La Vie Graphite

toque-sain

2009-12-30T11:32:00.000-05:00

Oh what will you give me?
Say the sad bells of Rhymney.
Is there hope for the future?
Cry the brown bells of Merthyr.

Who made the mine owner?
Say the black bells of Rhondda.
And who robbed the miner?
Cry the grim bells of Blaena.

Even God is uneasy,
Say the moist bells of Swansea.
And what will you give me?
Say the sad bells of Rhymney.

~ Idris Davies, Bells of Rhymney

In these harsh times, my thoughts turn to seeking the sense of what is seen. Of course, I want to know. And quite naturally the immediate fills my sights. But the undisciplined eye sees limits at all hands. More is asked of fewer that remain standing in recession economies. In my still-young working life, I’m well-familiar with the conscious gratitude of walking and working among the employed- seemingly defying the odds. “To whom much is given, much is required,” is a biblical text often in my thoughts. But there must be more than simply punching a time-card. This has always been clear to me, though opportunities are rare or often drowned out by thoughts of what may have already been missed. Another fine reason to self-berate; another action producing no results.

Looking beyond self-confinement breaks out of drawn limitations. And it becomes necessary to be sensitized to perspectives that my own notions have not considered. Perhaps for post-moderns, a “career” is defined by what has been eclectically assembled- more than the old-fashioned multiple-decades at one company that sees an individual move up through ranks. We find our own ways to redeem the time. Given some morsels of earned time off, I go on pilgrimages. If it’s just a day, there are excursions that present refreshing changes of scenery and new points of view for my learning. Within these verbal exchanges and visible vistas, there are messages for me to derive. Countless times, over the years, conversing with friends has provided that vital forum for commiserating and stock-taking. Listening to others’ approaches to their situations subtly reminds me of how the voyage cannot prosper without kindred souls. It may be akin to the accord of dulcet chimes, or to the impact of tower bells. With some conscious focus, I become able to hear what is needed. My antidotes to dead ends are continuity and refinement of vision.

Lately in my journals, the question, “what is real?” has provided a good writing exercise. The year and this decade are concluding, and the question permits for some retrospective along with forward-looking thought. What sense- and what nonsense- have I been carrying along among the cargo? From within sounds a percussive alert- a reality check. It is a questioning of what unfolds immediately before the ship’s prow, and whether my intended course has been faithfully maintained.

Sources of reality checks can be as simple as posing questions that reconsider how things have always been done. Or, for that matter, experience causes reconsidering attitudes toward people, ideas, even institutions. There can be surprises- from anywhere between offices and street-corners. On all sides, so long as there is breath, it is never too late to revise points of view. One might imagine that all it takes to maintain openness of heart and mind is plenty of solitary contemplation. Not quite. And not without some varied activity, either. With no means of reality check and balance, an intense inner life lends too well to detrimental isolation. My favorite windows let in fresh air and light, as well as offering an outward view from inside. When my writing runs short of words and ideas, I realize how much I need to look outside of my own resources. Words and ideas replenish with reading and observing. And I am thankful for my bolder friends, whose pointers can burst my bubbles of self-absorption. This idea of exercising a broad view came to mind yesterday as I used a wide-angle lens on my camera. A 28-millimeter lens encompasses both ground and sky.

Awareness of perspective is no more than a sensitization. There continue to be times when I am called to navigate through darkness, At times, it is a plain yet pressing heavy-heartedness that disrupts my sleep. Hard times and closed ends, convincingly insurmountable, may be more permanent than previously thought. Or perhaps it is better to accept my inability to figuring everything out. Nights of the soul and long walks that are needed to be able to see and to sense can be means by which new understandings are reached. In a spirit of sincere inquiry, darkness reveals as much as light. Strolling past rows of decorated houses, along icy streets, I wondered how far my steps have drifted from the truths I’ve been pursuing. If I truly believe the words, then I “In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world,” then I must be convinced I am not at the end of my road.

Turning my steps away from unappealing avenues of bitterness, music returns to my thoughts. So many tunes and words committed to memory reappear and remind. My hope now is for sharper focus- toward compassion and away from entrapments of the mind’s realm. There is a music of hopefulness, and this occurred to me while listening to vespers last week, and later during performances of folk music I hadn’t heard in years. The tones, twists, and lyrics conveyed life-giving ingredients. That which gives life is able to re-ground, encourage, and offer new vision. As a sounding bell from within, signaled turning-points are identified.

Following a mid-day service, several days ago at King’s Chapel, I asked to see the bell up close. The sexton simply opened a very narrow wooden door, after seeing me off at the organ loft. With deliberate care, I ascended the ancient series of ladder-like steps, all the way up through the bell tower above this 17th century Boston church. Standing astride the massive bell, signed by its maker Paul Revere, I thought of how such an instrument rang to alarm and warn, along with a history of ringing out in festive celebration. From the tower’s snowy louvers, the sight of busy Tremont Street below had me wondering about how the scenery has changed through the centuries. Perception can alter one’s sense of reality. Leaving the ready and quietly-nestled bell, I slowly descended through the building and then out to Beacon Street. The bell’s resounding gift to me was neither foreboding tocsin nor weekly Sunday chimes: its silent steadfast witness had spoken to my soul.

for peace

2009-12-24T09:43:00.001-05:00

"O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing.

And ye, beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,

Look now! for glad and golden hours
come swiftly on the wing.

O rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing!"

~ Edmund Sears, It Came Upon the Midnight Clear

A peaceful and blessed Christmas season to all.

deux fois cent

2009-12-18T09:36:00.004-05:00

“I take a long look
A long look
It's a hard climb that takes a long time
I can see where I'm going
And some places I've been
I take a long, long look”

~ Sandi Patty, Long Look, from Le Voyage.

Today's entry to this blog is my 200th, and thus an occasion to consider the draw of writing to record thoughts. The world and ways of words and wonder comprise my movable feast. When I think of this verbal vocation, it is with gratitude for what has become a means for continuing discovery. When I was a printmaker, the work was inextricable from the need for printing presses. In my first career, photography, there had to be studio and darkroom space- not to mention the plethora of tools, papers, films, enlargers, chemicals, and hosts of hardware for both film exposure and for printing. By contrast, written observation requires almost nothing. A pencil or pen is applied to paper as footsteps reaching a new meadow. Pages rolling through the typewriter map my city streets, coasts, and country roads.

Materials and tools are to be animated in their application. My photo gear continues with me as part of my bookbinding equipment- and as means to accompany written thoughts. Those utensils which respond to the stirrings of the creative spirit are at the ready. Just downstairs from where I note these words- at the Boston Athenaeum- is a collection of Benjamin Franklin's books. Of these, my favorites are his volumes of Diderot's Encyclopedia. They are as Franklin had left them- with bookmarks, folds, and marginal notes. Well-used tools of the craftsman.

Indeed, my gratitude for the writing impulse has been expressed before. Now, the purpose beyond the craft itself deserves its due. When journaling became very important to me, increasingly more of my time was set aside for this. I remember hearing myself say to my friends that I wanted to write through my culled ideas and hopes. I described the process as "doing the long division," rather than to simply calculate for instant answers. My elementary math teachers required that we "show the work," demonstrating how results were reached. By giving place to thoughts, otherwise voiceless words are distinguished- even if humbly so. Expressing the inner life by configurations of letters and images becomes a pursuit within the grander voyage.

Navigating days and distances as a writer has revealed some unexpected liberties. Regarding content, form follows sincerity- and the idea of "poetic licence" is an encouragement to explore forms of expression. The liberties I refer to here are related to the freedoms opened up by writing. When I traveled as a photographer, my purposes and intentions were often questioned. Traveling as a writer- albeit a journaling scribbler- prompts gracious and courteous treatments in public venues, inns ("this'll be a fine room for you to write in"), restaurants, on flights, and in museums. (Aren't museums places for musing?) Penciling words into notebooks permits me to freely move about the aisles of this world. In addition, that idea-scribing penchant has bailed me through banal meetings in the past, dull events, and aimless lectures. More importantly, creative projects provide constructive ventures other than employment travails and perfunctory obligations.

