visible invisible

“I have turned around.
I’m walking back to join the choir.
Leaves are flying through the sky.

There’s a hidden life,
there’s a life that no one knows,
there are things that can’t be told.”

~ The Innocence Mission, I Left the Grounds.

Consider the meaning and significance around the idea of the non-monetary kind of credit. Getting the credit, taking the credit, denying the credit. If our memories serve us accurately, we can all remember how this thread plays through all the contexts of our days. It may have begun in the vicinity of a broken vase in a long-ago parental living room, if not in a grade-school classroom. There is credit that we want, and credit we don’t want. We want to be noticed at our best by team captains, teachers, and bosses- and by those we find attractive. But then we wish to be unnoticed by bullies, would-be muggers, and those casting blame- even if it’s justifiable. The attribution of credit, of notice, of credibility, is a great power that looms over our evolving years. Those whom we think own that power begin to look like interchangeable versions of the same few people. The quest for validation is something to be outgrown, despite ways our institutions tend to perpetuate their own versions of reward and blame. This meditation is not about the rights and wrongs of law, ethics, or decorum. Rather, it is about the human mystery that views survival as something between visibility and invisibility.

From childhood, we hunger to be noticed, but we also want to hide. Wishing for glory and credit fuels many a drive in the direction of self-preservation at any cost. Self-distinction may be a primal impulse, and thus one for which an individual must come to terms. But then, when notice comes upon us, we are often unprepared.

In my habit of closing a book or shutting off a media source when the loss of a vital thought seems imminent, one night while driving the roads, I turned off the car radio to save an idea. A radio preacher, whose delivery resembled that of a country auctioneer, asked the rhetorical question; “what would you do if you suddenly got everything you’ve wished for?” I cut him off then and there, because the thought was worth saving. I could predict he was leading up to something about ingratitude or our insatiable material appetites. Aloud in the car, I thought about payed-off student loans, perfect health, and a really good job. Afterwards I imagined walking through such idyllic settings, pinching my own arm in outright incredulity. Then I thought about being noticed. What do we expect- and when we are acknowledged, will we shrink back in disbelief? We long to be known, as much as we long to know. At the same time, wishing is more familiar than seeing a wish come to pass. If this is true, what is really expected? Perhaps the vital acknowledgment has already been made, and if this is so, there is no time to back away.

In the conflict between desiring recognition and anonymity, possessing the one, the other becomes more appealing. Thirsting to capture everything merges with the also very human trait of overwhelm. Imaginations are drawn by mystery and elusiveness, yet discovery can throw us off. Either we are diverted by expectation, or overwhelmed at the challenges of our findings. A nature accustomed to striving wants what it used to have, as well as what it cannot reach- yet rarely what is already accessible. Emergence and disappearance long for one another. Even the ancient Psalmist knew the exuberance of overt rejoicing, as much as the Divine presence as sheltering hiding place. Often, I hope for significance to my days and recognition- at about as many times as solitude, my steps drawn to concealing places that permit me to banish my troubles.

We do need our times of invisibility. An old friend for whom I once worked refers to the the jobs I have as my “tent-making” work. He reminds me of how the Apostle Paul made his living. Our paychecks help provide what we need so we can pursue our passions. I still believe in the juxtaposition of vocation and avocation. Indeed it was Paul of Tarsus who described with astonishing detachment how he observed another disposition in his baser self which waged war against the disposition of his conscience. Coming to terms with the inner conflict of striving with ignominy- while athirst for concealed space- begins by admitting too much of either is damaging. Means and ends mustn’t be confused.

In an understanding of the spectrum of living, knowing to be both abased and abound, the equilibrium of holiness is discovered. The realm of God manifests silently and discretely as grains of ferment that cause the leavening of bread. The Advent is gradual, at times difficult. Invisibility comes into being. But as with the magi, the Divine is perceptible to those who are sensitive to the signs. Yet still, there is little that we mortals can actually hasten.

Perhaps the elusiveness- even the hiddenness- of the sublime attests to the eternal as incorruptible and boundless. The Unseen Companion who briefly appeared to the Emmaus pilgrims, known to Paul as “the image of the invisible God,” taught his listeners to express their prayers in shuttered solitude to the One who knows the innermost heart. In this, invisibility is a necessary precursor to visibility. The tent-maker toiling in a deserted place, as all hard-workers enduring anguished isolation, must see such labors as preparatory ground from which to capably bear the gospel of compassion. Blessed are the overlooked, for they are lovingly recognized by their Creator.

