A Year of Gifts

"The artist appeals to that part of our being...

which is a gift and not an acquisition–

and, therefore, more permanently enduring."

–Joseph Conrad

Beach sandscape, Cape May NJ

So begins the introduction to Lewis Hyde's The Gift, a book that I'll be reading and discussing with roughly a dozen Holy Cross faculty over the course of the coming semester. Hyde devotes the opening pages of this work to presenting the broad themes of art, creativity, gift, commodification, and economy that he'll take ip in subsequent chapters. Without quoting him at length, I'll say that his notion of the artist's craft as a gift in its own expression, as well as in whatever works may be created and bestowed upon someone, has already intrigued me. For one thing, I've been given a renewed perspective that sees the events, experiences, and insights of 2012 for what they are– gifts that I've been fortunate enough to receive and humble enough to accept, rather than a list of accomplishments made and items (material or immaterial) acquired.

Pittsburgh PA
December 2012

And so, here's a sampling of the gifts of 2012:

• Travel: Between work and pleasure, I visited Washington DC, New York City, northwestern Vermont, New Orleans, Pittsburgh, and South Jersey, among other places. While I sometimes traveled alone, none of these trips were solely for myself... rather, they brought me into delightful contact with family, fellow Jesuits, friends, and colleagues. Some trips, or detours along the way from Point A to Point B, were specifically undertaken with someone special in mind.
• Visits: From elderly Jesuits to youthful friends, from times of sadness to occasions of joy, the people whom I journeyed to see, and the circumstances in which we met and shared time, gently deepened my gratitude for the virtue of hospitality. The countless visits that I made– or welcomed– throughout the course of 2012 gradually invited me more deeply into the graced mystery of human relationships. Often through the apparent simplicity of sharing food, drink, and conversation, I was blessed to be caught up in the complexity and humble trust of being invited (and, eventually, inviting others) into opportunities to contribute powerfully to one another's journeys through life.
• Work: I'll confess that I once gave the word "networking" a vaguely sleazy connotation in my youthful and naïve mind... it was something that I believed rich and accomplished people did to concretize and entrench their privilege. And I never thought that an office job would be a good fit for me. Yet after this year's variety of projects, proposals, and conferences that I've participated in as a "grants associate" (perhaps my first real workplace title), I've been pleasantly surprised by how happy I've been in this line of work. Networking with faculty and administrators at Holy Cross, and colleagues from grants offices in liberal arts colleges around the country, has been a gift that I embraced slowly and timidly at first, yet I owe much of the success and confidence that I've felt this year to the people whom I've gotten to know in this job. And while I regularly take short breaks throughout the day to leave my office and stroll the hallways to clear my mind, I'm gradually making my office into a space that's welcoming to those who visit, whether to transact business or to simply shoot the breeze.
• Connections: I've been blessed with some new relationships that, whatever happens to them in the future, are the kinds of connections that I'd like to cultivate in my next placement. As one-quarter of a "Thinking Club" with two professors and the spouse of one of them, I've been treated to lively monthly discussions about everything from the jurisprudence of neurological evidence to the nature of divine love. As a cast member of the theater department's production of Sophie Treadwell's Machinal this past semester, I gained a new set of linkages with a wonderful group of faculty and students who are fine artists and exceptional human beings. As a creature of habit, I've found myself sharing and receiving the gifts of my routines– greeting some of the same students on my way to the office every morning, counting on some faculty members' open-door policy as an invitation to weekly late afternoon chats, calling a friend on Sunday evenings during Lent, having a running partner who motivates me to be the first one to the track on chilly and dark Tuesday mornings.

My office windowsill
October 2012

To me, the Conrad quote above, and Hyde's use of it to open his musings on "Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World" (the subtitle of his book), point me towards an appreciation of these gifts not as static objects or discrete items, but as fluid components in a pattern of life that I strive to live as a gift. As a Jesuit ever seeking to be a faithful companion of Jesus, who is both gift and giver, I draw upon his example and our relationship to constantly animate and refine my humble efforts. Looking toward 2013, I feel myself moved towards deeper creativity and connection in the areas I've described above, as well as other realms of my life that I haven't explored so well in recent months. It's my hope that such efforts will themselves be fruitful– in the contributions they'll make to the lives of others, and the courage that they'll give me to continue creating and sharing good gifts.

Watching the Sky

See anything?

Jesus said to his disciples:

"There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars,

and on earth nations will be in dismay,

perplexed by the roaring of the sea and the waves."

– Luke 21:25

The readings for the first Sunday of Advent include a passage from the end of Luke's Gospel that, at first glance, can seem a bit grim and foreboding. There's no talk of a prophecy involving a cuddly child, an improbable birth, and a new era of peace. Instead, the Church has selected a passage that foretells upheaval and calamity, events that seem more capable of shaking faith than strengthening it.

Thus I was surprised when the Jesuit who presided at a special Advent Mass for members of the Jesuit Connection, a group of young alums of Jesuit schools who reside in the Boston area, chose to focus his homily on the verse that appears above. While his preaching went on to address topics as diverse as the hectic pace that easily creeps into December, the pitfall of being too inwardly-focused in one's contemplative habits, and the place of "end of the world" passages in the context of cultures both ancient and contemporary, he kept returning to this notion of seeking signs in the sky.

As I stare out my office window at the end of a reasonably busy workday, I see a mostly clear sky fading gently into darkness. Aside from a few stray clouds tinged slightly reddish-yellow by the light that casts lengthening shadows everywhere else, a subtle shift from a darker to a lighter shade of blue is what catches my eye, drawing my gaze from the heights to the horizon. The view reminds me that I beheld the same process, occurring in reverse, earlier this morning as I ran 7 miles just before daybreak. Thankfully, the weather was calm, the streets were free of snow and ice (thanks to oddly mild temperatures), and there was no dismay or perplexity in sight. But were there any signs?

Perhaps so: in this act of observation and recollection, it occurs to me that the spiritual growth that I desire, the changes that I wish to achieve, and the "goals" that I have for this Advent season are not to be attained in sudden or grandiose fashion. Instead, it seems that they may creep into my life at an infinitesimal pace, as subtle as the movement of light during dawn and dusk. Perhaps I should spend more time noticing the rising and setting of the sun (or the moon and stars, for that matter)... that I may become more acquainted with the graced timing of the sky, as well as the ongoing turns of my own spiritual cosmos.