In several days’ time, the next essay will begin taking shape. At this moment the topics are as yet unknown to me. But there will be something, as surely as there will follow another day of journaling- through my coffee breaks and lunch hour. For me, it is a privilege, and never a tiresome task. In a discourse about her love of gleaning through jotted ideas, Elizabeth Berg wrote:

“Nothing matches this feeling. Nothing brings me this particular kind of joy. And I need it. I crave it. When I don’t have it, I suffer. I feel like a drug addict with an exceptionally wise drug of choice.”

The need to continue writing is equivalent to the necessity of perseverance. In a world replete with instability and static, the critical need to keep balanced and finely-tuned is all the more urgent. The word vocatio translates as a summons. It is a call to persist- not simply in letters and imagery, but in faith. A reminder not to forget to dream, and to go forth with a solid aspiration for better days. There are blessings now, and there is room for improvement. Each day is a step. Alongside the paths of steps, carefully-recorded written words attest to what happens- and how the movements are interpreted. When I organize groups of manuscript records, the basic steps are known in the field as arrangement and description. To do this well, the materials and their respective contexts must be comprehended, otherwise the composite collection will not be coherent to future researchers.

Retrospectively, there is a broad view that presents both ends of the active lives of noncurrent archival records. By contrast, journaling lives in the here-and-now, notwithstanding distant recollections and anticipated aspirations. An archivist’s view of a continuing journal would be that of observing the active life of a current chronicle. Without an end-date, it is an ongoing documentation. There are yet more words to arrange, more journeys to describe.

lights and places

2009-12-09T08:32:00.008-05:00

“Then the star appeared again,
the same star they had seen in the eastern skies.
It led them on until it hovered
over the place of the child.
They could hardly contain themselves:
They were in the right place!
They had arrived at the right time!”

~ Matthew 2 : 9,10.

highways

2009-12-02T11:36:00.003-05:00

“I’ve seen by the highways on a million exit ramps
those two-legged memorials
to the laws of happenstance
waiting for four-wheeled messiahs
to take them home again;
but I am home anywhere
if You are where I am.”

~ Rich Mullins, Here in America

It took a lot of driving for me to begin collecting my thoughts. In fact, the changes began once my wheels left New England and took to the beginning of a 400-mile stretch of the New York State Thruway, en route to Chicago. Departing the Berkshires, the terrain gradually flattened as I continued westward. A prelude to the Midwestern landscape of fields extending to horizons under seamless skies. The smooth and broadened highways appear equally limitless in their reach. Necessary stops concern paying tolls, refueling, and taking breaks- not the deficiencies of road surfaces themselves. But just as the ocean forms the sea-navigator, road adventures shape drivers and lend character to the beaten track. Traveling through unfamiliar or less-familiar places allows for an ephemeral detachment that easily finds wonder in newness. Within that are the stories of travelers, and listening to these is part of the adventure.

Unlike local roads and expressways, interstate highways present a truncated world. At faster speeds that tempt higher extremes, it is a fleeting milieu of ramps and signs, occasional waterways and overpasses, and names that reveal traces of regional histories. And of course, radio broadcasts that vary with the travel’s progress. Somehow, through the standardized predictability of interstates, the lure of the open road emerges. And without wanderlust, my appreciation for my home town wouldn’t be quite as strong. An appetite for travel and for changes of scenery strikes a contrast with routine. Within that contrast is the cherishing of mobility amidst a restlessness for reaching rest-stops of repose.

Compared to my northern New England roads and streets, superhighways are not endeared to me. Of course, they are purposely uniform to span the continent; that’s the idea. Roads around where I live follow the sloping bending contours of terrain and water. Interstates were blasted through rock, not to be compromised by earthbound obstructions. Many straightaways were designed to double as level ground for emergency plane landings. Perhaps tollways are exempt from our aesthetic assessments. They get us where we need to go, and back again- allowing us to do that with the least travail. In cruise control. And the sameness of the roadside stops and motels are supposed to offer a sense of comfort. Some states refer to their service plazas as “oases,” as if throughways are deserts!

Highway systems, airports, and “intermodal terminals” remind me of how we want to cover distance as fast as humanly possible- and of how our conditions demand that we maintain the pace. It may be impossible to revert to the smaller and slower roads that traverse municipalities. Many towns have lost their cores of commerce due to sprawling development. As the larger, faster, newer, more predictable, and measurable become what is sought after, do the humbler places cease to matter? Is the memory of the unseen negated? Traversing and admiring the vast landscape on the way to Illinois, my thoughts were reminded of the many Main Streets I’ve seen when making the voyage by train. Towns and cities are bypassed by interstates, and are indicated only by sign. My vehicle is small and often solitary in the universe of thoroughfares. Fixtures and structures are few and far between.

Roads and places are stories in themselves. Listening is essential. Considering the discipline of attentiveness strikes a comparison between the patience of observation and the impatience of challenging speed limits. By traveling, it is possible to meet those who have sojourned even more. Seasoned travelers like to talk, and my random survey is to ask such people about their favorite places they’ve seen. One career Merchant Marine offered a vivid description of sailing into Manila harbor. He said it was the most beautiful sight he’d seen. Walking and talking in Chicago with an 88-year-old family friend permitted a chance to bring up my continuing query. Asking Manny about his favorite places from his road sales years caused him to re-enact his recollections for my listening ears. Now I have his stories to reflect upon- his word pictures of roadside fields of sunflowers in North Dakota, all bright and waving to the sounds of trumpeting geese. “Just like a horn section,” he said. He told these stories slowly, as though presenting a gift to me. Manny’s sense of patience is refreshing, and his demeanor reminds me not to hurry or wish away time. The long highway trips are so much about wishing distances away. “How many more miles to...” is the pervading concern. And it will surely manifest over and again in my thoughts, in drives to cover as much distance as possible- hoping to rest later.

Being able to reflect back upon travels and holidays indicates the advance of time and age. My elderly friend encourages me about how most of my years are ahead of me. Now I wouldn’t dare deny such encouragement to someone who is 88! I mustn’t let the advance of time become an excuse for pessimism. It is a fact of living. Remember that as students we are supposed to graduate; that is the goal of formal education. Thus, if one aspires to graduate, it is effectively a wish to mature and grow into the pilgrimage.

In my wonder at the ways faraway points may be connected by navigating highways, routes, tracks, and paths, the road begins to represent hopeful ways forward. Journeying becomes a tangible exercise that observes distance, difference, and proportion. As such, sojourning is essential for a life of learning and understanding. But at the same time, it’s something of an invitation to displacement. Consider hiking and camping. It forces the issues of how to be equipped, how not to be equipped, and what must be done without. But the venturing is pursued by many of us, even enjoying the simplified limitations- which permit for exploration. Indeed, there is spiritual geography as surely as geography may be part of spiritual practice.

Returning east a couple of days ago presented the resuming of mountains, valleys, and at last the mist of Casco Bay. On the way, I thought further about the “hopefulness of the road,” and what that signifies. It’s a present hope for what is too distant to see right now. As well, it is an advancement forth from what is past. Taking to the road is an act of trust in the destination, the means of transport, and of navigation. The vehicle has what it requires to get there, and my understanding of the roads and my sense of direction are sufficient. Even the desire to go forth is an engine in itself. With movement there follows motivation. And in launching out of the onramp, even into the night and across boundaries, the hope of the road endures.

airwaves

2009-11-18T09:27:00.001-05:00

“It’s not true I had nothing on.
I had the radio on.”