Invisible though apparent, God’s presence is treasured deep within. Earthbound as we are, the cravings remain for the visible and for visibility. While scribing some notes the other day, the newspaper under my journal revealed one of the society pages. Those celebrities of fathomless abundance cannot blend into subways and restaurants as I can. Perhaps they wish they could. Many non-celebrities among us make efforts to be “seen.” A local paper used to poll readers about the “best places to be seen” in this small city with a “scene” of its own. A school friend used to say, “maintaining façades is too much work.” Many of us do wind up deciding what’s necessary and what’s worth our energies and time. And that brings us to consider what is of greatest value to the inherent, invisible self. And in that consideration, reinforcement is found.

Do we ever really know our strengths? It is easy to forget the powers and potential we have. That intrinsic fortitude is often threatened by what a lot of us have had to endure en route to and through adulthood. We brave through exclusions, judgments, and threats long before we can ascribe clear and forceful words to our attempted refutations. But indeed those who survive must never forget their voiceless crucible times. Today is for potentials to unfold, even if portions will remain invisible.

Now a reckoning. Conflicts may be identified and explored, but without some resolve, the terms remain barely more than if they stayed unspoken. Recording a life as it develops, my thoughts begin by taking stock in the learning experiences, being able to apply some retrospect while looking ahead. Come to think of it, the idea of blogging a personal journal is in itself a paradox of seen and unseen. Definitions of “visibility” evolve away from preoccupations with crowds and myself. I see the extremes a bit more reconciled, more content to stand apart from self. Part of that unification is in reckoning with the value of both recognition and retreat, along with a realization that reward is less and less a driving force. Outdated self-views become stale and burdensome. Possessions I no longer use are only good to give away or throw out, resembling old, recurrent, and outgrown frustrations. As with perspectives, tastes evolve. Back in high school, my father once told me that tastes change as we get older, “you’ll see,” he said; we start craving more salted and bitter things than sugary sweets. It’s a great metaphor, but he was comparing an adult’s beer with a child’s strawberry soda. Indeed, I see, as I often relish obscurity. But I innately know that I’ve also been very gradually called forth out of that obscurity. Venturing to predict the future’s details would not be worth the trouble. There are things that can’t be told. It seems wiser to temper the striving against prohibitive currents, and gratefully engage the settings I’ve got to work with- however modest the results. The hidden life takes root, and living roots are rarely visible at the surface.

time and a half

“Encourage one another daily,
as long as it is called ‘To-Day,’
keep each other on your toes
so that evil doesn’t slow down your reflexes.”

~ Hebrews 3:13


1

Something that has never been far from my thoughts, since it was said to me years ago: a wise colleague once told me that “hardships are inevitable, but misery is optional.” This fellow was a Capuchin Franciscan friar with a great deal of lived experience, insight, and a raucous sense of humor. His cultivated traits are now extremely rare, to the point of disturbing unpopularity. I like to think about those of us who are remembering cultivators, circulating throughout this desert of a world, persevering and providing encouragement. I hope you are practicing your own versions of similar attributes. From my furrow which has barely enough breadth for its requisite vigilance, the day-to-day is replete with anxious tentativeness. Thanks to journal-writing, there’s at least one place to deposit apprehensions about what may- or may not- be impending, as well as attempts at hopeful stabilization. Fortunately there are always other stories and observations to write about. Pursuits and projects provide many musings. I try parsing the hardships and miseries by taking metaphorical steps back to observe bigger pictures. Daily situations and their populating characters amount to plenty of material, particularly in workplaces. While I cannot predict the doings and misdoings with full prescience, I can surely predict that I will write about them. In the half-empty glass of instability, the glass is half-filled with potential improvement. Tenuousness has a dynamism.

Since stress is in abundant supply, why not make productive use of it? Conventional wisdom has come to positively embrace methods of recycling usable material that was typically discarded into unwieldy waste dumps. Buildings are now increasingly constructed with repurposed amalgams of “mass timber.” Why not find ways to mentally reconstitute negative millstones into constructive and spirited energy? My efforts at this are sharply put to the test. Awaiting a late bus on a frozen morning had me thinking about the stagnation of tension. This looks parallel to attempts at controlling factors that are frustratingly out-of-reach. This sort of tension makes for a counterproductive grip. That bus will show up, when it shows up. I reached the bus stop early, as usual, with sufficient funds on my transit card. I’ve heard from career counselors that my résumé is excellent and appealing- thus I’ll need the faith of a Metrobus passenger when it comes to all my networking and applications. One can do only so much, especially amidst these recessed times.

