Conversations

I've heard it said that great conversation is an art form; much more than mere language, it encompasses articulate expression, careful listening, keen attention, and a sharp self-awareness paired with other-centered perception. That's perhaps an elaborate introduction to my meditations upon a weekend filled with a thrilling variety of conversations that renewed my wonder at the staggering breadth of human experience, and the blessing of getting a sense of someone else's life by listening to his or her stories.

On Saturday morning I interviewed a number of local high school seniors who have applied to Dartmouth College; it's my fifth consecutive year helping my local alumni chapter's efforts to offer interviews to applicants. In the course of four conversations lasting roughly 30 minutes each, I was intrigued by each student's accounts of his or her academic accomplishments, extracurricular pursuits, and other distinguishing attributes. Even more, though, I was struck by how, at some point in the conversation, each student made the transition from speaking about himself or herself to speaking as himself or herself. To experience a deeper revelation of someone's character, whether in an account about immersion in another culture, a broken family reuniting around the death of a loved one, or a personal transformation from shyness to self-confidence, filled me with wonder at the richness of each young man or woman with whom I had the pleasure of speaking. In subsequently writing my reports for the admissions department, I naturally made reference to some of the specifics of our conversations, but also strove to express the depth of character that I encountered in each applicant.

That same evening, I traveled to Providence to visit a Dartmouth classmate with whom I had recently reestablished contact. Having had little communication since commencement six and a half years ago, we had much to discuss as we exchanged stories of travels, adventures, career decisions, and news of mutual friends and acquaintances. There was rarely a silent moment in the hours we spent at a Thai restaurant, a local pub, a quaint apartment, and strolling the snowbound streets of the fair capital of Rhode Island. During my drive home at the end of the night, my reflections and memories echoed with the blessing of a rich encounter, an ability to hear and be heard as I am, and to celebrate the beginning of a new chapter of a friendship, one of many sprung from the shared experience of spending four years at one of the finest colleges in New England.

It's time for me to join another regular round of conversation, the social in which Jesuit communities engage before the evening meal. It's an opportunity to step back from our busy lives of apostolic service and personal prayer to celebrate and enrich the bonds of fraternal friendship that warm our homes and extend beyond our walls. As a weekend draws to a close and a new week begins, I pray that we may all have the grace of rich, fulfilling conversations that allow us to not only encounter the brilliance of others, but better appreciate the treasure of our own selves.

Loose Footing

"If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. And if a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand." –Mark 3:24-25

These lines from today's Gospel caught my attention as suddenly as a chilly blast of wind jolts me out of thoughtful reverie during a winter stroll. I've been rather preoccupied lately with conflicting thoughts about my performance as a teacher, and internal concerns about my tenuous hold on confidence amid the daily struggles I experience in the classroom. On the one hand, I feel a great devotion and concern for these students and their well-being; on the other hand, I am not always convinced that I am the best teacher for them. I can recognize potential avenues for improving my integration in the school community, moderating my tendency to serious self-criticism, and making an effort to collaborate more genuinely with my colleagues. Yet I also yield to the comfort of persevering in a pattern of productive yet cold efficiency when it comes to planning lessons, teaching my classes, grading student work, and accomplishing the tasks that are readily identifiable aspects of my position as a teacher. Just as each new winter storm packs another layer upon growing snowbanks around Worcester, each passing day presses me deeper into a rhythm that, for all its familiarity and fruitfulness, is also characterized by a lack of fulfillment that increasingly troubles me. Praying about this matter deeply is difficult, and reveals the precise internal divisions that Jesus describes in today's parable, divisions which can weaken an evidently strong structure, leading to utter collapse.

On Saturday, I ran for 16 miles around the frozen, snowbound Charles River in Boston. The running paths had been somewhat cleared, but layers of snow ground down by many footprints remained slushy and somewhat slippery. Thankfully, I never lost my balance, but I was aware of how much harder I had to work amid the loose footing. Some of my effort was lost, spent in slipping and sliding, much like the loss of energy and focus I discern as I struggle with the divisions mentioned above. And yet, for 16 miles, the inertia of my effort helped to carry me forward, my center of gravity moving steadily towards my goal despite the many wintry obstacles I encountered. It is my hope that a similar grace may continue to operate in the difficult stretches of my spiritual and formational training, particularly in this present interval of regency. For although I am blessed with reasonably good balance, whether in running or in life, I would much rather stand confidently upon the work and grace of achieving integration, than fall into ruin, divided by unreconciled worries and hidden doubts.

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Ice fishing on the moat

Ice on the field house, College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Some of the more imaginative 5th graders at school think that I live in a castle. So while I was out running this morning at 5am, enjoying some beautifully delicate snowfall, listening with wonder to the fire-like crackling of damp flakes fluttering into the few crinkled leaves clinging to dormant trees, and planning how to spend my third snow day since January 12, I wondered how I might spend it if I lived in a castle. Apart from using my laptop to post this entry, write report card comments, and listen to music (Bach's cello concertos this time around), most of my activities thus far today could indeed have been approximated within the confines of a snowbound fortress centuries ago. Reading a book and writing some letters. Enjoying soup at lunch. Knitting. Even the music would have been possible, thanks to a marooned troop of wandering minstrels, although Bach would be a bit anachronistic. And what good is a moat if it's frozen? Might as well poke some holes in it and go fishing... and then let any marauders fall through said holes if they're silly enough to mount a winter campaign!

