to the quiet

“O holy solitude, happy beyond measure,
who may tell your praises!
O life, sweetness, rest, shelter,
path of retreat.”

~ Paul Giustiniani, monk of Monte Carona.


Penobscot Bay, Maine, has long had a personal connotation as a place of solace and wonder. An opportunity to reside astride these shores presented itself, and I am gratefully here. In this part of the state, I am somewhat north of spring’s progress. The only green trees are the pines, and the tourists are yet to arrive. It is quiet throughout, and the aromatic woods and vast waters are beautifully lonely. Knowing how vital the solitary silence would be, ironically I cashed in my earned sick time at work. I am here to be consoled and strengthened, and it seems to be happening in that order. During hard winter months of multitasking, I thought of Penobscot Bay’s expanse.

With the small cabin along the sands, the Atlantic is ever before me. This panorama is such that I am often distracted from my writing. Even better than that, distracted from my self. The cabin thankfully has a canopied porch, allowing me to write and read through all sorts of weather. Rain ticks on the covering. Wind-blown waves embrace the land, and buoys chime the elements’ changes.

There is a strong sense of being away, yet also very much at home. Portland and Casco Bay are only a few hours’ drive south of here, and the scenery is but a wilder, vaster, much less built-up rendition of my usual environment. Even the city of Belfast, always my favorite Maine town after Portland, is very familiar- yet distinctly different from my workaday. Belfast, like Portland, is a working seaport of tiered brick buildings and streets of Victorian houses. But unlike Portland, it is still quieter and more intimate. An old hospitable perch; I had stopped in Belfast for a day, shortly after September 11, 2001, to collect my thoughts along the waterfront.

This entire stretch of coastline has long illustrated a continuing history of Divine consolation for me. This is the region between Rockland and Mount Desert Island. Belfast compacts small city streets with a wide-open waterfront. Even Main Street’s incline tilts into the municipal boat landing.

As with all such sojourns, I hope to bring the peace of this travel back with me to the world of fulltime work so boldly interrupted. Practicing a balance between intensities required to meet work demands and calmness derived from retreats amounts to an exercise of conscience. Remembrance occupies many manifestations in life. Of course I want to bring this week back with me to inspire the future- both the rainsoaked and sundrenched alike. And of course all that awaits me will threaten to drown this out, if time itself doesn’t. Yet I have the written and photographic record to remind and to build upon. I am as grateful for the moment’s preservation as I am for the present itself. At the ocean’s edge, all is near.

clear joy near

“Some clear joy is coming
on some slowest trains.
Do you hear
that it’s coming again.”

~ The Innocence Mission, Some Clear Joy is Coming


With the beginnings of lengthened stretches of daylight, dovetailing winter’s last breaths, scenery changes again. Circumstances remain as they’ve been, but ways in which they are perceived may represent the difference. A season’s transition directly affects sightlines, as it does the landscape itself. Early spring reminds me of how much less needs to be expended in order to be mobile. No windshield-scraping, or path-shoveling, or garment-layering required. Bold heel-landing strides supercede iceshuffling babysteps. And to go with that, roads and trails become more inviting. These familiar conduits are the same as before, yet now more passable, more seasoned by another round of elements.

The view is a peculiar one of hopeful prospects in a sea dotted with barriers. Trying to perceive beyond passthroughs and valleys, an incalculable gulf between now and the way-yonder lies before my steps. Where the present is immediately going remains as uncertain as before, yet it seems not to matter so much today. Following an uninterrupted six-month span of continuous work, a few days of rest are upcoming.

An instinct that visualizes open-ends must often do battle with the immediately tangible. Naturally, I want to know what to expect and how to be prepared. Between fulfilling quotidian obligations and connecting all the points, I try to get outside to simply notice the change of air. Through the old samenesses, wider and brighter skies draw burdens upward. As much as intuition informs, sense without consciousness mystifies. Some days, grace seems out of reach; on other days, goodness is innately imminent. Which is the mirage? Looking forward without straining ahead, perhaps the clear joy is seen without staring.

Some respite time is near. Admittedly, it’s good for morale to run the daily gauntlet with a vision of relief within reach. Now as each day arrives, thoughts of the woods, ocean, and winding roads increase in their prominence. Traffic intersections and hallways are already resembling trees and trails. To simply reach ahead is sufficient, and that is clearly felt- in the short run. In doing so, I continue writing as though my handwritten lines and rollered typing paper pave toward the future. Preferring the promising over the prohibitive, forward-looking is an impatient pursuit. But that’s no reason to wish away time. Now to muse the maps and gather provisions for a retreat.

mt. olympiette

“une île, une ville, un mont royal
le p'tit air crasse de Montréal
un peu Brooklyn, un peu Pigalle
même quand ça va mal j'aime Montréal.”

~ Robert Charlebois, Ville Marie




















(below: a vertical panorama I made with a 28mm lens, from downtown
(Mt. Royal in the background) to the "city underground," connecting
subways, office building concourses, and malls.)

passing through

“when the water's too high
when the water's too high
I will carry you
I will carry you.

when the night is too black
when the night is too black
I will carry you
I will carry you"

~ Sixpence None the Richer, Carry You

Above: passthrough boxes for photographic film. Note the box at the upper left; our mutually- understood code was to leave 2 lids showing, to indicate there were no "live" contents to potentially expose to light.

awaiting, part 3 : looking on

“Guide me, O thou great Redeemer,
Pilgrim through this barren land;
I am weak, but thou art mighty;
Hold me with thy powerful hand:
Bread of heaven, bread of heaven
Feed me now and evermore...

