places from my past that- in the dream- were in adjoining rooms. (Of course, in real life, that would have been geographically impossible.) In the dream, I moved from the staff room of a studio in which I’d worked for many years- to the office I’d had at yet another job more recently- as if walking between two next-door spaces. Both were in notably egregious disarray. My presence was unnoticed in the hum of daily operations and ringing phones. In one of the rooms, while instinctively stopping to pick up some of the mess- I stopped myself and said, "Leave it alone; you don’t work here anymore. Just leave it be." The next morning, I mused about the imagery of the presence of my absence- and enjoyed the way I did not interfere with what had lost its relevance. It all left the same impression as that of turning a street corner and discovering the first flowers of spring.