Advent 2012

Last night, one of my Jesuit brothers and I attended a performance of Handel's Messiah at a lovely concert hall in Worcester. At brunch this morning, we remarked about several aspects of the concert. Reviewing our observations of the four principal vocalists, the choral ensemble, and the orchestra, we discovered that we had each noticed their reactions to the music they collaborated to create. When the audience customarily stood for the Hallelujah chorus, I was struck by the humble admiration that seemed to wash across the face of the soprano, who, along with her three companions, kept their seats. The same was true during a bass aria in the work's third part that features a complicated and jubilant trumpet solo... the performers were clearly swept into something more than the mere art of making great music.

A view from my room as Advent 2012 begins

As Advent begins, and with it, a new liturgical year, I'm again fining myself drawn to the foundations of my faith and spirituality. The "purple seasons" that precede Christmas and Easter are, for me, a time to distance myself from the distracting entanglements that I've allowed to creep into my prayer life, and a period for restoring some desired sharpness and discipline to practices and attitudes that I've allowed to waver and decay amid the busy pace of life. A student opinion essay that recently appeared in the campus newspaper gently argued for the restoration of passion in student lives, not by embracing a multitude of activities or constantly striving for perfection and excellence in all things, but by identifying and embracing the fundamental means by which one lives a genuine life, builds and sustains authentic relationships, and becomes more capable of living with true and deep devotion.

As the work and activities at the end of the semester build to a potentially stressful pace, restoring a firm foundation in the rhythm of prayer and reflection becomes timely and fulfilling. As consumer culture places an emphasis on commodified buying and giving, I feel that my desires in preparing for Christmas are oriented toward creating and offering gifts from the blessings that I've already received. And as days darken and conflicts around the world can dim one's global outlook, I'm increasingly grateful for the light that is best visible through the eyes of the heart, in a gaze that takes in the entire person.

I'm excited to undertake another Advent journey, and eager to see where it leads, for while I've walked this route before, each transit towards Christmas follows a novel and grace-filled path.

Have a blessed Advent.

Frosty Lanes

A valued component of my training program this fall has been a weekly interval session on the track behind the Holy Cross athletic center. In the company of a professor who lives in the neighborhood and is intent on training through the winter, and with a commanding view of the valley just south of campus, I've beheld the lovely and changing world found between 5:45 and 6:30am in central New England. We've begrudgingly traded shorts for long pants as autumn tightens its grip, shared the track with some hardy student athletes (this morning, it was the lacrosse team), and figured out how to trace ovals in the dark as the moment of sunrise slips farther away from the starting time of our workouts.

Pre-dawn light (after a track workout)
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

When my track buddy and I met this morning, we found that the thick layer of frost coating lawns and leaves overnight had also spread to the track. Fortunately, the surface wasn't slick; its state-of-the-art texture still provided plenty of traction for our chilly laps, with a quaint crunching sound as our feet ground down its frosty sheen. Yet the white lane markings were significantly obscured, and I found myself following the remarkably narrow and ordered path of my own footsteps, treading the same oval many times over. Other elements of my workout routine– 800 meters fast, 400 meters of recovery, shuffling around and swigging some Gatorade in between– seemed equally fixed, a reliable groove that I've worn into my weekly training plan.

Yet I'd take almost any other workout over a session on the track. A 5-mile tempo run over a roller coaster of hills, a 15-miler along remote farm roads on a chilly winter day, an hour's worth of running on the beach at sunrise in the summer– I'd prefer any of these to my once-a-week set of circuits in lane 3 (an exact quarter-mile, I'm told) at a speed that would draw a speeding ticket in a drive-through lane at the bank. Even with the company of a runner who shares the swagger that makes a pre-dawn, outdoor run in subfreezing (just barely!) air an unquestionably wonderful idea, I can get intensely bored on the track. Yet I know that this training is a vital component of my efforts toward a particular goal– in this case, strong performances at a 20-mile race in February and the Boston Marathon in April– as well as a visceral expression of the discipline that I strive to sustain in other areas of my life.

St. Ignatius of Loyola left an incalculable legacy in establishing the Society of Jesus and infusing it with the spiritual fruits of his own rich and varied life. Among the many patterns and structures of prayer that he suggested to his companions, the Examen is one that particularly lends itself to the sort of ingrained repetition that I've been finding (and sometimes bristling against) in my track workouts. I'm not implying that I find my daily practice of the Examen to be loathsome; rather, even when it feels routine, I know that it's an undeniable good for my spiritual fitness. Repeatedly contemplating, musing upon, and discussing with God the same questions– Could I have some of your light and peace amidst the activity of my day? For what am I grateful today? How did I respond to the various calls extended to me? Could I have your forgiveness for today's faults and your guidance for tomorrow's opportunities?– keeps me in shape for the longer race of life, a series of events that can be far more entertaining than the intervals when I step aside from that flow to loop back around the moments of a given day.

As the sky brightened beautifully, and the streaks of golden and salmon hues lent a purely imaginary warmth to our chilly strides, I felt gratitude for another good track workout; not only in the sense of my speed, but also in the sense of better appreciating the gifts of repeating the same worthwhile and fulfilling practices over and over again. Yet I'll also enjoy hitting the roads again until next Tuesday, relishing views that change every minute, and running in a much larger and oddly-shaped loop.

Random Inspiration

Uncollected leaves
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

One of this week's projects involved tweaking our contribution to a yet-to-be-published booklet that showcases redesigned or newly-constructed science buildings that promote innovative opportunities for research, learning, and interaction among all members of a campus community. In our case, throughout the process of renovating and adding to our science complex, one of the most important design principles was simply to foster "the serendipitous collision of ideas." I've used that phrase with some frequency as I've written about the science center, offered tours of the facility to visitors, and described this part of my work to faculty, students, and staff.

Just this afternoon, I came across a slightly different take on this concept. While browsing through The Chronicle of Higher Education (one of many publications I try to monitor with some regularity), I stumbled upon an article by an adjunct professor who developed an innovative solution to a vexing problem: How to hold office hours without an office? A Holy Cross faculty member whom I know well holds some office hours in the coffee shop in the student center, so it was that connection that attracted me to the article, which is a brief and reasonably entertaining personal narrative.

As I've become more involved and connected on campus this semester, I've experienced the "serendipitous collision of ideas" quite often over the past several week, particularly when I walk the halls of the building where I work to take a break between tasks or refill my ever-present mug of Earl Grey tea. The Classics Department has the best and most frequented water cooler on the floor; a certain professor of religious studies and I have inspired one another's research; a visual arts professor and I routinely discuss contemporary themes in cartography and folk music. In meeting with students, and in nurturing connections with colleagues over lunch and other social functions, I've enjoyed the conversations and interactions that have occurred in other settings than those in which we do the majority of our work, or at least the tasks explicitly indicated in our job descriptions.