Overspreading the personal tensions is the tangible zeitgeist of economic fears. And so the pragmatism continues: stocktaking about what is good and wholesome, carrying on with gratitude, while keeping up the search. A critical byproduct of recycled tension is the maintaining of courage for pursuing dreams, insisting there is still time. Racing against the sands of time to finally find success often reminds me of overtime in competitive sports. True to existential angst, the term sudden death is applied to the extra time needed to settle a tie score- also known as a deadlock. Overtime is often brief, frenetic, and an intensified version of the general game. Ponder how an extra inning has the potential of a last lick or a walk-off. Real or perceived,, sports metaphors and social media notwithstanding, it’s detrimentally easy to strongly feel the shortage of time for hard-earned fulfillment. My hopes insist upon being set high.


2

During and immediately following my college years, I had a variety of jobs- some involving warehouse and conveyor-line work. When it came to situations demanding compounded productivity, or moving the merchandise along against abrupt deadlines, supervisors would single out the more diligent workers- I was always one of them- and would ask for needed overtime. “You’ll get time-and-a-half,” meaning that for those working beyond a shift’s obligations, the extra time would remunerate at 50% more than regular wage. Consequently, as operations extended into overtime, the selected crew would churn into whatever was needed to complete the work. During my first few years after undergrad, while beginning to repay my student loans, I held down a second job- working various graveyard shifts. A few of us hardy souls that desperately needed money would consent to the overtime temptation. We’d exchange glances and tell each other, Time-and-a-half!

An unsung great many of us are working intensely beyond the basics, sticking our necks out most of our waking hours, for many tightly-held and justifiable reasons. We hunger for success, for better days in better situations, to be respectfully recognized, and to arrive at stability. I believe everyone desires to be valued. But in this present era, are we only as worthwhile as we’re marketable? And how much of one’s humanness and productive compatibility can transmit for recruiters without a personal conversation, but merely through metadata? I’d like to think we’re each more than boxes checked, and that a good hire is a wise, transcendent investment. Many say that nobody finds jobs through uploaded applications anymore. As with the housing market, there have to be exceptions somewhere. Otherwise, it’s all through connections and grapevines- or inside networks. Application-tracking and various systems of analytics essentially shortchange all parties, closing gates still tighter and higher. Ironically, such barriers are prevalent in professions that prosper best with creative and eclectic professionals. AI and ML notwithstanding, still more barricades come in varying forms of prejudices which have nothing to do with skills, achievements, or integrity of character. An especially absurd obstacle for a willing applicant, albeit in these economic times, is the disregard of versatility. Being accomplished at many applicable skills is value-added; it’s useful, and potentially fulfilling for both employers and workers. Referring back to the sports world, players and their coaches extol exemplary team players that are “great to have in the clubhouse.” A positive culture cannot be built without this kind of spirit.


3

Some remember the expression: The pursuit of perfection is the enemy of goodness. In life-and-death situations, perfection has its place. Inevitably, most of us are serving, instructing, and answering to human beings- stewarding and even sanctifying the ordinary. Efficiency and conscientiousness may not need to be perfect. Perhaps attempts at being perfectly attentive and alacritous can scare others away. More appropriate would be a kind of perfect moderation, though- alas- such soft skills evade those counterproductive parsing upload utilities. Along with inconsistencies around versatility and perfection is how many refer to permanence. As our definitions for perfection are theoretical and subject to context, so might our interpretations of permanence. Expectation and reality rarely juxtapose. How do you define permanence? Something between the life of a product, and forever?

Perhaps as a grade-school pupil, you too were told by some pedagogical disciplinarian or other about a permanent record- some transcendent tally-sheet potentially preventing you from realizing your life’s dreams (or at least graduating from high school). It turned out the closest thing to permanent was the duration of the few years of threat to us adolescents. I remember a teen standup comedian at one of our school talent shows who made up a routine about being barred from disembarking from a transatlantic flight because the flight crew had been told he failed tenth grade French. “It was on my permanent record,” he comically wailed- and we all laughed. Years later and well into my intrepid career as an archivist, permanence hinges upon factors such as humidity, physical stability, and alkalinity. We use terms like enduring value, and digital preservation. Still, the duration of permanence remains a challenge to predict. It also remains wise to keep fit and prepared for inevitable hardships, not just as a good steward of resources, but also as an always-aspiring worker seeking better, each day an extra inning.

autumn spring

“Let no one think that it is enough for them to read if they lack devotion,
or to engage in speculation without spiritual joy,
or to be active if they have no piety,
or to have knowledge without charity,
or intelligence without humility, or study without the grace of God,
or to expect to know whether they are lacking the infused wisdom of the Divine.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Itinerarium

Journaling, more often than not, is narrative in real time. The stream of writing occurs as things develop, much more than in retrospect, and thus progress is difficult to notice during the documentation. Without the successions of work projects I’m accomplishing, what is evident is regress. At the same time, I’ll admit to being too close to the struggle to be able to assess from a broader view. Years ago, I worked with a more experienced colleague who would say, “it’s all in how you frame it,” referring to initiating a convincing point to a committee. As critical as it is to perceive into distances, present times seem best handled in proximate increments. Perhaps the transcendence that never happens soon enough will be visible, later.