~Marilyn Monroe

When welcoming a houseguest, I try to share as much of my living space as possible. For most of my adult life, I lived in 2 ½ rooms. More books meant less furniture, but it was always neat and tidy. Guests always got the room with the bed surrounded by bookshelves, and I’d take the dining area. Recently with a visiting family member, I followed the same custom of creating a welcoming space. Yesterday, I thought of how monastic houses balance shared and private spaces. I remembered how the common spaces are entered and passed through, with a warm sense of deference. I set aside the morning essentials from off my desk, before bidding my guest goodnight. Early the following day, I noticed myself quietly camped on my livingroom floor, with coffee, journal- and radio. The always-faithful wireless: iconic and useful, with the ready steadfastness of a portable typewriter. Radio often reminds me of who I am and what I am. I comprehend, therefore I interact with this world. With selections and references of my own, I listen.

broadcast presence

Despite all the scientific explanations, the very idea of radio signal reception remains magical to me. The little rectangular box usually perched on my desk can be dialed to faraway broadcasts transmitted through the air. On shortwave, sounds from continents away visit my writing surface. So much is conveyed with seemingly very little. The little box of batteries, numbered dials, speaker, and transistors accompanies me around the house- and out on the front stoop. Radio retains many of its time-honored attributes, and is still somehow an intimate form of media. The operas, the pop tunes, the narratives, the cheering fans, and the chimes of Big Ben (at the top of each hour)- all mingle in the stratosphere.

My mother likes to humorously point out how we tend to look at the radio as we listen. We gather around the sounds that visit our habitations. Long predating the Web, radio is freely accessible 24 hours a day. Live programming is immediate, and does not require reloading a page. Commercials can be turned down. The best sportscasters are assigned to radio, which is only as effective as the human ability to articulate is successful. Intrinsically neutral, the broadcast medium presents both troubling and calming voices. The format lends itself to use and misuse. We can engage the airwaves to find what speaks to our sensibilities.

personal connotations

Beyond the radio as an object, it is a subject replete with profound connotations. As an archivist, cataloguing a manuscript requires that I describe the item as well as the subjects pertaining to the item. What does the object mean? Radio broadcasts are accessible through other avenues, along with traditional receivers. A few years ago, during an immense blizzard in Vermont, I stopped at an inn for a break from my treacherous drive. The British innkeepers had no guests that day, and served tea while nostalgically recalling their beloved BBC. I showed them how they could listen through their computer. In their ecstatic gratitude, they offered me a place for the night- and moved their desk computer to where they could listen to the “Beeb” with their tea. Radio is still radio. A vacuum-tube Marconi from the 1930s can bring you next year’s World Series.

Radio listening has an inherent time-travel aspect. Not simply via music and archival rebroadcasts (both sources of enormous wealth), but also in current programmes in a style of another time. Mystery Theater and Twilight Zone Radio represent new manifestations of a long tradition of thrillers in the “theater of the mind.” National Public Radio’s lively quiz shows and the much-loved Prairie Home Companion endure with off-the-cuff literary wit that has long-since disappeared from television. New Englanders are regularly regaled by the seasoned voices of Jordan Rich (WBZ), and Steve LeVeille (also WBZ)- both of whom are endeared to their countless listeners. They represent a demeanor from an era that fused spontaneity, directness, and a high regard for decorum. Rare and not shrill. Encouraging and not alarmist. Good listening is an exercise of memory, as well as an understanding of significance. Weighing ideas is an opening to interpret the world. The spoken word without pictorial footage lends well to imagination. An amusing juxtaposition would occur during early-morning commutes in rural Maine, during which I could pick up frenetic Boston traffic reports. Turning off the sound, I’d glance again at the dairy farms and pastures around me. Truly, the newswatch never stops, and radio reminds me to remain awake to the present, reference the past, and participate in life’s developing story. Always making notes- mental and otherwise, I continue to collect words, sounds, and anecdotes.

accompaniment

As personal essentials are determined, it is easier to know what travels along. Radio goes with me on every major travel, be it in or out of the country. With every locality, there is always something to listen to, reminding me of where I am. In Europe, it’s a cornucopia of languages. On returns from cross-country road trips, I move across NPR (or Radio Canada) affiliates, until I get within range of my New England favorites. Familiarity comes by sound and cadence. Radio has accompanied me at all my jobs, studios, apartments, cars, and has echoed through every darkroom I’ve worked in. It is a medium without moorings. Being a postmodern, radio has always had a suggestion of being something a bit antiquated. As a teen, my parents offered to give me a television of my own. To their surprise, I gratefully said no, and asked for a table radio instead. I still have it, and the sound is as rich as ever. After one of his enthralling monologues, I wrote a letter to Gene Burns- with a matted landscape I printed for him- to say thank you. I told him that his programme was something of a graduate education in the liberal arts. He wrote a memorable letter back to me. Assuredly, my life’s influences include some of those golden voices inspiring worlds of words and oration. To be immersed in depths of musical and verbal sounds also inspires a life of listening.

“Hello, Mr. Radio, you friendly station,
So glad of your company, your morning music...
Your voice comes riding home across the air,
You travel 'round the world, but still you're here”.

~ Jeff Lynne, Mister Radio

transitory

2009-11-11T12:08:00.009-05:00

“It won’t be pretty when they cut the tether
sometimes you lose your address
to find your shelter.

Why is joy something I must steal?
Starving skeletons looking for a meal.
Out in the graveyard the church bells peal
Earth has no sorrow, heaven can’t heal.”

~ Bill Mallonee and the Vigilantes of Love, Earth Has No Sorrow Heaven Can’t Heal

preparedness

2009-11-05T09:37:00.000-05:00

“To build the future is, primarily and exclusively,
to think the present.
Even as the creating of the ship is exclusively
the inculcating of a trend
towards the sea.”

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Wisdom of the Sands, ch.89

for the day

We each develop our own self-styled ways for preparing to enter the day. Choosing to pull together some words in the early morning of an ordinary day has suddenly made this moment extraordinary. Awake at 5:30am, I’ve had my bath and now slowly savor my coffee poured from the percolator which has stopped sputtering. Only shoes remain needed to send me out the door, between this moment and teethbrushing. The next hour or so offers the respite of unstructured liminal space. Over the years, friends have referred to my “rituals,” while I’ve seen this as a way for me to own my time. And the practices adapt with every environment I’ve inhabited. Silence; with some words written and more printed words to read. As the morning progresses, I’ll add a look at the calendar and a listen for news. Always radio, never the shrill screen. Gentle lighting. A lengthened morning is also a way to ease the pace.

Last winter, the topic of preparedness came up in workplace conversation. A snowstorm was looming and I said, “as long as there’s some half-and-half in my fridge door, I’m all set.” Readiness for the elements and their offerings seems also to begin with that ubiquitous caffeinated beverage. Ways to gather forces and wits vary with situations and circumstances. Preparation is a many-threaded theme. Both sizing up the workday and gearing up for travels involve constructs of provisions to agree with plans. Tools and the appropriate raiment; something to eat, wallet, and keys. Sometimes an umbrella. A thermos of coffee (there it is, again). Cargo space is always allotted for writing materials. Then there is recollection of conscience. I try to use my mornings for mental preparation. At times, it’s an interior narrative, to tell my stubborn mind things like, “don’t let that bother you,” or “why not try that?” Even just to remind myself that things needn’t repeat themselves. Change never ceases. Just walk to the waterfront, and notice the tides.

mystery

Preparation of mind and spirit is as real as any material parallel. It is surely a discipline for a personality type such as mine to keep a steady keel in all things, while also being prepared for the unexpected. Maintaining a consistent inner peace implies a steady connection with one’s foundation. I try to remember the ground of my being, the source of all that lives. In unfettered silence, the longing soul can breathe the bare invitation, Veni Creator Spiritus.

In his book, From Fear to Faith, Martyn Lloyd-Jones mused about remembering foundations in imagery that surely reflected the textures of his home in Wales:

“When, walking on moorlands, or over a mountain range, you come to bogs, the only way to negotiate them is to find solid places on which you can place your feet. The way to get across the morasses and the places in which you are liable to sink is to look for footholds. So, in spiritual problems, you must return to eternal and absolute principles.”