Yet I've noticed the exact opposite in many public spaces over that same stretch of time. Strolling through downtown Boston recently, I overheard plenty of chatter, but it was between folks who clearly know one another, and in many cases, was directed into a cell phone. In a public park in Providence, benches sat empty on a lovely day, while a short distance away, a coffee shop was packed to the gills, with the majority of patrons typing away on laptops, surrounded by earbud-augmented quiet. In the communities of New England, which tend to have a great deal of social, cultural, artistic, and intellectual capital, the potential for transformative inspiration triggered by random exchanges seems boundless. Yet it's been a long while since I've randomly gotten into a conversation– whether responding with enthusiasm or initiating it with some anxiety– with a fellow traveler on the subway, a bus, or a plane.

I'm the first to admit that, having an appreciable introverted streak in my personality, I'm more apt to notice something intriguing than to engage its source– whether that means asking someone about the book he's reading, making a note to research a place that attracts my attention, walking into an establishment whose storefront intrigues me (within reason, of course... I'm committed to window shopping only at tattoo parlors), and so on. Yet, in describing, experiencing, and relishing the serendipitous collision of ideas in various spaces on the Holy Cross campus, I can't help feeling the impetus to do my part to foster such occurrences in my travels beyond the College's gates.

Priorities

I know why I haven't blogged for a few weeks. It hasn't been important to me.

In processing my experiences in Bolivia, working with a phenomenal student cast and crew towards the recent opening of Machinal on campus, toiling diligently with several faculty members on grant proposals, and working on an application to theology studies, my time has become a precious resource. Moreover, I've found myself more motivated by these projects– as well as the desire to sustain the flexibility to respond to serendipitous opportunities for rich conversation– than by the idea of developing some theme on which to post thoughts and reflections. It's far easier, and far more fulfilling, to work with a known audience– whether on stage, down the hall, or one the other end of a timely phone call or carefully crafted letter.

Yet the play's run ends this coming Saturday, the workload in the grants office has eased (for now), and I'm approaching with serious thought and prayer the question of how to use the time I'll soon regain as some delightful activities subside. I feel a nudge to pick up my camera more often, setting out not to capture a specific image, but to practice another way of witnessing the visual beauty that I so often encounter in this part of the world. I want to engage in reflective and creative writing more regularly; not only for the sake of journaling and recording my musings, but also to explore the uncharted paths that I often notice at the end of my thoughts.

Hand of Christ sculpture and fall foliage
College of the Holy Cross

For some reason, today's elections have brought these inklings into greater focus. For although I voted today for specific candidates seeking specific offices, as well as a few state referenda concerning certain laws, I felt I was also expressing my choices about the priorities that I believe our nation should pursue. In a similar, though perhaps rather unrelated way, I hope that the manner in which I use and apportion my time in the coming weeks and months does reflect my priorities, and that these priorities in turn allow me to be the best friend, colleague, brother, and person that I can be.

Bolivia

Last week, during the Holy Cross fall break, I accompanied a fellow Jesuit and the ten students in his "Teología Anína" seminar to La Paz for several days of lectures, panel presentations, discussions, and excursions that built on the material covered in the course. Though only in Bolivia for five full days, bookended by frustrating caprices of international travel spread out over as much as 22 hours, I found myself blessed by a variety of experiences, encounters, and insights that I continue to treasure in my memory and reflect upon in mind and heart alike.

Descending into La Paz

I read in a guidebook that "the first sight of La Paz will (literally) take your breath away." I knew that the elevation (~12,000 feet) would be an issue, and I certainly felt a great deal of shock (especially as a seasoned athlete) when I gasped for air on the third step up a flight of stairs at the theology institute where we were staying. Yet I felt that more existential sense of breathlessness, signifying wonder and awe, as our charmingly clunky minibus descended the twisting road down from the airport, emerging from a cloud bank into a city that creeps in dizzying style up the slopes of sharp valleys.

Tocolí and Lago Titicaca

I spent two weeks in rural areas of Chile during a trip to that country during summer 2007, so I'd had prior experience of the stark contrast between the stunning beauty of "el campo" and the hardship, poverty, and isolation experienced by those who strive to make their living there. Bolivia was no different; I felt myself balancing the temptation to romanticize the splendor of an Aymara village on the shores of Lake Titicaca with the frank awareness that the villagers lead a hard life of farming, raising livestock, and depending on a climate whose patterns are becoming increasingly less predictable. Nevertheless, I couldn't help wondering if there is more contentment to be found in a hard life that includes deep ties to a beautiful place, and a comfortable life that is relatively detached from the natural terrain in which it is lived.

Outskirts of El Alto

There's so much in the United States that allows us to have significant control of our destiny simply because it reliably functions properly. We take our infrastructure and resources for granted so routinely that something like a flat tire or a power outage comes as a huge shock. Well, we had at least one power outage while at staying at the theology institute in La Paz, and our minibus blew a tire on two separate occasions as we trundled along dusty and rocky roadbeds in the altiplano. While I'm sure that many (if not all) of us experienced some frustrations with these delays, obstacles, and perturbations, I was impressed by how well the group took these surprises in relative stride, even if that meant taking some time to doze while the driver and I worked to change a tire (a feat I've now accomplished on two continents), or using an unexpected stop at a mechanic's roadside stall to explore a small town through which we had passed earlier in the day. 

Breathing Deeply

Autumn dawn, College of the Holy Cross
Worcester MA

Fall Break arrived yesterday at Holy Cross, as classes wound down for a one-week hiatus. Campus seemed to empty abruptly, as quickly as the trees on the College's stately grounds seemed to shed their summer greenness for the flaming hues of autumn.

For many professors with whom I chat regularly, the coming week will be a welcome time to breathe, six weeks into a semester that has proceeded at a breakneck pace. For the students, it's a chance to go home, or visit friends at other schools, but generally to take time that they surely need for restoration amidst their coursework, activities, and other pursuits. With the air turning more crisp by the day (this past week's unseasonable mildness notwithstanding), I'm reminded that this is a time of year to notice the changing atmosphere, to savor the gifts that attend each moment in a busy world, and to seek abiding signs of God's enduring, timeless presence wherever and whenever they may be found.