Compensating for treadmill sameness, the natural elements manifest in an always-changing canvas. Spans of daylight, air, and colors make for a calendrical unfolding. As I note these words, New England is steeped in what we call “foliage season.” Pines and firs are upstaged by vivid combinations of reds, yellows, and russets. Within this visual event is the measure of time. In swirls of storms and cold winds, the bright confetti is flying off baring branches. The passage of time is tangibly on display. During daily commutes, and when aperch on my front stoop, I’m observing vignettes of local colors. As the environment compels, and as time permits, I’ll venture out for the purpose of admiration

___________________________________________________

Recently taking an afternoon off, with camera and journal, I drove to the Franciscan community in Kennebunkport. From Portland, the route requires a southeasterly direction. Trimming curved and cresting roads, I saw bouquets of orange and red emanating from stout trees. Temperatures in the low-forties are too good for closed car windows. My left elbow on the sill especially enhanced the aromatic airflow for my driving. “K-port,” as many of us call it, is now in quieter, post-tourist season, thus ambling through to the Saint Anthony Franciscan Monastery was very easy. The church, refectory, and dormitories are closer to the road, with their vast and wooded space extending to the ocean’s edge. The monastery’s grounds comprise trails, a grotto, and a Lithuanian memorial. The Stations of the Cross are discreetly attached to trees along a path that leads to the water. On this recent visit, with a headful of stress and anxious thoughts, I walked some of the paths, sure to the admire the landscape and fresh air, saving a stretch of time at the grotto for last. The entire place is a sanctuary, a place of prayer and contemplation- always the intention of my visits. Settling in front of the grotto, the peacefulness I experienced cleared away what the road breezes had begun cleansing. Indeed, such rarified environments are not mandatory, knowing that prayer and contemplation are always and everywhere available.

___________________________________________________

Contrasts are often catalysts for understanding. Colors are crisply comprehended, juxtaposed with their complements. Warmth is cherished in the cold. Light is best appreciated in darkness. Along similar lines, walking over fallen, dried leaves causes me to think about spring. As foliage season is in progress, intermittent and remaining greens continue persisting, reminding me to embody spring amidst autumn and winter. In these times that are steeped in grimness, recession, and despair, my thoughts reach for hopefulness- for spring. I’m seeing and hearing too much of what runs contrary to constructiveness- from world-scale events and social behaviors, right down to business meetings. These things contrast the desire to encourage and to grow well; to be spring, and to refuse bitterness. While watching gardeners store vegetables and bulbs in root cellars, the reminder came to me, to be a bearer of spring through the winter. Resisting bitterness takes shape as eagerness for positive growth, for advancement, and in my choice of framing perspectives. From there, intent is followed by action. As Bonaventure pointed out how such contrasts as intelligence and humility are best appreciated together, so I’ll add that juxtaposed brightness and bleakness stand out as reminders.

love- hope- strength

“I'm just gonna sing about the things that I need:
A little bit of love, a little bit of hope
A little bit of strength, some fuel for the fire.

To build the ships to set the sails
To cross the sea of fools
To be dealt the cards
To play our hand
To win or else to lose
In this cruel world that kicks a man when he's down.”

~ The Alarm, Deeside.


fearful times

Without venturing into making sociopolitical statements, many agree that we live in upsettingly violent and fearful times. And that is excessively our context. An ordinary person, of dauntingly modest influence, can at least try encouraging others. Being a grain of inspiring leaven must persist with every passing day. Straight through the doldrums, no matter the ignominy. The stewarding of responsibilities is a trail that rarely juxtaposes with pursuits of success. Indeed, I’ve always tenaciously worked for both, but my high-minded idealism remains along a castle courtyard in the sky.