Returning to absolute principles combines taking stock with preparation. Side view mirrors adjacent to a clear windshield. In regrouping there is gratitude for the “givens” in our midst. Somehow it remains more natural to take stock in what is trusted rather than to count fears. Darting across Monument Square, from lunch and back to work, I bumped into an old friend from art school. After we asked each other about how we’re doing, our responses began with being employed. As if that’s the first blessing to count. And this added more to thoughts of preparedness. It began to rain, and neither of us had umbrellas. We kept talking and walking. Perhaps by grounding ourselves during chaotic times by attending to the contents of our basis, we can prepare ourselves to remain calm in the present and through the unexpected. This is central to the life of faith. From the simplest yet most solid aspects, a good launch is possible.

extempore

As concerning spiritual progress, my hope is to be ready for unpreparedness. Reading Saint James’ ancient directive to be “swift to listen, slow to speak, and slower to anger” is a reminder against carelessness. We are all much more connected than we realize. This represents the timeless challenge of pondering actions before making an impulsive move. We’d all prefer that in theory, but this culture provokes an “act now” attitude. It is easy to be conditioned- and caught up in feeling forced to grab- so as not to be left out or go hungry. To succeed, one must be quick and smart; the loudest and most ostentatious are heard and noticed. I wonder at how true that is, and how to claim space and time to prevent from being reactive. Even slow speech is deemed a weakness. And slowness to judge?

Oddly enough, the supplanting of phone communication by "messaging" is open to some consideration space between received message and response. Even 5 minutes’ worth of interpretation and sizing things up can produce a more multi-dimensional reply than a defensive reaction. Now to be prepared to instantaneously respond without defense. Perhaps the way is to walk baggageless through days and tasks. Observation is itself a form of preparation- even a fast reflection. There needn’t be much time to be able to regain perspective. Habakkuk the Prophet, in the 7th century BC, documented his restless exasperation- and his struggle to wait and keep watch:

“And then God answered:
‘Write this.
Write what you see.
Write it out in big block letters
so that it can be read on the run.’”

Of course, I relish the Divine directive to write the vision and state it clearly. Prominently and portably. Even better, the prophet’s name translates to “the one who embraces.” It is for us to imagine all relevant implications.

One can over-prepare, to a detrimental extent. With all this in mind, it really is mental preparedness by being fully awake that is of most effect. When I think of excess contrivance, it gives me the image of being loaded-down. Tiring to even think about. The running thread tying together these thoughts is the training of trust to traverse the wilderness. Preparation is not really living, just as hits during batting practice are not computed into statistics. That doesn’t mean training is unimportant. Its purpose is its implementation. My favorite professor in grad school told me to, “read with an eye on application.” Perhaps applying the fruits of contemplation into living is in itself a kind of practiced readiness. I hope to reach the place at which recollection and application are intertwined and simultaneously advancing. As with unceasing prayer, I’d even have to make an effort to interrupt my breathing-in of the Holy Spirit. A hope. Hoping to be ready to be unready; to be cultivated for the unknowing and adaptable for the unseen- without my own terms.

backspace

2009-10-27T09:52:00.004-05:00

“Green grass, go on
There’s nothing to keep you
Green grass, go on.

Red tree, go on
You’ve waited a long time
You’ve waited a long time.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Green Grass, Red Tree

Remedies for our constraints: backspace and margin release.

faraway

2009-10-22T07:40:00.004-05:00

“There’s a rushing sound that is sometimes heard
when your mind won’t let you sleep.
It’s the flickering sound of a thief
who’s come to tear up all these dreams.
Stealing from the heart, stealing from the soul
stealing from the future
On the wind that blows away my words.”

~ The Alarm, The Wind Blows Away My Words

seen from afar

Having strongly visual thought processes, concepts tend to begin as images. Many ideas formulate as pictures, which are equivalent to language. Often, thoughts are first “seen” in my mind’s eye; after that, words follow. As well, memories are retained as images. In perspective, words and images are brought together by points of reference both felt and seen. Even extraordinary and new sites can cause the mind to reach into the past recesses of the archives of the soul. While on the road the other day, looking up at very clear weather brought to mind how skies appear when traveling by plane. Flying over New England, I recognize the lakes by their shapes. Over the Atlantic, I’m fascinated by strata- and noticing ships very far at sea. If it’s clear and bright enough, at the head of a long linear wake, an ocean-going ship is a study in determination from 35,000 feet. It’s going somewhere, there’s a crew aboard, and an assignment. The vessel is as small to me, as the large jet must appear to those on its deck. Proportion is based upon distance. Driven and directed, the craft goes on. Leaving a straight trail to dissolve on the water’s surface, it is not marooned. Piloting is not determined by sight, and navigation and travel must continue- no matter the light, the absence of light, or weather. It must go forward, and get where it needs to go. That’s the real goal, and the only way to do that is to persevere. Land is out of range, and the ship is at once far from its port of departure and from its terminus.

distances covered

Becoming aware of my own traveled distances is as liberating as it is occasionally sorrowful. When I woke at around 3am the other day, my thoughts could only be assuaged by penciling some words in my journal. Hours later, in the evening, I re-read it as my own version of a ship’s log. The jottings are as from faraway at sea, very long away from family memories and my mean-street adolescence. The closest thing to a sentence reads, “try to keep the world from getting colder, vaster, less-familiar.” It’s how a wakeful and longing mind writes: not very rational, but it somehow makes sense. Every past has both its smooth stones and broken fragments, and in the wake of time a dissolving dispersal among deepest waters. Yet there are those nights when I awaken, realizing the very fact of the irretrievable. The distance itself becomes more prominent than childhood experiences or my varied journeys over the years since. The port from whence I launched is long out of contact, and the places have transformed into things hardly recognizable.

The following day those same words looked up at me, as my journal opened to sunlight outside with coffee. Looking skyward, I almost couldn’t relate to my own words. Reflecting back can be daunting and obstructive in times of weakness, and a similar recounting can be contrastingly optimistic in satisfying times. Darker nights can tempt the mind with regrets, with inventories of what cannot be done, with recollections of wrong turns, and with ruminations of wasted efforts and time. The light of history, meant to view events and ideas in context, illumines achievements and blessings. Reminders of what I’ve endured cause me to better appreciate what I discover. Experiences do provide strength and point to potential, when their value is recollected. Distinguishing the uses of the past is a discipline in itself, demanding a distillation of time’s complexities. Praise is often tied together with pain, returning my thoughts to the solitude of ostracism and distance. I wonder at how far I have really traveled, while reminding myself that as the ocean-going vessels seen from the air I am neither lost nor without direction.

uses of the past

“Wisdom consists in knowing God and in knowing oneself,” wrote Bossuet, in the 17th century. “From the knowledge of self,” he continued, “we rise to the knowledge of God.” A sense of self, within a context of reality, can help maintain solid forward movement. The first challenge, however, is to be aware of oneself without becoming self-engrossed. My own check-and-balance system incorporates tempering my tendency toward introspection with old parental disgust at my interest in things past and spiritual. But to establish self-awareness and to transcend as Bossuet enjoined implies knowing one’s true self. A life’s journey that comprises recollection, understanding, and renewed perspective. And to challenge judgements, examining how true they are. The purpose must never be to create a closed-loop of self-obsessed isolation. Quite to the contrary is the aspiration to blend into God’s presence in this world.

This self-knowledge imperative may also have a root in what most would call the less-than-spiritual. My earliest years were fraught with having to stand my own defense- and run fast- having been shown the ways of this world at the hands of merciless bullying. Younger, lighter, quieter, and smaller than the others in my grade, I was an easy target for bulked bands of armed cowards that lurked the hallways, basements, streets, public schools, and parks of my crowded crime-ridden section of New York City. The stuff of nightmares. I remember how, as a bloodied nine-year-old, I collected myself and sought out the head of the summer camp for some kind of justice. The director could not understand what the daily beatings and tauntings were doing to me, and gave me a talk about “peace and harmony.” The sheer uselessness of this was representative of misunderstanding and disregard at so many turns. I could comprehend others, but was very rarely understood- and never taken seriously. The grand reward, following more years of tension and muggings, was my determined departure from the city. Survival took a different form, certainly without the violence. Liberty does have its costs, and for some it is the solitariness of self-navigation- intensified all the more for the family black sheep.