As I'll be spending the coming week in La Paz with a fellow Jesuit and the ten students in his seminar on theology and inculturation in the Andes, I'll also be breathing deeply... of air that is thin (the city is nearly 12,000 feet above sea level), but surely thick with grace and blessings.

Disconnected Thoughts

Daybreak at Holy Cross
September 2012

Why so long since my last post?

For one thing, it's been quite the first month of the semester. The stretch from the final day of August to the final day of September included:

• The first days of class
• Two individual grant submissions, periodic updates of the office website, and two major proposal projects (both ongoing)
• Hosting the College's trustees for dinner during their fall meeting
• Three days of events celebrating the inauguration of the new president of Holy Cross
• Preparations for a trip to Bolivia next week
• Rehearsals for the theater department's production of "Machinal"
• The daily rhythm of research, writing, meetings, chatting in the hallways, and so on

In addition, amidst this delightful breadth and quantity of events, I've increasingly relished the soothing power of quieter, contemplative time. Specifically, spending my evenings (after Mass and dinner and perhaps an evening walk with my Jesuit brothers) in the calming pursuits of reading, writing, knitting, praying, and listening to classical music, all with my door propped open to let gentle breezes cycle through.

Furthermore, continuing on the meditations described in a previous post, I'm increasingly skeptical of this blog's ability to communicate in the ways that I intend, and in ways that are consistent with the depth of communication that I believe is deserved by any with whom I might engage in conversation. I struggle to discover in my blogging, despite its potential for breadth of audience, a capacity to unify depth of connection and specificity of audience. I know that I find, and relish, that latter synergy in the art of written correspondence that I and some good friends maintain... a practice, I might add, that has recently (and happily) been occupying time that otherwise might be devoted to blogging. Yet perhaps I'm conceiving of this medium, and my usage of it, in ways not entirely consistent with its strengths.

I'm much closer to concluding this period of blogging than when I first wrote about this topic in July. Yet I'm not completely convinced that my work, and my learning, is finished here. One thing seems to be true... I'll be changing my style of, and approach to, using this method of communication, whether I stay with it or let it go. I'd welcome any thoughts, not only about how I might proceed, but also about your experience of communication in all its forms, particularly those that you savor most deeply.

Labor Day

In helping to organize and plan our community's celebration of Labor Day, I've found the following prayer to be particularly apt, given the state of affairs in our nation and our world. May each of you be blessed with fruitful labor, and restorative leisure in due measure, this day and throughout the weeks and months ahead.

O God, who through human labor

never cease to perfect and govern the vast work of creation,

listen to the supplications of your people

and grant that all men and women

may find work that befits their dignity,

joins them more closely to one another

and enables them to serve their neighbor.

Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,

who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit,

one God, for ever and ever.

– Collect Prayer from Mass for the Sanctification of Human Labor

Speeding Up, Slowing Down

The new academic year is off and running at Holy Cross, as faculty have returned, students moved in last weekend, and classes began last Wednesday. The Grants Office has taken on three major projects since August 20, all of them involving a moderate yet steady investment of time and effort that keeps me happily occupied. Although various deadlines are comfortably situated at the end of September, I'm noticing a sustained, even occasionally urgent, rhythm in the tasks and interactions that fill my days– meetings, phone calls, online research, document revision, and strolling the corridors to chat with professors and clear my mind.

Tower Hill Botanic Garden
Boylston MA

The increased intensity of my working days– a welcome change after some very slow and quiet days in early August– has inspired an intentional calming of my evenings. Walking up the hill to the Jesuit community at the end of each afternoon, joining my brothers for Mass and dinner, savoring some of the last pleasant evenings to chat and dine on our patio, has been a delightful reward for each day of work. In the evenings, I haven't felt much inclination to return to the world of Internet and e-mail; I've instead found myself reading, penning letters, and knitting, often while listening to the rising crescendo of crickets as cool nights beckon sleep with open windows. It's been surprisingly pleasant, even liberating, to claim these stretches of time for maintaining contact with the deeper fibers of my life– admiring the subtle wonders of nature; delving into intriguing poetry and prose; sustaining and savoring the bonds that connect the Jesuits with whom I live, pray, and work; crafting correspondence that overcomes distance no less powerfully (and sometimes much more so) than other forms of communication.

Shifting daily between these two paces does take effort and intention; I imagine that I'm getting some sense of what it's like to run through the range of a transmission (I've never learned to "drive a stick") on a road trip that involves both modern highways and older country roads. I'm glad to have both speeds in my life as the semester gets rolling, and appreciate the contribution that these complementary modes of work and rest make to my ongoing journey.

Saturday Vows, Round Three

No pictures of my own this time... I left that to the professionals in order to be more focused on the company of my fellow Jesuits and the friends and family of three men who pronounced first vows last Saturday. [A brief article, with an image and a short video, may be found here.]

I'd been looking forward to this event for many weeks, anticipating a celebration that would mark an important step in the formation of these three men, bring together Jesuits from throughout New England and the Mid-Atlantic, and be a clear transition from the departing summer season to the arriving academic year. As vows are celebrated in Syracuse, where novices from these regions are based for two years of prayer, instruction, and service that introduce them to Jesuit life and provide a rich context for further discernment of their vocations, my attendance for each of the past seven years (including my own vows in August 2006) is an annual homecoming of sorts, returning to the place where my journey in the Society of Jesus formally began. I experienced many moving moments during the course of the weekend, of which I wish to highlight three in particular.

• The homily offered by at the Vow Mass by a Jesuit whose wisdom, experience, and sense of humor I have come to deeply appreciate over the past eight years. His eloquent articulation of the concept of a promise– understood in terms from the simplest to the most solemn– invited me to a stronger identification with, and acceptance of, the divine love that calls me to this particular path in life, and animates my desire and effort to respond faithfully to my vocation. What I promised at my first vows six years ago ought to remain as true and powerful today as it felt to me then, and ought not to be diminished or forgotten amidst the vicissitudes of more mundane daily affairs.
• A pair of visits to families from the local parish where I worshipped during my two years in Syracuse. The parish continues to be a welcoming community that strives to practice the Gospel faithfully, though perhaps rather radically from some viewpoints. Over the years since I moved on from the novitiate, I've managed to maintain contact with two particular families who were very supportive of me and my community during my time in Syracuse. Although I now only see them during my annual visit for vows, I always find an open door at their homes, and encounter a delight in sharing conversations that renew our acquaintance. Having known them for eight years, I have seen their children grow, their relationships deepen, and their family lives mature without losing vitality. I feel quite humbled and awed by the welcome that they continue to extend to me, whether or not I've arranged the visit ahead of time.
• Jesuit friendships. Simply put, I shared some wonderful, memorable, nourishing conversations with some fine men (young and older alike) whom I increasingly consider to be more than just brothers in the religious community which we've all chosen to join. In seeking their advice on some matters, or offering the same, I perceived a subtly palpable bond of friendship that I hadn't really noticed (or acknowledged) as readily in the past. It's a clear growth edge for me as I consider and discern what I desire to pursue this year in my ongoing formation as a Jesuit, as well as a gift that I've already received yet am appreciating in a striking and delightful new way.