As one recession follows another, I thankfully keep on working. Whether or not it’s satisfying has had to decrease in importance. Scores of skilled workers lose their jobs, and exponentially more lose their homes. What may one dare to presume? The job market is as lifeless as this present culture is impoverished, yet personal defeat cannot be permissible. I must continue fueling my own engines. There are too many things yet to be accomplished; giving up the ship is still not an option. While life frustratingly remains in holding-pattern mode, I continue cultivating and flourishing where I’m planted. Foundering and drifting are undoubtedly worse than slowed movement and tacking. In the process, I can still be helpful to others. Most everyone I know is seeking a better situation for their livelihood. So many are struggling. On top of that, I’m listening to individuals of all ages express their cravings for community. Somewhere between pandemic quarantine life and The Great Resignation, too much of humanity turned inward to itself. The general willingness to gather pieces and create unifying bonds anew has left the popular consciousness. My own efforts continue, but indeed neighbors, colleagues, and kindredships are sum-totals comprising warm-blooded persons. Electronic personae cannot amount to reasonable facsimiles of human compassion and insight. As much as we know this, too many prefer their little pocket devices. Ironically, the bulk of human resources officers that recruit workers largely ignore the humanity exemplified in their conscientious applicants.


searching for positive signs

Grim times and thoughts intertwine to clog the mind as milfoil tangled around a ship’s propeller. Getting on the road does plenty to help my perspective, along with any intentional change-of-air. Occasionally I’ll have some music or radio accompaniment, but almost always some good threads of encapsulating monologue. And healthful silence. A good road trip- especially a scenic one- allows me to hear myself think (or not). Recently, getting outta Dodge was my very long-awaited family visit to Chicago, driving across the northeast, taking in the terrain. Making notes in my journal during a highway stop, I noticed how I had plenty of stamina for the 2200-mile round trip, but little for the sort of creative writing I’ve always loved doing. Exhaustion can be oddly asymmetrical. While listening to music and remembering the recently-departed, longtime favorite Mike Peters, I revisited the album “Strength” for the zillionth time. The Alarm is a prominent part of my life’s soundtrack. Among the songs, one of Peters’ verses, wrapped in refrains about struggling workers in a shuttering Welsh steel mill, affirms I’m just gonna sing about the things that I need, which are Love, Hope, and Strength. Essential, to be sure, and as the song proceeds, fuel for the fire. Enjoying the very short respite of being able to close my eyes while my coffee cooled in an I-90 service plaza, I penciled this in my journal: Sing about the things you need.

urban oasis

Inadvertently, my musing became an intrguing journaling prompt. “Sing about the things that I need,” looked to me like a way to cheer up my writing, and step back from the prevailing grimness. It surprised me that I found it difficult to answer the question with more than survival basics, though less poetic than “Love, Hope, Strength.” Instead, it was more of my quagmired scribbling about better work, quality of life, health of loved ones, stability, and community. Thinking through writing often carries a lot of repetition along, but re-reading thought processes can be fascinating. My ten days away from the grind began with some refreshingly unstructured time, which is always great for writing and reading- things that ordinarily require doses of stolen moments. My sister created a garden in a small space that has taken shape as an astonishing urban oasis. Perching outside was in itself salubrious, beginning with writing about gratitude for my earned-time-off to be able to make the travel, as well as for the welcomes received. Fresh air, good company, and tasty food; more gratitude. Looking up at the city’s trees, then down to my books on the patio table, gave me some Mike Peters-worthy words: Air, Light, Belonging, Writing, and Philosophy. Garden quiet combined with large-city hum, brought to mind choosing the substantial over the artificial. The following day, at a busy downtown café in the Loop, I added more answers in my journal such as “things that attest to the human spirit.”

notice what is good

The Newberry Library

Being a native born-and-bred city kid, I love a great city, and Chicago is a place that attests to the human spirit. As always, it did my soul a lot of good to immerse myself in miles of walking, intricate neighborhoods, grandiose avenues, L trains, and chatting with plenty of people along the way. On this particular sojourn, there was enough time and mild weather to see exhibits and some favorite businesses. The city’s vibrancy helped me replenish, at multiple levels.

Above: The Paper and Pencil, in the Andersonville neighborhood.
Below: Atlas Stationers, in the Loop.

savoury Chicago cheesecake, at The Pittsfield diner

It’s a long, long haul- and notching all those highway tolls, towns, and milemarkers reminded me of that reality, along with the constant need for patience in all things. After returning to Maine, a good friend said to me that “OK is fine,” which is to say that my big aspirations are a lot to expect. This was somewhat reassuring for me to hear, while my efforts continue as always. There are major projects yet to accomplish, and never enough time or influence. Survival always screams loudest and thus gets the majority of my attention. Countless others are likely in similar straits. Speaking for myself, along with my dreams, OK is momentarily fine, but I’ll keep on reaching higher. Modest measures of forward movement are better than nothing. Town-to-town gets me to the bigger destinations. En route, I’ve found it to be wisest to keep on identifying what is good, as much as possible. At work, I’m helping and teaching dozens of people daily, while conserving and offering primary source material. Every single workday attests to the extraordinary value of professional versatility, and how polished and productive I’ve been making this, contrasting how too many recruiters assume an unreality that ascribes one-skill-per-worker. Excelling at many things amounts to a full and focused life, and this should be desirable for any institution- no less in tight economic times. Identifying what is good keeps things interesting. This came to mind as my long-distance navigation wove through fields, vineyards, and along some of the Great Lakes. Despite the job market and all its barriers, like a true Alarm fan, I’m singing about the things that I need: Love, Hope, and Strength.