Truly, there is too much that is laudable and open-ended, rather than for me to waste another minute in bygone quagmires! Momentum will not tolerate wallowing. Just like the Passover commemoration, sufferings are remembered in order to give thanks for the present and the gift of a future in a better land. A navigation without instruments or charts is that of the spirit of trust- within. This exploration can allow for a surpassing of obscurity into a less-impaired heart, through which I can embrace the Divine. Not a wallow, but well worthwhile; worth exceeding the weight of anguish. Here, past adds propulsion to present. A bridge is not purposed to be a place of permanent residence. Sure I can articulate disappointments and missed opportunities, but the next thing is that there must be a next right thing. “Build something positive out of the fragments,” I wrote today in my journal, during a breath’s worth of a coffee break. Memory is precious space; loosen the grip. Back at my desk, it occurred to me that as an archivist, memory is documentation. This manifests in many formats, and the enduring value of records concerns their authenticity and their uses to inform. Whether the information is “good” and “bad” is aside the point. The most critical aspect is accuracy.

ports of call

A favorite saying came to me from a Quaker who said, “the Christian life may be rough on the feet, but it’s good on the soul.” Times of respite are to be cherished, as they are exceptional. The reality of pilgrimage- especially one that fully embraces the whole voyage- it that it’s not always pleasant. Rarely easy, but surely not without joy, either! Balancing contexts of past and present is joined by perceiving horizons. For me, it means to steer carefully without getting caught up in the what-ifs of the not-yets which may only be mirages. Distances covered are facts of this life, and there are many more gratitudes than regrets. Even a small distance, such as between an especially dark night and a seat in the sun, aired my words to the light. What a wonder to notice anxious thoughts disperse as night predators do before sunrise. Patient observance is an ability slowly learned, and some great examples have been among wise and kindred friends. Claiming islands of quiet time- however humble or momentary- has been the best way to take stock and take care.

re-setting course

Resuming the voyage and tacking into the wind, I am aware of such times when the rigors of so many miles covered are sharply felt. But that is still not a reason to stagnate or to cheapen aspirations. “In speaking of the debt of reason to revelation,” Etienne Gilson wrote, “we may have in mind the moving memory of those moments when, as in the meeting-place of two convergent rays, the opacity of faith suddenly gives way within to the transparency of understanding.” Because there are daily responsibilities and many who count upon me, the two-sided coin of unknowing will have to ride on the dashboard: It remains both assuring and troubling alike, being aware of how little I really know. Within the gradual learning process, perhaps times of disappointment and despair are growth pains. Looking back, those hardhearted environments I’ve endured, in both childhood and since, have left the inadvertent by-product of sensitivity to others. But the more dangerous waters to avoid are replayings of harmful earlier chapters. Such awareness would attest to having truly learned something. To be watchful and to be spirited calls to mind Gilson’s imagery of that moving memory of moments, converging the rays to understanding. By pursuing this direction, even as the voyage traverses points without return, there will continue to be images to exceed those which have been seen, retained, and finally released.

streams

2009-10-11T07:26:00.004-05:00

“...The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.”

~ Dylan Thomas, Poem in October

From above the trails, leaves sailed down from extended branches to rushing waters along my steps. I returned home on river-trimmed roads, down from inland elevations and up to the mist of the Maine coast. Navigating widening roads, noticing the changing waterways, my thoughts remained with the intimate trails I left in Vermont. Before leaving the region, I had to hike to one more waterfall. With light and weather changing, these moments are to be savored all the more. From still rock perches, I’d watch one leaf’s progress from aloft to waterborne. Some of them would find refuge on solid surfaces, others were carried by cold rapids. The woods, in combined intricacy and grandeur, are conducive to subverting thoughts of self.

The journey was an unburdening, as much as an addition of new experiences. What returned with me, as my wheels resumed the night-darkened, yet vividly familiar neighborhood streets? Alongside weathered boots and word-thickened notebooks, some helpings of peace, morsels of discipline and confidence, and many thought pictures. Colors, sounds, and temperatures. And a wavy yellow leaf that somehow found the inside of my typewriter case, wafted to my kitchen floor.

By its very nature, the motion of spiritual journey perseveres though imperfection and unknowing. Implicit is an aspiration toward the sacred, yet also the assurance of acceptance. As with those floating leaves, landing places cannot really be predicted. My preparedness for the future does not foretell what is ahead. Where do the streams we know join the changing rivers and vast oceans as yet unseen? It is as bolstering as it is disturbing. At times anxiety and excitement coexist. In silence and respite, with a change of scenery, I can draw from strengthening sources to be better able to navigate the unknowns. Not that the source of what lives is limited. Yet it seems I’ve just come from places which brought me to a much more direct experience of sources of creative life and trust. Subsumed in the return to work and multitasking is an abiding cord of gratitude. I’m slowly learning how to avoid burning out, while keeping alive the fire of the Spirit.

Reflecting back- even now- as with an ancient devotion, there are new and crisp images for the archives of the soul. When my front stoop and some of the nearby waters freeze to stillness, I’ll recall lush, singing, and aromatic forests. In a similar sense, while hiking I could imagine the Long Trail’s verdant density transformed and hidden under snow. The lasting effects of a sojourn are determined by time. It is fascinating to consider how minute and glancing details can become gems in our memories.

Now re-acclimating to the stream of routine, my thoughts turn to whether I have been changed by these two weeks. Transformation is always in progress; the specifics remain to surface for me to describe. Pilgrimage sojourns, being islands amidst the quotidian sea, tend to attest more pronouncedly to discovery. The Weston Priory itself has been a life’s landmark to me for 15 years; a beacon and consistent place of tranquil welcome. When I mentioned to the brothers how it had been 10 years ago that I lived the monastic experience with them for 6 weeks, we were all amazed at the passage of time. It is one of my life’s great and enduring inspirations. 1999 is as much a long time ago as it was just a bunch of fleeting seasons back.

Journeys of many shapes, distances, and purposes have brought me to cultivate better travel skills. And transition abilities. “Descending from the mountaintops” has rarely been easy. At times, it had been anguishing- especially when returning to sharply contrasting situations. The ability to straddle different spheres has grown with me since childhood. Rather than distinguishing mainstreams, wherever I am is a nowstream, gathering and blending otherwise scattered and arcane influences. But to maintain the heart’s treasures- to preserve and nurture what is holy and useful! Even the ancient desert wisdom in the Philokalia offers as much about cultivation as about watchfulness of the mind. The monk Nikiphorus called the latter discipline an art form to be refined with one’s life. He advocated training the intellect through patient discernment via the heart. With the mind rooted in the heart, extraneous factors are less likely to discourage and distract. A tiny rock from a mountain stream now sits on my desk. Indeed, the good reminders subvert the discouragements. Now at ocean’s edge, the rapids are as evident to me as the tides.

l'envoie

2009-10-04T13:17:00.003-05:00

“There’s a hidden life for everyone.
Sorrow remains though you can tell no-one.
The host on your tongue is a perfect moon;
It does shine inside you.
You shine into the room.

And I can only say
that I have hoped for you.
Safety from fears and darkness.
Are you feeling better
than before?”

~ The Innocence Mission, You Are the Light

“May your word, O God,
be rooted in us,
and may your Spirit
move us to forgiveness
and compassion.”

~ chant from the Monks of Weston Priory

rain round write

2009-10-02T09:22:00.003-05:00

written in the rain...

bienvenue

2009-09-30T08:54:00.005-05:00

“Vraiment, tout vouloir et
se contenter de très peu:
Voilà bien le secret
d’un emerveillement
qui ne soit ni naïf ni illusoire.”

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

A welcome from Brother Elias!

wonder

2009-09-28T09:09:00.009-05:00

"Oh my soul
Sometimes we don't know what to do
We work so hard
Being tough on our own
But now it's me and you
Let's give it up
Sad bones
'Cause we all fall on hard times
But you don't have to stand up all alone
Just put your hand in mine."

~ Shawn Colvin, Climb On a Back That's Strong

light traveller

2009-09-22T07:41:00.001-05:00

“Down by the riverside
I laid my burdens down,
Now I'm traveling light
My spirit lifted high
I found my freedom now
And I'm traveling light.”

~ Joel Hanson and Sara Groves, Traveling Light

blog award

2009-09-18T07:07:00.003-05:00

“Try to remember
that to some extent
you’re just the typist.
A good typist listens.”

~ Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

A surprising and splendid acknowledgment has come my way, and I am very grateful. For my part, blogging grew out of journaling, and for the past 3 years has paralleled my daily handwritten journals. For years, I’ve been maintaining a kind of tandem journal: fleeting thoughts jotted in pocketable notebooks in pencil, and larger tomes for developing thoughts as time permits in ink. Carnets and cahiers. The nickname for the little penciled jottings has been my “life in graphite,” La Vie Graphite. The words and themes- even the tools I am fortunate to use- are open-ended means. The real subject is this life’s voyage, the pilgrimage of trust.

The award requires that I post a presentation- and very happily involves a celebration of other writers whose work I respect. The presenter of my award is the esteemed Olivander, author of Collapsing World. And here is the Kreativ Bloggers award:

I am very pleased now to present this award to 7 creative bloggers.
First, here are the rules for the recipients:

1. Thank the person who nominated you for this award.
2. Copy the logo (above) and place it on your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you for this award.
4. List 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting. (see below)
5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers.
6. Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know they have been nominated.

And here are the winning blogs:

Lissa: Scenes From a Slow-Moving Life - http://www.justwritingwords.com/
For poetry and poetic fiction, with imagery, with consistency and tenacity.

maxxgrl: Ottavox - http://ottavox.blogspot.com/
Encouragement for a new blog of personal expression and exploration.

Sarah Rachel: Lie Down and Sleep- http://liedownandsleep.blogspot.com/
For eloquent and candid narratives of a woman’s spiritual journey.

Br. Richard: A Capuchin Journey- http://acapuchinjourney.blogspot.com/
For his down-to-earth observations, poignancy, and humor.

Chris Routledge: Chris Routledge blog- http://chrisroutledge.co.uk/
A many-faceted and very well-presented blog- from a fellow Olympia typist!

Donald: Writing Cabin- http://writingcabin.blogspot.com/
For thoughtfully and subtly writing his journeys.

James Watterson: OlympiaMan’s Typecast - http://olympiaman1010.blogspot.com/
James also wields a couple of typewriters, and enthusiastically writes his musings.

To all of you: Congratulations!
Bon Courage et Bonne Écriture!

Finally, 7 random things:

1. I commute to work with the bicycle I’ve had since I was 16.
2. My career in the visual arts began when as an 8 year old I saw the Chagall production of The Magic Flute at the Met.
3. I taught Benedictine monks to sing in Hebrew.
4. On formal occasions I wear real bow ties.
5. I have been published as a photographer, an illustrator, a historian, a book conservator, and a philosopher.
6. My first language is French.
7. My favorite food in the world is steamed and spiced kasha.

textures

2009-09-14T07:29:00.000-05:00

“Northern light
come softly down,
and touch the land I know.

Northern light
come softly down,
and touch the land below.

Northern light
is in my eyes
and in the places I knew
If a light can carry freedom,
let it shine on you.”

~ Frieda Morrison, Northern Light

As days are replete with images, words, and ideas, so are they textured. A recent journey to a nearby island brought to mind some of the dazzling textures in my midst. The view from the ocean presents a context of water, sky, and land in unity. Within these grand worlds are countless elements. Gazing from the boat, after having collected some thoughts about fragments and edges, textures began to surprise my attention. The ocean has constantly shifting characteristics. And these contours, these palpable experiences, like ideas and words, become reference points.

Tactile qualities are essences, and with this in mind it is easy to see the common root of the words texture and text. The Latin textus refers to cloth fabric- material comprising many intermingled threads into one gathering. In the textura of the broader journey are reminders and memories of essences. The sea air itself has a thick, salted, and chilled consistency; gusts of the airborne ocean. In turn, the rugged terrain encompasses numerous textured patterns. Observing sands and tides brings to mind the grander entirety within which I am a very small component. Considering the miraculously and mysteriously appointed order to the universe is a humbling assurance to me.

Being attuned to texture indicates awakened spirit. When I notice my appreciation of aspects often overlooked, there follows a welcome reminder to cultivate ways to perceive on many levels. Comprehending subtleties, essences, and beauty encourages by steps along this unpredictable voyage. Some shells and glass fragments, rounded my incessant tides, sit upon my desk as reminders of how the forces of creation can transform surface textures. It is the same Spirit that exalts valleys and makes rough places smooth.

Transitory chapters, liminal spaces along the way, cause the soul to be acutely aware of immediate textures. Whenever I have ventured out to the unknown, my senses have been noticeably attuned to surface and scent. The cool, ink black air of thick forests at night. The fearful, as well as the peaceful, has texture: it’s when we unavoidably sense our heartbeat. Freshened school buildings, with glossed floors and anesthetized halls that somehow enhanced our echoing steps and voices. My grandmother’s potato pancakes- coarse, then buttery, then spicy. A heartfelt Mass, after which I stepped from the cavernous cathedral, out through a frozen Montreal night, and down into the crowded subway filled with faces for whom I sensed a deep affinity. Standing in that crowded train became a prayer for all present, with the aftertaste of bread in my mouth.

Texture is woven into the pages of memory’s tomes. Just as there are immortal words meant specifically for an individual’s heart, there are indeed textures that we can each uniquely comprehend. Stored memories of essences remain with me as both reminders- and even as consolations. Curiously enough, in response to institutional eliminations of books, popular outcries cite the attributes of tangible volumes. We animate all that books comprise, with our imaginations and movements, and can hold them close to heart.

Compare fast food, and its consumption, with a savory meal- even a simple one- with aromas and strata of tastes. Memorable dining has always been an experience of ambience and spice; a totality of texture. My recollection of a deeply-appreciated dinner, after a hot day of wearily walking Burgundian roads, is ever colorful with the garnishes, sauces, porcelain plates, and paper lanterns of the outdoor tavern. I was on my dusty way to Taizé, and, knowing that, the waiter gave me an extra glass of wine. Within the textus of the moment there emerged the sounds of the environment beneath a night sky in eastern France.

Pilgrimages and daily routines alike provide chances to gather. And the collecting varies from artifacts and addresses, to words and experiences. The ancient emblem of pilgrimage is the scallop shell, and I never remove mine from my backpack. The shells reflect roads, skies, lightness, and friendship back to me. A few of the smaller shells were tied in place by children wishing me well on my way. Such treasured tastes abide, and descriptive words seem insufficient. Similarly, there are only so many expressions to attempt to give an accurate sense of the millions of steps in a life’s pilgrimage. Rather than to tire myself by trying to describe infinity, there are more intimate and intricate ingredients to meet my finite understanding. Beginning with shells- and the very lines I inscribe in my notebook situated on my oak table.

edges

2009-09-06T19:00:00.008-05:00

“Who would dare to go nameless
in so secure a universe?
Yet, to tell the truth,
only the nameless are at home in it.”

~ Thomas Merton, The Fall

Edges and ledges ceaselessly captivate. Writing these words, I am aperch near the ocean. To consider a vantage point as a perch bespeaks a fascination with precipices. Edges take many forms- and formless aspects, as well. Changes of surface and texture are seen, sensed- even tasted. And when a corner is turned, revealing a new landscape, from within come reminders in our own language of our transition. The soul’s geography surely has a gazetteer, with words either preceding, paralleling, or following human steps. An edge indicates where events connect, and how one person’s sphere must be overlapped by a much more universal fulness. Turning an edge, in itself, has an extraordinarily intrinsic energy; striking a match to light a candle brings this to mind. Edges can be sparks, instances, and even margins of space between symphonic movements that anticipate a change of timing. Drawing a line on a piece of paper, threading lines and letters, brings an idea across an edge. Observing a photographic image materializing in developer, even for the millionth time, never loses that mysterious amber-bathed sense of threshold.

An edge can be felt as well as seen, and aspects of place are both material and spiritual. Visiting a physical marker is as tangible as recollecting a thought. The moment of transporting insight is itself an edge. But these less-visible edges are for me to recognize, and although not easily delineated these are indeed indelibly felt. An interior edge can be recognized as surely as a road’s sharp turn. But there are many grades of hard and soft edges, often keeping it a mystery to know when one has actually embarked into the unknown. Thankfully so: I am grateful for the unobstructive unknowing.