The last Saturday in August will bring the Class of 2016 and their parents to Holy Cross for the annual ritual of moving in and saying farewell. I've been looking forward to this for a few weeks as well, and tomorrow morning will find me joining students and residence life personnel at 7:30am in front of one of the first-year residence halls, enthusiastic welcomes at the ready. I promised I'd be there, and in doing so, I'll be reminded of the most important promises that I've made and kept, the families to whom I belong and with whom I've become associated, and the friendships that support me in ways that I can't live without.

Saturday Vows, Round Two

Continuing my series of vow celebrations on successive Saturdays, I attended the wedding of a cousin five days ago. If memory serves, this was the first wedding that I've attended on this side of the family since my mom's youngest brother was married more than twenty years ago, and the first time in many years that I can recall assembling with all of my mom's extended family (sometimes a cousin or two would be absent at Thanksgiving or Christmas).

My newly married cousin, flanked by her husband
and surrounded by our relatives.

During the ceremony, as well as at the reception, I found myself reflecting on the theme of family. The Christian minister who officiated at the wedding described the graced manner in which a strong marriage not only unites husband and wife, but also draws together two families as a new family comes into being. Siblings of the groom and the bride each used their toasts at the reception to tell a brief story about their newly wedded brother and sister, respectively, not only to highlight an idiosyncratic trait or famous episode cementing their place in family lore, but also to welcome the other family into these ongoing narratives.

While entering the Society of Jesus eight years ago did not entail severing all ties with my parents, younger sister, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, it did bring about a decided shift in my relationships with them as I began integrating myself into my new religious family, a brotherhood living in community. It's something more than simply moving away to work in another city, even though my patterns of visitation to home and relatives in South Jersey (lately, for Thanksgiving, Christmas, perhaps Easter, and a week in the summer) are little different than several cousins of mine who do not live in that charming corner of the world. It's a situation in which I see my primary "family narrative" being written through my experiences with my brother Jesuits, while my relationships with my blood relatives take on the role of a supportive sub-plot. Conversely, while my place in the ever-expanding family narrative that continues in South Jersey and elsewhere is hardly limited to my identity as a Jesuit, the qualities associated with their perceptions of my religious life do significantly shape our conversations when I'm home, and perhaps their words about me when I'm away.

My sister and parents

So when my cousin and her sister speak of welcoming a new family into ours, and when her husband and his brother invite my family into theirs, I find myself not only drawn into that expansion of relation, but also firmly rooted in the religious family to which I've given myself– not always as perfectly or generously as I could, mind you– over the past eight years. I've often heard superiors of religious communities– especially novitiates, where the first stage of formation takes place, and the most pronounced signs of "entrance" occur– offer comfort and encouragement to parents with variations on this theme: "You're not losing a child, you're gaining a family." It seems that I've been living, and increasingly recognizing, a corollary that applies to those in religious life: "You're not losing your family, you're identifying more closely with a new one." In any event, family is important to me, and whenever I'm back home in South Jersey, I'm renewed in my awareness of, and gratitude for, the crucial and invaluable love and support that they offer to me. In turn, I'm reminded to pay attention to my bonds with them, while remaining steadfast in the spirit of my vows that commit me, through community life in the Society of Jesus, to the brothers with whom God calls me to work and live.

Saturday Vows, Round One

Yesterday I attended a Mass of First Vows and Renewal of Profession at the mother house of the Apostles of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. During my years of philosophy and theology studies in St. Louis, I took classes with several women from this religious community, and another friend from those years joined the Apostles after we both completed our respective degree programs in spring 2009. Attending this celebration had the feeling of a family reunion; I went primarily to support my friend Katie and her two sisters as they professed vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience for the first time.  Yet I also appreciated the opportunity to reconnect with the sisters whom I met in St. Louis, and to meet additional members of this wonderful religious family whose joy and happiness is infectious, and whose devotion to the Church and the people of God is carried out with contagious delight.

A particularly creative friend of the Apostles made clay figurines
resembling each of the women who professed vows.
Marvelously charming.

It was the first of three consecutive Saturdays this month that I'll spend at a celebration of vows; next Saturday, a cousin of mine is getting married; the following Saturday, three Jesuit novices (one of them a high school classmate of mine) will profess their own first vows as religious. The final Saturday of August is move-in day for the Class of 2016 at Holy Cross, which includes the College community's celebration of the Mass of the Holy Spirit to open the new academic year. Looking at a month of momentous Saturdays– followed, God willing, with restful Sundays offering time for rest and reflection– fills me with a great deal of enthusiasm, as well as a desire to consider anew the role of commitments (including, but not limited to, my own religious vows) in my life.

Having lived in the Society of Jesus for nearly eight years, and my vows for nearly six, I've become quite accustomed to, and comfortable in, the rhythms of prayer, work, and community that characterize the Jesuit way of religious life within the Catholic Church. Yet I've become increasingly that these habits are not as fulfilling and as vibrant for me when I approach them in a merely habitual manner. As I strive to restore greater intentionality to my prayer, as I seek thoughtful dialogue within myself and with my office colleagues about the projects and responsibilities we'll each undertake in the coming semester, I find a deeper satisfaction in renewing my connection with the choices I make each day to sustain and vivify the commitments by which I've chosen to live. Rising on a weekday with enough time to exercise, freshen up, pray, and converse with my brothers over breakfast before "facing the day" (as one of the brethren regularly avows when he takes his leave from the table) is a regular, repeated decision that reminds me of my ongoing relationships with myself, my community, and my God. Maintaining a variety of friendships– with Jesuits, with other religious, with friends from a variety of different contexts, periods of my life, and faith backgrounds– expresses a commitment to live with and for others in a way that is mutually constructive, yet also respectful of our respective freedom, commitments, and circumstances that distinguish our unique paths in life.