So as winter continues to assail central New England (a very appropriate state of affairs in my humble estimation), and people continue to cope with the weather and its disruptive effects as best they can, I again wonder: what lessons are there in yet another snowstorm? What inklings and notions get plowed aside for the sake of routines and responsibilities, however noble they may be? Are we now perhaps afflicted by the flurry of activity with which our ancestors sought to cure isolation-induced cabin fever, and occasionally in need of a storm-induced hiatus to bring greater peace and life to our souls?

I, for one, am glad to have this day off, and to catch up on pleasures that I'm often led to neglect by the busy pace of my work as a teacher. Lingering at table to enjoy conversation long after the meal is done. Knitting something both practical and piquant. Using an artificial lens in attempts to capture and share some of the imagery that catches my eye. And of course, venturing outside amid the frost and chill of a New England winter, ice fishing on the moat.

A ghost at the door (see, my castle is haunted!)

Brrrrrr!!

I'm currently training for the Boston Marathon, which means that I'll be spending lots of time deepening my friendship with the New England winter over the next few months. In my many years of running, I've become especially fond of Saturday mornings, the sacred time I set aside for my weekly long run. Whether I'm out for just over an hour, or nearly three, whether in the height of summer or the depth of winter, I always feel blessed to have the roads, the scenic countryside, and the newness of a day mostly to myself. Today I outran the temperature... which says more about how cold it was (8 degrees) than how far I ran (14 miles). Adjusting to the thin, frigid air took a few miles, but brought the reward of the beauty of a sunrise blending hues of salmon and ruby, the faint cheeping of winter birds foraging in snow-draped woods, and having a jacket-clad Clydesdale trot alongside me, the two of us tracing the half-sunken trajectory of a quintessential New England stone wall. Furthermore, the beard that I've been cultivating since November performed brilliantly, keeping my face warm, though attracting some puzzled looks from the few motorists, peering through their own frosty windshields, who passed me on the otherwise tranquil country roads.

Now for another enjoyable part of my winter Saturday mornings... curling up in the sunshine that illumines my reading nook all morning, and making my way through more of the medieval Norwegian epic I'm reading. Enjoy your weekend!

The Blizzard

After two consecutive snow days, I'll be returning to school tomorrow.

I've always enjoyed winter... the sharpness of the bitterly cold air paired with the equally piercing brightness of sunlight reflecting off snow, the long nights whose shadows seem to amplify the rustlings of wind and scents of woodsmoke that waft like spirits through the darkness. In recent years, I've become fond of venturing out to stroll amidst the elemental fury of a blizzard, bundling up to experience firsthand the swirling snow, the wind, the birds that seem to be having a bit of a joyride while we more advanced humans ground our airplanes and abandon our cars. Yesterday was no exception... after several hours inside, I was compelled to venture out into the empty campus to stroll, to pray, to take pictures, and to be humbled by winter. I don't always know why I go, and don't always experience anything noticeably profound, but I never regret such meanderings. Another poem by Mary Oliver, which I first read in Portland, Maine, while sitting on a bench late at night after a snowstorm, overlooking the Back Cove, nicely expresses the appeal of winter, whether tranquil or stormy, to my soul. Those words, along with the memories tied to the images below, are the beginnings of answers that will continue to develop as I return, along with the rest of central New England, to the routines disrupted by the latest manifestation of nature's powerful beauty.

"First Snow"

The snow

began here

this morning and all day

continued, its white

rhetoric everywhere

calling us back to why, how,

whence such beauty and what

the meaning; such

an oracular fever! flowing

past windows, an energy it seemed

would never ebb, never settle

less than lovely! and only now,

deep into night,

it has finally ended.

The silence

is immense,

and the heavens still hold

a million candles; nowhere

the familiar things:

stars, the moon,

the darkness we expect

and nightly turn from. Trees

glitter like castles

of ribbons, the broad fields

smolder with light, a passing

creekbed lies

heaped with shining hills;

and though the questions

that have assailed us all day

remain– not a single

answer has been found–

walking out now

into the silence and the light

under the trees,

and through the fields,

feels like one.

–From "New and Selected Poems, Volume One" by Mary Oliver

Statue of Therese of Lisieux, College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Fenwick Hall, College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Statue of Christ the King, College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Jesuit Cemetery, College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Welcome... and an explanation

Dear friends,

I've long mulled the idea of starting a blog, and inspired by the blogs of friends (many among my readership), I've finally gotten all my ducks in a row, and mustered up the courage and material with which to begin. I'm interested by the possibilities for dialogue and sharing that a blog offers, but also strongly committed to the preservation and power of "old-fashioned" journaling by hand, and exchanging written correspondence across distances great and small. I'm also using it as a platform to explore and develop my own amateur talents in short, reflective writing, as well as in photography. Please do feel free to comment on any of the content you'll find here, and if you have non-electronic means of corresponding with me, I'd welcome dialogue and feedback through those channels as well!

As for the title, it's taken from the final line of a poem by Mary Oliver that I've returned to often for inspiration and motivation amid the vicissitudes of life. I've copied it in its entirety below. Happy reading and musing!

"A Dream of Trees"

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,

A quiet house, some green and modest acres

A little way from every troubling town,

A little way from factories, schools, laments.

I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,

With only streams and birds for company,

To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.

And then it came to me, that so was death,

A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.

But let it go. Homesick for moderation,

Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.

If any find solution, let him tell it.

Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation

Where, as the times implore our true involvement,

The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.

Who ever made music of a mild day?

–From "New and Selected Poems, Volume One" by Mary Oliver

Tower Grove Park, St. Louis MO