Even the self has the aspect of edge. But rather than to venture out to the generic sense, I’ll speak for myself. There are perimeters of knowing still to be found. A lifetime of discovery won’t be enough. But it seems the profounder comprehension begins at the ends of self. The plural makes more sense to me, as I believe the self has many ends. These edges seem more to me as perforations, ready to be torn away. Ancient monastic thought pointed the aspiring individual to “lose themselves” in Christ, and to desire a kind of edgeless life of immersion. Thinking of this causes me to wonder where and if self-distinction can dissolve, in this culture of endurance and survival. What are the distinctions worth preserving? Thomas Merton’s many definitions of the “false self” revolved around the rejection of immersion into the divine. Moving beyond all-costs striving to self-immortalize, to traverse the ends of self-ness. It is reminiscent of the rabbinic sages’ image of diving into the “ocean of divinity,” and to cease focusing exclusively on oneself. Merton wrote of his struggles to get out of his own way, and that reminds me of releasing the results for which I irrationally hunger.

Last week, I brought a couple of close friends to the Weston Priory for their first visit. What a rare privilege, to guide loved ones through a place that means so much to me. And to listen to their first impressions. The monastery is a simple array of barns and wooden structures, blended into the mountain landscape of the monks’ environment in central Vermont. Simply arriving there is the beginning of an unburdening- and untethering from material anchors. Even after 15 years of sojourning there, it continues to impress me to realize how little is needed to live to the full.

With my friends exploring the pine-scented terrain, I found a perch of my own. The familiarly medicinal silence returned consolingly to me. As if I needed to ascend a mountain to find what should be with me in the city- and always. Then I began to notice edges: sloped meadows and untamed fields, the brothers’ plain structures angling into the trees, the rotation of silence and sound, the earth and sky. Even the latter presented a soft edge amidst thick mountain fog. Where one edge ends, another begins. I hadn’t been to the Priory since the winter, and wanted to visit Brother Philip’s grave. What I found was unexpected- considering how previously the community used individual grave markers. Upon the occasion of Brother Philip’s passing, the brothers created a group gravestone, with each of their names and respective dates of their monastic professions- all engraved next to their brother’s “completed” inscription. It was at first astonishing, then it seemed a bit morbid to me. But then I realized how very deeply affectionate this gesture is- not just for the brothers, but for anyone else reading the memorial. The community of brothers communally felt their own lives’ edges.

Part of the fascination with edges is to contemplate their very definitions. An inadvertent tendency of mine is to leave objects too close to edges of surfaces. Then when I knock them over, I berate my own clumsiness. When I’m a little more present to the moment, I notice myself pushing things like coffee cups and cameras closer to the centers of tables and shelves. Today, my thoughts turn to what lessons are in ledges. Looking toward the layers of crags and ocean waves causes me to wonder about what is forming, what is on the verge, and what might be burgeoning. Obviously, over the edge is some kind of risk. Beyond spiritual edges is the unexpected, and the invitation to confront what has intimidated me. The wish to see around corners is the desire for knowledge, the spirit of inquiry. Ends of terrain at my feet are meeting the enwrapping arms of the ocean. Horizons and margins only appear to me as edges, but these are simply directions. Even the sunlight lands at a changing edge. The season at this threshold is at once timeless and new.

different now

2009-08-26T17:04:00.003-05:00

“You say suddenly you
cannot see yourself out in the world.
With your school suitcase.
Tomorrow- well, you don’t know,
you don’t know.

We’re coming away,
Everything’s changed.
Everything’s different now.
Everything, even the sun.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Everything's Different Now

(some of my grandfather's tools of his trade)

sight and sound

2009-08-19T18:17:00.003-05:00

“Words that build or destroy
Dirt, dry bones, sand and stone.
Barbed wire fence cut me down
I’d like to be around
In a spiral staircase
To the higher ground.”

~ U2, Promenade

Moving through days and distances, the skies and air revealing changes, the increments themselves are what fascinate. In a split-second’s snapshot there is a complete scene before me: of trees, terrace, and a chair to be inhabited. In a fleeting tilt of a silent gesture is the kindness of a stranger. Comprehensible small steps. When the view forward appears pervasively unsure, and institutions uncertain and tenuous, it becomes necessary to take stock of interior treasures reminding me of my own foundation. The exterior gems become easier to find, albeit in a current of overlapping multi-tasks, one interrupting the other. Frequently, work and words are so consistently cut into that it’s hard to tell if something’s ended or if it’s just been broken up again to make way for yet something else. It becomes a challenge of coexistence- and one more balance to master. Average days are replete with fractured efforts and transitions; streams of consciousness diverted into stray rivulets. Of course I want to be able to unify all spheres of my continuum, and see far ahead as vividly as the table upon which I presently write. But long-distance views are often elusive. Simply looking to the present uncovers humble incremental steps. Perhaps the fragments are as much as can be managed.

fragments

Now I am pressed to consider if there is any voyage, of any extent, that is not pursued in paces. Like the correspondence between subject and photographer, that which attracts our gazes and draws our attention is composed of fragments. Perhaps rather than being thwarted by a life of puzzle pieces, steps, days- even words- may be constructively perceived as structural modules. Walking across town today, a steep street brought me to notice my steps, cobblestones, and clouds. Simply being in view, these fragments are brought together. Even the spaces between and around components are, as I once learned in typography classes, counterforms. Contours and contiguous spaces define one another. Definitions of objects and spaces can even effect a dynamism. Consider shadows cast by backlit subjects and how light shines through trees.

words

As with structural elements, accumulating into paths and solid forms, words have momentous potential. These are modules which can build or destroy. We assign by way of our appellations. Further, when communications and rapports must be truncated, the few emerging words become critical pivots. Verbal “sound bites” can wield even more influence than their intentions. Ironically, a culture that shuns silence with space-filling media cannot countenance completeness. I try to prevent myself from following this trend.

Our words are finely-faceted mirrors and windows, reflecting and revealing. From antiquity, we have Saint James’ timeless discourse about how expressions of faith are tarnished by careless talk. He didn’t really focus on words, but instead referred to how we address one another and how we speak to our own conditions. James compared an unbridled tongue to a ship’s flawed rudder. He challenged his readers to match their verbiage and lives consistently. Not knowing what our words can potentially do to others is akin to not knowing one’s own lethal strength. In a conscientiousness of language and movement, we are brought back over and again to the source of life-giving words. In our transformation we may find a new vocabulary building within us- and even new tones. The simplest articulated reference can cause changes of perspective.

I believe we all have our own “root words.” For me the word trust has been a poetic gift from the monks of the Taizé monastery. They use it parallel to the French word confiance, to describe faith, a life of confiding in God, and confident forward movement. This sense is prominently in my lexicon of pilgrimage. It causes me to think of ways to encourage sincere trust wherever I go. When I started journaling, about 15 years ago, it was my antidote to workplace unrest which demanded enormous patience. One of my colleagues saw me writing in my notebook during an outdoor break. Between drags on his cigarette, he commented “it’s good you write; it concretizes your thoughts.” Too good to forget. Words and thoughts, alike, have textures. And the sounds of the pronounced letters cause the mind to visualize.

time

Yet another fascinating module is the measurement of chronology. Apart from calendars and clocks, we interiorly mark our passages of time. Parallel to fixed frameworks, we have our own timepieces and milestones known better by ourselves than anyone else. Our own relationships with time. The long shadows cast by my academic sundial extended from my school years, to teaching years, through post-grad, and then on to years of working in schools. I still buy calendars in August and divide the year into “fall” and “spring” seasons. The late-summer light and air transitions return vivid recollections of returning to school. And there are “eras,” characterized by personal watershed events, as well as small moments counted as tastes of life. The aroma of pine and sweetgrass. The heightened expectation of travel. Invoking a loved one’s name. An ancient Jewish custom assures the ceremonial remembrance of the departed on the anniversary of their passing: yohrtzeit, which means time-of-year. This is a special memorial, among the numerous, more informal ways souls are remembered.

impressions

Then there is the currency of time. If we choose to cultivate a skill, or to simply appreciate a silence, it will demand of our schedules (even as we’ve been conditioned to believe time is money). That means there is an expense involved. But perhaps we may measure time (and its worth) a bit differently than others. I know that I do- considering that I chose to write at this moment, above other leisure activities or any other amusement (wait, this is an amusement!). Time may move in a universally measurable progression, but it can be for me to set the increments, even if not the sizes of the notches. Perhaps that’s it. We each have our historic landmarks and festive days (as well as our days of mourning), but we can determine our own quantities- if not the units of measure. I wonder if impressions may also be fragments. Indeed they are ingredients portioned in each soul. That which we have seen, and heard, and held; these are as tangible to us as they are indelible to our memories and hopes. Imagery has an iconic staying power, and it has always drawn me to seek meanings beyond surfaces. It is a wonder to me, how I can remember moments- tiny snippets and fragments of the distant past- above and beyond other things. But just as the senses can surprise me with reminders, I cannot predict which present ingredients will endure into the future. Today is amidst notions and encounters that will be fixed in time as remembrances.

la via rhodia

2009-08-12T17:10:00.006-05:00

"I do not write it to survive
My mortal self, but being alive
And full of curious thoughts today,
It pleases me somehow to say,
'This book when I am dead will be
A little faint perfume of me.'"