This takes work, and it doesn't always come easily. I've long been a morning person, yet some of the more poignant, valuable, and even life-changing conversations in which I've participated over the past several months have occurred late at night. I sometimes find it easier to pick up the phone and call a friend than I do to settle into a chair in the chapel and converse with God. There are occasions when I feel the tension between an invitation to spend an evening with good friends my age, and an evening of nourishing fraternal conversation with the men of my community who are my elders by a range of margins. Living my commitments with fidelity, and carrying them out with authenticity, requires creativity, careful thought and discernment, and genuine sacrifice, tailored to each circumstance and relationship.

Conservation Land, Weston MA

I wouldn't have it any other way. The delightful blessings of relationships, the invaluable gift of growing self-knowledge, and the fulfillment of the exchanges associated with genuine generosity all accompany the diligent, laborious, and continuous effort of living the commitments I've made, and embracing all of the opportunities that they offer. These are joys that I sensed everywhere yesterday, and I look forward to experiencing and sharing them anew, and in different forms, throughout the remainder of the month, one day at a time.

Good Sport

It's been a while since I've written about baseball. My team, the Philadelphia Phillies, has been having a rough year. Same for the Boston Red Sox, leaving the local Nation somewhat despondent, and more than willing to offer me advice about how to deal with a sudden turn in the fortunes of my squad. I've been entertained and intrigued by some of the unexpected successes this year, but without a favorite horse up front as talk of playoff races lies just around the corner, I must confess that I've not been following our national pastime quite as closely as in recent years.

Appropriately, the London Olympics are dominating the sports news these days, and the athletes of Team USA have been putting on quite the show. I had forgotten how excited I can be about sports I've never played– water polo and gymnastics come to mind– as well as those that I enjoy on a far more recreational basis, such as volleyball and swimming. I'm looking forward to the track and field events next week, eager to watch marathoners, sprinters, and throwers alike competing on the world stage. Yet I've been dismayed by the few stories that cast some shadows on the Olympic flame. Murmurs of possible doping, badminton players throwing matches, even social media posts that didn't reflect the wisest judgment, and led to some expulsions from the Games. I know that the pressure of competition is fierce– I go to my "quiet space" to quell butterflies and anxieties before a road race– but I also feel fairly justified in my desire that these athletes come together as a global community, do their best for team and country, and simply (to use a hackneyed phrase) "go for the gold."

It's this personal mindset, I believe, that caused me to be so impressed by something that happened at Cincinnati's Great American Ballpark this afternoon. The Reds, leading the NL Central by three games, were hosting the Padres, who are way behind the Giants in the NL West. The home team (and their weather) is hot; Cincy has won 9 of its last 10, while San Diego was headed for a third straight loss by the end of the 2nd inning, trailing by six runs. Then, in the top of the 3rd, a guy named Eddy Fernandez stood in for his first at-bat in the majors, and hit the fourth pitch he saw into the center field seats for a solo home run. He circled the bases, collected the requisite high fives and ritual slapping from his teammates, and drew some applause from the crowd. At the same time, a fan threw the ball back to the Reds' center fielder– not in the disgust or protest sometimes signaled by tossing back a homer by the opposing team– but to relay the memento back to young Mr. Rodriguez. The next Cincinnati player tossed the ball to the Padres' third-base coach, who heaved it into the dugout. (For anyone interested, a link to the game video is here, at least for a little while.)

Moments like this are some of my favorites in baseball, and sports in general. There are plenty of walk-off home runs, furious come-from-behind sprints down a track, and clutch plays of all sorts etched into my memory, but I can't help but smile at these humble class acts between fellow athletes and their fans. That's something I'll be looking for as the Olympics continue, and something I'm eager to reconnect with as I begin to sketch out my fall training plans, and look forward to meeting, and maybe engaging in a little competition with, some fellow runners in the months ahead.

Feast of St. Ignatius

Today, on the anniversary of his death in 1556, the Catholic Church remembers Saint Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Society of Jesus. It's the biggest celebration of the year for Jesuits, and an occasion to celebrate our callings and our communities, our ministries and missions.

Jesuit Community
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Ignatius' life story is difficult to condense, and his many stations in life elude easy categorization. A soldier and a saint, a pilgrim and a planner, a seeker and a guide, among his many contributions (a global religious order with a 460-year history, a framework of spiritual discernment, an extensive corpus of hand-written letters, innovative insights into the human condition) is the example of striving to recognize God at work in individual lives and the world as a whole, and approaching the most profound relationships and the most mundane decisions in light of that deeply held belief.

DuBourg Hall
Saint Louis University, St. Louis MO

Having recently completed my annual eight-day silent retreat, I feel that I've been renewed in my sense of who Ignatius was and how his life and experience can inform mine. His course of "formation" in the years from his conversion to his establishment of the Society took him all over Spain and through several major European cities; he studied and worked, begged and offered counsel, suffered rejection and found friends. In the past year, I've transitioned from a middle school teaching position to a higher education administrative position, and found new gifts in a line of work (grant writing) at which I was completely new last June. I've been fortunate to visit friends up and down the East Coast as well as in the Midwest, and blessed by the opportunity to maintain contact with those further afield, much as Ignatius did when some of his beloved friends and fellow Jesuits were sent to the Far East and South America.

Personal correspondence
(The writer of this particular letter may recognize the handwriting!)

Perhaps most crucially of all, I've seen how deeply all of my progress and growth this year is rooted in the gradual work of God's grace, the support and guidance of my local community and extended family in the Society of Jesus, and the eagerness of many good friends to share their life stories and listen to mine as we work out the details of our respective callings and strive to live them faithfully. In one of his many letters– thousands survive– Ignatius put this far more eloquently, so I'll conclude with his words:

However for our part, to find that way through the medium of [God's] grace we will be greatly helped if we search about and make many kinds of experiments, so that we can follow the route that He most clearly shows to one, the happiest and most blessed route in this life, completely governed and directed toward that other life, which is without end, embracing and united to these most holy gifts... then it is not just the soul that will be healthy; we will have a sound mind in a sound body, and thus everything will be healthier and better fitted for the divine service.