my favorite Chicago bookstore, The Armadillo's Pillow- in the Rogers Park neighborhood.

“...things that attest to the human spirit.”

Lake Michigan, viewed from the Rogers Park neighborhood.

back-to-school season

“Finish every day and be done with it.
For manners and for wise living it is a vice to remember.
You have done what you could;
some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in;
forget them as soon as you can.
Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it well and serenely,
and with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense.
This day for all that is good and fair.
It is too dear, with its hopes and invitations,
to waste a moment on the rotten yesterdays.”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Letters of Ralph Waldo Emerson,
Volume 2, 1836 - 1841

Long before the weathervanes of corporate retail brought out their marketed wares, the liminality of back-to-school season became very clear to me. Summer heat and humidity yielded to tree-bending blustery air, and on a random morning I suddenly remembered walking to grammar school in new shoes. Changed slants of light and earlier evenings indicate the setting of August. Though my graduate school thesis term was many years ago, memories- especially of my earliest education- vividly remain. The first day of a new school year was a burst to the senses: the look of new spaces, unfamiliar sounds, and the strong smells of industrial cleaning ingredients. At Public School No.13, in New York City, classroom numbers had their corresponding numbers painted on the gridded asphalt surface of the schoolyard; this became the place to line up every morning, prior to processing into school for the day. That was embedded within my first five years of schooling. Many other formalities followed, but as my father observed, “when you’re six years old, one year occupies fifteen percent of your life.” Back-to-school has always meant a fresh start, and at every age a learning of room numbers, names, and navigational strategies. A common post-secondary puzzle required knowing various campus buildings and the time needed to connect between them. To this day, late-August and early-September rekindle memories of new beginnings. Notwithstanding all the teaching I’ve been doing since college, I continue to purchase a new calendar book every summer. Labor Day Weekend is essentially the recognition of a new year.

A few of my classmates at the High School of Art & Design, New York.

Some of us are physically affected by the season. Back-to-school acquired my added connotation of allergy season. Parallel to my beginning high school, my one allergic condition emerged, which is ragweed pollen. As some of you know, some years are tougher than others. At the start of sophomore year, as a woeful fourteen-year-old, I had several protracted sneezing spells that frightened the teacher such that I was re-situated to the back of the classroom. That’s a great first impression to make for a teen, and surely not how I wanted to be noticed. Over the years, I learned to be equipped with neutralizing medication. On a better note, back-to-school meant reuniting with familiar faces and meeting new people. At the start of my senior year at the High School of Art & Design, at age seventeen, a number of old friends noticed how tall I’d suddenly gotten. New school years- both in high school and undergrad college, both four year institutions- began with re-acquaintances and recounting our summers. Fresh starts, in themselves, open to new horizons. And every venture, at any age and level, needs its equipage. Notebooks, writing materials- including aromatic wooden pencils, sometimes a new bookbag.

I still have this- from a Maine College of Art graphic design prof
who said to me, "Here is an E for your excellent work!"

Because of my high school’s focus on the visual arts, there were always supply lists to be filled. My mother, an experienced artist, and I made errands to the famous Pearl Paint- in SoHo- for our provisioning. Art college in Maine also meant filling supply lists, but with less variety. Unlike all the public schools I’d attended, college and university life required purchasing my own books, adding to the “new year” rituals. To send myself off in style to graduate school in Boston, I drove to nearby L.L. Bean and treated myself to a rugged backpack for the new journey. Each and every academic year began with reminders in the forms of brisk air, longer shadows, sneezing, and motivation to reach beyond my self.

Above: From my matriculating days in the MA program
at UMass-Boston. Notice my notebook-holder.

Below: Simmons University, Boston.