Pan yn troedio glan Iorddonen,
Par i'm hofnau suddo i gyd;
Dwg fi drwy y tonnau geirwon
Draw i Ganaan -- gartref clyd:
Mawl diderfyn. Mawl diderfyn
Fydd i'th enw byth am hyn."

~ William Williams, Cwm Rhondda.

Through recent weeks, I’ve made many notes on the topic of looking forward. While negotiating dark valleys and clambering the barricaded roads of this season, it’s been a transformative experience. But it is a season of undetermined duration. Consistent with this aspect, there are no tidy and packaged conclusions. The whole of life as pilgrimage voyage, composed of travels and experiences, presents innumerable unknowns. All the more reason to be conscientiously grounded and sure-footed. Still, despite persistent adversities, hope must persevere. Looking ahead and motioning forward become all the more essential. Reaching forth demonstrates an outworking of hopefulness; it is the manifestation of trust. A writing exercise about the theme of awaiting has paralleled a portion of trying times. As always, the worthiness of articulating of thoughts matches that of the act of trust itself. Journeying without journaling is unimaginable.

Amidst grim landscape, hopelessness and pessimism must be uprooted; these objectives cannot take up space with essential personal effects. Experienced hikers and long-haul travellers can attest to the critical factors of bulk and capacity. Pilgrims (and vacationers alike) share the motivation of their circumstances in common. For me, to look ahead and to hope for better are longings fueled by past and present. While writing journal entries, I thought of many good people teaching me many good things through the years. As well and as it happens, the journal turned into a journalistic tool, and I asked friends about the value of looking forward. One said, “you have to. That’s what hope is.” Then my thoughts returned to awaiting, and whether it is healthful to live in a state of anticipation. I’ve met many whose faiths are fixated on an awaiting. Missing the present, it’s something of an “over yonder” brand of anticipation. By contrast, there is the sort of awaiting that impatiently looks at timepieces. What do you await? Trying at answering this myself began with hopes for blessings Divine and human. How about a goal, an object, for one’s hopes? Reaching forward through a murky immediate future, ends and means are as difficult to see as reasons for doing so. But the desire to look forward and proceed with one’s whole self is surely necessary; maybe even more so than to have a carrot at the end of a proverbial stick. Indeed, we are naturally oriented toward moving ahead. Consider how we are formed, facing forward. We are built to stride in a straight-ahead direction. (One person told me that turning around and going backward is too much work!) Consider how motion is tied to continuity and advancement.

Stilling my thoughts between tasks and blocks of time at work, I continued chipping away at answering the question about looking forward. At times, I chided myself for being so self-conscious, and at other times I wondered why I could not specify more than temporal task lists. Essentially, with an instinctive general wish for improvement all around, I’m drawn forward. Should forward movement always have specifics spelled out? There are more attainable objectives we tend to eagerly await, such as weekends, a special meal, visits, or making an acquisition. But do we anticipate continuity? Maybe so; it’s good to look forward to more journeys- even in these times. Even at such morning crossroads that cause one to ask whether the new day is another loss to futility, or is it a gainful opening for potentiality. Perhaps the plain, bare desire to look forward is sufficient. Daily in my prayers are the many imperiled people of Japan, who will be rebuilding portions of their country for a very long time. But they do so because they look forward, and they will continue to invest their energies into their lives and hopes. A great testament about looking ahead.

Determined that looking ahead is both worthwhile and clearly preferable, I’ll conclude these notes with a few thoughts. Journal pages, meant to be refuge from wearisome fragmentation, became laden themselves repeating themes. The best momentary thing to do was to write in a colorful venue, different enough to affect perspective. Unable to be exact, the deadlock seemed to be around specifically what to look forward to, not really why- or why it’s necessary. Often, my little stray notes would begin with: “what do you look forward to?” From there, I started to reason that I needn’t name an exact thing, but it was enough to eagerly look ahead to being, recognizing the corresponding motion as transcendent of circumstance, material, and frustration. Looking ahead, itself an action responding to grace, inclines the soul to embrace Divine providence. Words and concepts out of my grasp indicate hopes that- as yet- elude specificity. With the ancient Apostle Paul, who knew only to reach forward, we can reflect the vitality of prayer- even without detailed specifics. Perseverance aches for meaning, for communion, for an advent.

Very simply, I look forward to more learning and meaningfully-lived days. I’ll have to do more than persevere. It will take an indefatigable spirit of trust that can see above the appearances of circumstances and situations. It would all be feeble theory and idle talk, without practice and active application. To begin by looking ahead to increased grace launches from one consolation to another. Immediate and before me are proving-grounds for uncertainty to find the wellspring of certitude. A simple, open, and earnest willingness to living prayer is significant enough to be useful in the cause of bringing goodness to pass. Indeed, there is reassurance in the reminder that grace does not emanate from me, but is purposed to work through me as light through glass prisms.

So, once more, before I call it a night: What do I look forward to?
I look forward to better things, still, to more purpose to my steps and my days.
I look forward, because I am not compelled either to consider what I see now to be all there will ever be, and surely don’t think what is past is all that will ever be worthwhile.
I await and reach forward to better days.
I await and reach forward to better.
I await and reach forward.
I await and reach.
I await.