– Letter to Francis Borgia,  September 1548 

Shifting Gears, Part II

The physical shifts now emerging in my summer training aren't the only changes afoot. Here at Holy Cross, the summer's populations and programming are undergoing a transition. More than one hundred summer research students just completed their work, in fields ranging from the hard sciences to the humanities, and have vacated the dorm, labs, and libraries where they've been toiling with their professors since just after Memorial Day weekend. Members of the incoming class have been stopping in for some additional orientation and enrichment activities before arriving for good at the end of August. This morning, I discovered a small flock of office chairs scattered throughout the hallway leading to my office; it's the week for major cleaning, repainting, and moving in the departments inhabiting this particular floor. Construction and renovation projects, always a popular news item on our website, are largely finished. The campus won't be characterized by relative emptiness and planned disarray for too much longer.

Hogan Oval, College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA
Quiet for now...

With August arriving tomorrow, and grant proposals for the new academic year already rolling in, I'm in a summer endgame mentality, planning for initiatives and projects to undertake and/or adjust in the coming semester, and concluding the summer tasks that have been helping to pass the time during these lighter weeks in the rhythm of the College's workings. With the likelihood of, God willing, moving on to theology studies in fall 2013, I'm looking to the next nine months or so as an opportunity to contribute to some restructuring and strengthening of the Grants Office, as well as to renew or develop ties with other individuals and sectors within the Holy Cross community.

Within a few weeks, the campus should be humming with students preparing to welcome the Class of 2016 through their service as orientation leaders, RAs, and brothers and sisters in the Holy Cross family. Professors will arrive for departmental meetings, administrators will shift their focus as necessary, and campus ministers will help us all to call down God's blessings on a new year. For now, though, we're still making the shift... conscious of what's on the horizon, eager for what is to come, and wrapping up our various accomplishments from the summer months. As I walk the corridors of my building, and see signs of these processes, as well as long-quiet offices being inhabited again, I'm gladdened by these changes, and grateful for the potential that they promise.

Shifting Gears, Part I

At first, I thought the feeling was only fleeting... but it persisted. It comes every year around this time, yet always catches me by surprise. When it arrives, it heralds an imminent departure, a certain transition, and a realm of clear yet mysterious potential. What might this feeling be?

I'll explain it by means of my first memory of it. Just over six years ago, I completed my first marathon, thanks in large part to the support of a running club in Portland, Maine with whom I trained while working at the Jesuit high school there for a semester in early 2006. At the end of that summer, I professed my first vows as a Jesuit; the sixth anniversary of that event is coming up in two weeks. Through the intervening months, I noticed the immense physical toll and mental effort that I devoted to my first marathon as both body and mind slowly restored themselves after being thoroughly spent during my passage along a lovely 26.2-mile course in the mountains of western Maine. On the morning that I took my first vows, during a routine morning run that I set aside for some of my prayer, I suddenly felt, unmistakably, the return of the same level of fitness that I carried to the starting line several months earlier. The verve of anticipating vows and devoting my life to God through the Society of Jesus and its life and mission, though significant, was not the only responsible factor– I could tell that my recovery was at an end, and a new training cycle could now begin.

Tower Hill Botanic Garden
Boylston MA

All this being said, could I run my next marathon tomorrow? Absolutely not. I haven't run more than eight miles at a stretch since the Providence Marathon back on May 6. But I can feel the gears shifting into a rhythm in which I'm ready, even eager, to begin training for my next race... hopefully a 10K, 10-miler, or half marathon in October of November. Knowing how this cycle works, based on six years of experience with summer recovery from a spring marathon, as that momentum gathers, it will start some complementary shifts in other areas of my life. I'll detail those soon, now that I know for sure that change is underway once again.

Questioning the Medium

I've been away from blogging for the past few weeks, owing to a combination of circumstance and circumspection. Extensive travel during the month of June for a variety of events– a Jesuit gathering and priestly ordinations in New York, a management workshop in New Orleans, an Ignatian spirituality conference in Baltimore– brought a rich array of experiences to savor, information to absorb and interpret, and conversations and company to share with Jesuits and laypeople alike. These weeks blessed me with an abundance of material for my prayer, my reflection, my journaling, and some letters that I've not yet written. They also occupied my time with pursuits far more fulfilling, delightful, and stress-free than the shorter intervals that I occasionally snagged for the purpose of keeping up with work e-mails, most of which have dealt with a conference that my office is hosting next week.

Jackson Square and Cathedral of St. Louis
New Orleans LA

While in New Orleans three weeks ago, I took an evening stroll through Jackson Square, one of many picturesque locales in this fine city that blends a sense of history, a contemporary funkiness, and a vibrant cultural flair that escapes description while being undeniably tangible. Nightfall brings an odd paradox to this popular space: fortune-tellers setting up shop directly in front of the Catholic cathedral. While I neither engaged them in conversation nor consulted their services, I took their presence as a reminder that people seek meaning (and advice that they can consider trustworthy) from a variety of sources. The same can be said for the interpretation of signs and events; some read the news, some read palms, some read the Bible, and so on. Under a quiet sky of patchy clouds eerily lit by the Crescent City's urban glow, in the slightly uneasy embrace of the Gulf Coast's humid warmth, I not only sought the continuation of my life's dialogue with God's presence and will, but also mused anew upon the manners in which I communicate my thoughts, discern my choices, pursue my ideas, and convey the gifts and graces that I've been given to give in turn.

Audubon Park
New Orleans LA

Consequently, I've been debating the merits of this particular blog as one of many methods I use to carry out the practices I've listed above. Moreover, especially in the context of rich fraternal, intellectual, and spiritual relationships renewed or kindled through personal interactions and face-to-face conversations during my June travels, I've been questioning the ability of this blog to provide an adequate approximation thereof. A good friend of mine– from whom I received a four-page, handwritten letter earlier this week– recently announced her blog's finale after a few years of wonderful, thought-provoking, richly rendered posts. Such a decision is by no means imminent with respect to this blog of mine, though I am considering that possibility (among other options with respect to adapting and/or altering my pattern of posting and range of content) with some seriousness.

Garden District shops
New Orleans LA

I doubt that the fortune-tellers in Jackson Square would have had much to say about such deliberation. There are certainly far weightier matters to address in my prayer. Yet discerning the unfolding steps along my path, and ensuring that I appropriately and fruitfully share the experiences and gifts lived and shared along the way, remains an important concern. In lieu of easy answers, I only ask good company and wise insight to guide my questioning, and to share in my expression of whatever conclusions I reach.

A Prayer on the Fourth

The new translation of the Roman Missal includes special prayers for use at Mass in the United States on the Fourth Of July. One in particular, to be used before the reading of the day, resonates with me as I'm moving through my observance of the holiday this year:

"Father of all nations and ages,
we recall the day when our country
claimed its place among the family of nations;
for what has been achieved we give you thanks,
for the work that still remains we ask your help,
and as you have called us from many peoples to be one nation,
grant that, under your providence,
our country may share your blessings
with all the peoples of the earth.
Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,
who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever."