“Major in the Rest of Your Life” read the banner in the large vestibule of Boston’s Simmons University, highlighting my first day en route to my masters degree. It took two years of extremely hardworked matriculation to reach that beginning, but my gratitude produced its own energy. I hope Simmons has reused that brilliant motto. It may surprise those who’ve known me since my postgrad years, that I did not like school. I dreaded it. During childhood, I called the daily trudge “going to jail” and those tiresome stretches of time (in any duration) seemed agonizingly endless. Everything changed with the intense challenges of graduate schooling, which I loved. Perhaps it was the added years of work experience, but indeed I chose new vocations and goals, and I also chose each one of my courses. Back-to-school was a series of forward motions, even further hastened by summer sessions. The subject matter, as I advanced from one program to the next, became increasingly fascinating to me: from history, with the addition of philosophy, and then finally to archival sciences. With each new semester, the projects and assignments intensified- including publishing about book conservation. I took to beginning each academic year by watching that great film, The Paper Chase. For those timed, cheat-proof, fill-the-blue-booklet exams, I had a magic fountain pen which I’d bought in Paris. Every evening before one of those draining experiences, I’d make myself a brain-enriching fish dinner, and would perch that Waterman on my stereo to the tune of Meyerbeer’s benediction of the daggers from his opera Les Huguenots. All of this prep amounted to straight A’s. The pen wrote a perfect score.

The Waterman fountain pen with the 4.0 average.

My love for learning hit its permanent stride, when I joined the Boston Athenaeum immediately after graduating with my Masters degree. I’ve since lectured and taught there. Back-to-school is something I’ve been experiencing and supporting as an educator, and can attest that pursuing my own continued learning is an unending feast. In his Collations on the Hexaemeron, Saint Bonaventure wrote, “The door to wisdom is the vehement desire for it.” The season associated with the re-entry to school for so many among us retains its significance for me. Just as scholarship is stewardship, studies need application- all of which require conscientiousness. In his brilliant work and ready companion to me, The Intellectual Life, by A.G. Sertillanges, the chapter called Preparation for Work is especially appropriate for the season. His use of the word génie doesn’t quite translate as “genius,” but is something more like “inspired intellect.” He referred to this kind of wisdom as something that “stimulates us and gives us confidence. The stir it arouses is a spur to ardent personal endeavor, revealing a vocation, correcting overanxious timidity. A sense of sublimity breaks on our soul like a sunrise.” He described how we can use inspiring source material to fuel our ambitions and projects. Sertillanges’ references about cherished personal readings amount to an individual’s assembly of strategic reserves. Their cultivation increases with each measure of progress, such that “back-to-school” encounters less and less inertia. Studies lend well to spiritual formation, in an ongoing stream. Navigating currents and tides, we bring along our prized primary sources and faithful instruments.

I was well aware that my room at Simmons was on Pilgrim Road.

quiet paces

“If we deal fairly with one another and practice the virtue of justice,
we establish the bond of peace.
This means that where silence is observed, the fruits of peace
are gathered as easily as fruit is gathered from a heavily-laden tree.”

~ Saint Bonaventure, Holiness of Life.

In a serendipitous rarity, I was recently able to briefly liberate myself from my indentures with a week off. Coinciding with the Jubilee Year of Hope, designed to strike a strong contrast against all we see in our midst, the late Pope Francis published books and essays to go with his declaration, encouraging that we become pilgrims of hope. This entails conscientiously improving our communities as well as internalizing the theme, making physical pilgrimages to sacred places that are both conducive for prayer and accessible. Supporting articles, lectures, and broadcasts are directed as much to groups as they are to individuals. The concept of pilgrimage is surely ancient; for me, it’s been a way of life, growth, and stability since the mid-1990s. During this past year, I made my way to such familiar wellsprings as the Weston Priory (Vermont), Mount Saint Mary’s (Wrentham MA), Beacon Hill Friends House (Boston), and most recently the National Shrine of the Divine Mercy (Stockbridge MA). Earning time-off and finding salubrious ways to redeem those morsels takes shape as getting away from unsympathetic hardships- to welcoming healthful situations.