~ (Maine author)- Edna St. Vincent Millay, Journal

The pilgrim journey of jots and jumps makes an ephemeral diversion, with a welcome to my dear home, Portland, Maine. The small city cradled upon the Atlantic waves of Casco Bay was ever beloved by native Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (whose home is pictured above).
This small coastal state, at the northeasternmost corner of the U.S., has been home to numerous writers and artists. This visit, however, has a scribbler's twist: we begin by crossing the street from Longfellow's house...

Endeared to artists, writers, and list-makers are the French-made, famously orange Rhodia pads. This one (above) is at the Art Mart (pronounced Aht Maht). These writing pads are all over Portland.

At left in the above photo is our 202 year old signal tower, which is on Congress Street. Below (as well as the lead photo at the top of this entry, with the "Rhodia roof") is an example of West End architecture.

...of his home town, Longfellow wrote:

"Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and downThe pleasant streets of that dear old town,And my youth comes back to me."

The folks at Artist & Craftsman Supply kindly encouraged my photographing for this essay. The store, located near the University of Southern Maine, is a cavernous emporium of calligraphic treats, among other wares for creative pursuits.

Amidst aisles of paints, canvas, clay, and captivating novelties, are all things graphite, ink, and paper.

Beside the Revere Street counter, a second Rhodia display- conveniently near the supply of journals and yet more arrays of pens. Now to the East End of town.

Visitors to Portland may take note of our orange and black taxicabs.

A Portland tourist information guide makes helpful notes.To landmarks and lobster dinners the purveyed perforated pages prompt !

Pencil only, in the famous Portland Room, at the Portland Public Library.

Maine's official beverage is Moxie, invented here in 1884. I describe this as "root beer with viscosity," and Rhodia's colors are complementary to the imbibement of Moxie.

The Portland Museum of Art is a cleverly successful I.M. Pei design, in plenty of Maine granite and brick. Locals such as the Wyeths, Edward Hopper, and Winslow Homer are among the artists represented here, along with an eclectic spectrum of works of art.

... and finally to misty Portland Head, note-inspiring to legions of thinkers and artists.

On a stroll here, Longfellow reflected:

"The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,And on its outer point, some miles away,The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day."

~

with special thanks:
ABC Taxi Company, Art Mart, Artist & Craftsman Supply, Greater Portland Landmarks,
Maine Historical Society, Le Papier Gourmet, Paper Patch, Portland Public Library,

and

scrivening allies across the country at Rhodia Drive.

close kept

2009-08-02T19:43:00.007-05:00

“the word is very near you;
it is in your mouth and on your heart
so you may apply it.”

~ Deuteronomy 30:14

A significant part of my work involves what the archival profession calls description. It would not suffice to simply transcribe the obvious contents of documents. The work of analytical interpretation implies connecting the materials to their respective contexts. Rather than to settle for the discreet artifact, vital points of reference are to be found amidst the palpable yet invisible space around the artifact. In doing this, even for some of the driest of records, I do note my gratitude for the prominence of words themselves in my days. Pleasurable as it is, the work is intense, and is enmeshed among scattered duties, deadlines, and a busier bigger picture. Having negotiated a rare day off, there are now enough moments to string together here at the Boston Athenaeum library. Paradoxically, overwork simultaneously generates both fatigue and wakefulness. And it is the restlessness that reminds me of the cravings of the spirit.

During a particularly sleepless night this week, it became very difficult to settle all the racing thoughts. Even my prayers wound up into circles. Then, unexpectedly, I noticed my repose as two simple and soothing words smoothly wove through the discarded clamor:
So Near.
With a life of producing and consuming words and images, thoughts often take shape in typographic forms. It was as though I entered into the already existent words, upon their recognition, and so near became a prayer for consolation and of gratitude. The restlessness calmed, the assurance of a safe harbor, and the reminder of a future. An unusual, yet perfect lullaby.

The next day, thinking about this brought to mind the anonymously authored Cloud of Unknowing. The writer’s own prayers were often nearly wordless, or as the 14th century text translates, “the fewer words the better.” Further, still, “the efficacy of one little word surging up from the depths of one’s spirit, is the expression of one’s entire being.” With very little, perception becomes easier. The so near puts all else that distracts quite far away.

But these are more than mere words. Though indeed, to write of the inner life does mean ascribing limited, finitely-articulated thoughts to the scarcely describable. Yet I do so, and am gladly undaunted. The so near that dispelled my troubled thoughts, the Holy Spirit, was called paraclete by the ancients. Translated, this refers to “the advocate that stands at one’s side.” When the noisome clutter clears away, the Divine spirit is noticeable as the soul of my own heart. As near as the words I am barely thinking of praying. As my thoughts gather into the So Near, the consolation exceeds years of pains of rejection- and even the struggles of career striving.

I’d imagine this knowledge to be enough, with plenty of assuring reserves. Yes and no. Another paradox. (Only references to manna are archival, not the manna itself.) Perhaps it’s more like an increasingly effortless vigilance. Sure, there will be more restlessness, but that attests to a form of thirst which draws me to reach forward. And answers arrive.

The beginnings of a soul’s spiritual thirst involve pondering a mystery without beginnings. It is amazing to imagine an innate yearning for the sources of trust. The invitation is not initiated by me, rather my thirst is to respond. At times, the response seems involuntary. Directing away from anxiousness, uncertainties, and recollections of losses, is a motion in favor of strength. The drive is for enough cultivation of the spirit to continue on constructive paths, through both present and future days.

In my continuing experience, I find the essence of the Spirit is in its very pull. This draw toward the source of life occurs quite spontaneously. Especially in silence. It is for me to simply reach back. This mysterious pull reminds, signals, and calls forth, causing me to give thanks for the rootedness that is somehow already within. In recollection, I imagine how my steps have been punctuated with experiences of holiness. Whether great or small, all significant. What comes to mind are the superimposed impressions of grace upon my trails. As with photographic imagery, corresponding imprints are made as light compensates for darkness. The greatest amounts of silver are collected where the contacted negative has been the most transparent.

This week, the unexpected gift came in the form of reminders of the so near; as I described to a friend, le tout-proche. And to meditate upon the meanings of these words, in this context, is consoling through the day. Comfort in the thought of having always had a witness to my being- even in its most perceived ignominy. Amidst my unknowing, the knowing consoler emerges with nuanced and glimmering remembrances of my very origins. Something I do know is to ever turn toward the source, confiding and trusting- without which the incompleteness would be unbearable. Yes, as much in the silence as upon my ocean ledges at home, or this morning’s rapid swarm of Boston traffic during which I heard myself add my own litany of so near to the morning’s psalmody.

tout comme avant

2009-07-25T14:31:00.005-05:00

Mais l'habitant en rigolant
S'enfuit en courant dans son champ
Pendant qu'à bicyclette Ti-Jean
Reprit sa route en chantonnant tout comme avant...

~ Félix Leclerc, Contumace

in English

going and waiting

2009-07-14T20:47:00.002-05:00

"But if we hope
for what we do not see,
we eagerly wait for it
with perseverance."

~ St. Paul, Romans 8:25