May you all have a delightful Fourth of July, and may our country and its people be blessed.

P.S.: More soon about the adventures during, and some of the rationale behind, my absence from the blogosphere over the past few weeks.

Summer Order

It's a phrase that I first picked up in the novitiate, the first two years of my Jesuit formation. The exact form of "summer order" has differed in the various communities in which I've lived over the past eight years, but generally it refers to a slightly different pace and rhythm of activities during those months outside of the academic calendar. Here at Holy Cross, it brings the promise of socializing on our front patio after Mass, even eating dinner there, taking advantage of the short season New England offers for such pleasures. There's a more casual feel to the house; I no longer think twice about wearing a soccer jersey to dinner, maybe even to Mass if one of my two favorite national teams (Mexico or Chile) is playing. (Thanks to my Jesuit brothers in these two countries for introducing me to this habit... no pun intended.) This season also speaks of greater mobility; within a week of Commencement, nearly a third of the community had departed for destinations around the globe: immersion trips, a pilgrimage, conferences, annual retreats. I hit the road tomorrow, first to New York for a few days of gatherings that will culminate in the priestly ordination of three Jesuits, then to New Orleans for a weeklong workshop on management and administration– the latest body of skills and experience that I've been developing.

I'll have my fair share of work and leisure, engaged activity and contemplative retreat, days on the road and days here in Worcester, during the summer months. While I'll strive to sustain my foundational rhythm of prayer and reflection, and the attentiveness to God in all things and all people that it fosters, amidst my comings and goings, I'm grateful for a different order that shifts the patterns of my days, and contributes richly and seamlessly into the ongoing journey of my life. The familiar and more intense pace of the academic year will return soon enough... three months from now, we'll be through the first week of class. In the meantime, summer order is a welcome change, and one that my brothers and I are certainly appreciating after a good year at the College and in our various apostolates around the city.

48-3-6

It's not a padlock combination, nor a mathematics puzzler, nor a stat line from any sport I know. Rather, these three numbers each anchor a set of memories, insights, and pursuits that comprised an adventurous Memorial Day weekend in good company.

48: The Appalachian Mountain Club recognizes four dozen peaks in New Hampshire's White Mountains that exceed 4,000 feet in elevation, and in 1957 established a club comprised of those who have successfully summited each of these peaks. Some incredibly ambitious, experienced, and mildly fanatical hikers have done them all in the course of a single season (even winter). Others take their time. As summer unofficially opened last Saturday, I joined a group assembled by one of my friends to celebrate her completion of this effort, which began in her youth when she accompanied her father for his last round of peaks on the list. On a splendid day– mild, sunny, with gentle breezes and a few passing clouds– father, daughter, and friends not only climbed two peaks, but celebrated and shared the successful pursuit of a goal situated in the context of family and a love of the natural world. Inspired by the event whose significance we honored with our presence, a number of us spoke of setting the same goal for ourselves, though without a firm deadline.

Guess who bagged her 47th and 48th peaks?

Claude makes it official: the USGS marker at Osceola (4,340').

Footloose, blister free, and beyond content.

3: By my reckoning, I can credit myself with three of the 48 peaks on the 4,000-footer list: Oscoela and East Osceola (above) and Washington (last summer). Over the course of the three-day weekend, I roamed through three states, reached three peaks, and spent about three hours on each ascent and descent. Along with a good Jesuit friend and hiking buddy (who gladly allowed me to bring him on a mountainous expedition for the third consecutive year), in strolling around Burlington for roughly three hours, I've decided that it's my favorite little city in New England... a small yet vibrant downtown, fabulous views of Lake Champlain, a charming state university campus, and a good feel that transcends words. If it weren't more than 200 miles from Worcester, I'd probably go there more often.

Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks from Burlington VT

Church Street Marketplace, Burlington VT

6: On Memorial Day itself, I completed a hiking goal of my own– reaching all six state high points in New England during my regency assignment in Worcester. Reaching back to a May Day summiting of Massachusetts' Mount Greylock with a dear friend in 2010, and attaining the three highest (and two most challenging) peaks in the company of the same Jesuit companion, it's been a good two-year journey. This quest has taken me to some lovely and isolated corners of New England, and also provoked no small degree of concerned inquiry from elder Jesuits in my community in the weeks before each trip. "What sort of equipment will you need?" (Just hiking boots, comfortable clothing, adequate food and water, modest first aid gear, and a good sense of humor.) "What about wild animals?" (Toads are common but hard to spot; bears lurked unseen; a juvenile bull moose was more than happy to make our acquaintance.) "What if you slip and fall?" (Depends on where you are. You might land on the very rock you're trying to traverse, or you could skitter down the steep pitches of a knife-edge summit ridge and plummet all the way to the hereafter.)

Mount Mansfield VT: Summit Ridge view

Mount Mansfield VT summit (4,393')

Impending doom: rain above treeline.
Advice to hikers: If you can tell that the rain is coming,
it's time to head downstairs!

In any case, checking off my 6th high point– Vermont's Mount Mansfield– occurred without the fanfare and triumph of a grueling ascent like Katahdin or Washington, but far exceeded the simplicity of tree-bounded strolls in Rhode Island and Connecticut. The mile-long summit ridge that we walked from treeline to summit, through fragile alpine vegetation vulnerable to footsteps yet nearly impervious to frigid temperatures and howling winds, induced a humbled, contemplative silence as I beheld a full circle of 50-mile visibility. The majestic progress of a rain shower– the only one I encountered all weekend– across the Adirondacks and Lake Champlain became a literally ridiculous and short-lived menace as its path carried it to the summit from which we beheld its approach for a little too long. "What happens when it rains up in the mountains?" I could hear my brothers asking back home. (Well, if you're above treeline, the rain doesn't quite fall... it hurtles freely.)

Greeley Pond Trail, White Mountain National Forest NH

There's plenty to tackle between now and Labor Day: a workshop in New Orleans, a conference in Baltimore, two conferences at Holy Cross (one I'm helping to organize, another for which I've submitted a session proposal), my annual 8-day retreat, sustenance of life-giving friendships and fraternal bonds, and no shortage of mountains in this lovely corner of the country. Having kicked a big item off my bucket list, I'm grateful for this strong and memorable start to the "academic summer," and eager to keep hiking the trails that lie before me.