As studies can have their own pilgrimage aspects, I’ve nicknamed my years of ongoing and compelling Bonaventurian research and readings my Bonaventure Adventure- even developing a personal devotion to the saint, annually observing his feast day. Shortly before the sudden approval of the time off, albeit with little time to plan, I’d been reading Leonard Bowman’s book, A Retreat with St. Bonaventure. As the sojourn’s plans solidified, I saw on the calendar that I would be on pilgrimage for most of the novena leading up to Bonaventure’s memorial, as well as the days straddling July 15th. I took the book with me, of course. Amidst my studies, I read the Seraphic Doctor’s biography of St. Francis of Assisi. Bonaventure adored Francis, and when he subsequently found himself elected leader of the Franciscans, in 1257, the order asked him to write Francis’ life story- intending to prevent propagation of false rumors and folklore. As their generations slightly overlapped, Bonaventure interviewed eyewitnesses and colleagues of Francis, en route to the written oeuvre. In preparation for his new role as minister-general of the order, Bonaventure made an intentional pilgrimage to the top of Mount La Verna, the site of greatest importance to Francis. During his solitary time at the mountaintop while reflecting upon the legacy of Francis, Bonaventure experienced his own spiritual encounter, and began to compose what became his most celebrated work: The Journey of the Mind into God (also known as The Itinerary). Bowman’s book includes a commentary about Bonaventure’s writing in the silence at La Verna. In the solitude, “our efforts and achievements, indispensable as we saw them, look absurd.” “Pierce through the words, images, and thoughts,” added Bowman. “Now is the only simple recognition and wordless response.”

The idea of wordless response has stayed with me. While on the road, I tried imagining this manifesting as such pedestrian things like daily routine life, even breathing. Driving without the sound system gave me a small taste of wordless response. Bonaventure’s expression of contemplation was the stilled voice. I considered this, as well as the entirety of making a pilgrimage, to be a healthful distraction from the miseries I’d paused. Sanctified time. I took to the road earlier than I’d originally planned, having compressed a weekend’s errands into an overnight. Figuring on arriving in Stockbridge in the usual 3½ hours, intense highway traffic added more than an hour to my nonstop driving time, yet I arrived at the Shrine ten minutes prior to Mass. Being the 2nd Saturday of the month, the service was especially directed to Jubilee Year pilgrims; I was elated to have arrived in time, with the week still to follow in the peace of the Berkshires as guest of the Marians’ community.

Being so accustomed and conditioned to expecting large accomplishments and covering big distances, the wordless response of my musings began to take shape as quiet paces, meditatively absorbing the pilgrimage. Walking from place to place on Eden Hill and in Stockbridge permitted for an eased and reflective tempo. My paces through the woods and lanes were extensions of my steps along polished naves and transcepts. Among few things I brought with me for the week were ingredients for writing, reading, photographing, and my cherished rosary from the Sacré-Coeur basilica in Paris. Indeed, I arrived on pilgrimage, in the place that daily observes the Divine Mercy Chaplet in the presence of the relics of Saint Faustina. Looking at the inviting iconography throughout the shrine’s grounds and buildings, I remembered St. Augustine’s words: “Prayer is the raising and turning of the mind to God.” More than places loved and missed in our absence, spiritual destinations call to us. The pull of inspiration is met with an individual’s push forward, albeit in the quietest paces hidden within. Consequently, there follows an outward journey.

Kindredship winds up being among the unexpected, yet consistent, aspects of pilgrimage. Destinations may be givens, but the sojourning experiences comprise the subtle and the serendipitous. Speaking with, and listening to fellow pilgrims gave me stories of those who travelled much greater distances than my 230 miles. I heard about burdens and gratitudes, afflictions and recoveries; all the anecdotes and sights provide perspective. And significant shared silence. In his work Holiness of Life, Bonaventure wrote that “silence begets compunction of heart,” and thus we are humbled. As well, contemplative silence shows we belong to another world. On the eve of the day which memorializes Bonaventure, I enjoyed a great conversation with one of the Marian brothers who also admires the saint. We meandered between talking about the Itinerary, and about our lives of interaction with the public. He said he had once been a short-order cook. Sanctifying our work was among our topics. He heard a little about my employment stresses, to which I added another gem of Bonaventure’s in Holiness of Life: “Perseverance is the crown and consummation of all virtues.”

During the week of quiet paces, I participated in all the liturgies- increasingly listening in silence. Because the large sanctuary was regularly filled with actively vocal attendees, I could as easily blend into the current, as to be carried along in focused silence. The impression of the entirety was that of swelling and falling back upon the solidity of the acclamations. Wordless response essentially transcends structure. Having brought many intentions with me, from friends and correspondents- adding my own, I became aware that my purpose for being at this extraordinary place of worship outweighed me. Paradoxically, the more substantial, the more invisible. This strong imprint has accompanied my return to work and to all the connected frustrations I’d paused. Immersed as I’ve been with St. Bonaventure’s writing, I can imagine him encouraging me with “Reach beyond self, and toward God.” While I’ve had to resume my “normal” vigilant paces, I’m remembering having been able to slow down. “From memory as fountain-source,” wrote Leonard Bowman in his book about Bonaventure, “there emerges a wordless sense. Intellectual recognition traces it and names it into Word. Then emotion and will connect it and claim it in Love.”