Fitting Prayers

The prayers at Mass today were exactly what I needed to hear. In addition to the linguistic imagery itself, the syntax– challenging and elegant, yielding its subtle eloquence after patient meditation– nicely mirrors the difficulty I've found in expressing the nuances of my Lenten pilgrimage (both in prayer and in conversation), as well as the joy and assurance I've found in occasional moments of genuine connection with God, Jesuit brothers, and friends in the course of this particular stage of my journey.

Enlighten, O God of compassion,

The hearts of your children, sanctified by penance,

And in your kindness

Grant those you stir to a sense of devotion

A gracious hearing when they cry out to you.

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, Wednesday of the Fifth Week of Lent

Green Hill Park, Worcester MA
April 2011

Attend, almighty God,

To the prayers of your people,

And, as you endow them

With confident hope in your compassion.

Let them feel as ever the effects of your mercy.

Through Christ our Lord.

– Prayer over the People, Wednesday of the Fifth Week of Lent

First Day of Spring

Between a lively day of work, a series of meetings, a quiet afternoon hour in a town park, and a pleasant dinner with a friend, yesterday's official arrival of spring included much activity... fitting, it seems to me, for a season characterized by new life, revival, and a healthy degree of delightful mystery.

Spring buds
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Morses Pond Land
Wellesley MA

"Praying"

It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

– Mary Oliver

[From Thirst: Poems by Mary Oliver]

Mid-Lent Musings

As the third week of Lent draws to a close, I'm taking stock of what I've learned thus far in my efforts to restore my relationships with God, others, and self through the discipline of prayer and the rhythm of daily interactions. I've been troubled by some recurring frustrations: prayer has often felt more like a task to be accomplished than an activity to be enjoyed, my reticence in speaking with Jesus about my weaknesses and faults is competing with (rather than yielding to) his desire and willingness to accept them, and my intentions to prioritize periods for prayer and journaling often give way to an unhealthy laziness that leads to whittling away leisure time in a far less nourishing fashion. So much for a dramatic conversion of heart and blatantly obvious spiritual progress, it would seem.

Yet this honest assessment, despite the disillusionment it threatens to deepen in me, points the way to some concrete steps I can freely choose to pursue or abandon on any given day. Moreover, I'm increasingly aware of the following insights, which can guide me through the next three weeks of Lent:

• Be fiercely draconian in defending time for prayer and journaling. If I can spend roughly two hours a week winding down my late evenings with somewhat aimless browsing of online news sources, I can certainly find 15 to 20 minutes a night to sit in my recliner, gaze upon my prayer ledge, and settle into a prayerful period of reflection and journaling. I'd certainly feel better if I did.
• What little I'm hearing from Jesus in prayer is directly related to how little I'm saying to him. For one who's used to listening, it's an uncomfortable (yet necessary) challenge to allow myself to experience that same gift.
• My mind and my heart are two very different creations. I'm rather familiar with the skills and dexterity of the former, yet much less acquainted with the deeper mysteries and strengths of the latter. While they're not at odds with one another, they also don't spend much time together. It seems (and feels) that this situation ought to change, yet I'm not sure how to proceed.
• I could stand to learn and know much more about most of my fellow Jesuits and good friends, and I'm confident that they would say the same about me. A few wonderful relationships– fraternal or otherwise– are rich examples in this regard, yet I've been slow to engage the rewarding work of building deeper connections with those who wish to know me better, and those with whom I wish to be more fully acquainted.

God willing, with time and grace, the coming weeks of Lent will be fruitful and formative.

One More Month

The 116th Boston Marathon is one month away. Oddly enough, I'm not terribly excited or anxious about the race, despite the assurance of some strong training runs and the concerns of some persistently occasional aches and pains in my knees and ankles. I've been reflecting and praying about what this year's unexpectedly dampened enthusiasm for Boston could mean, especially when compared to the past two years of training for this event.

In 2010, I relished the novelty of my first Boston Marathon, savoring the thrilling aspects and unique traits of the course along my way to a personal best time that marked the achievement of a life goal– finishing a marathon in under three hours. The company of two good friends from Saint Louis in the race itself, along with the support of my parents who journeyed to Boston to cheer us on, enriched the joy of that accomplishment. In 2011, realizing a long-held dream– and long-established promise– to finish Boston with a long-time training partner and friend provided much of the motivation that carried me through a snowy winter and a sunny, mild race.

This year, I've realized lately, I've been training alone, despite being among more than 20,000 people around the country (and the world) who are also preparing for Boston next month. I haven't felt connected to that broader community, which likely says more about my mindset than it does about the fact that I don't know anyone running it this year. I've noticed other thoughts on loneliness and solitude, and the desire for deeper experiences of community that these feelings highlight. I've caught myself considering– with more than just a passing thought– that I might not run a marathon in 2013 unless I find a group of people with whom to share the adventure of training, and by extension, something of the journey of life that inspires us to pursue endurance athleticism with mildly crazed abandon. I'd rather not hang up my running shoes, but I'll admit that I'm as daunted by this emerging challenge to my lonely training as I am by the grueling final miles of a marathon.

So, with one month to go, I'm hoping to regain some of the verve I'll need to fuel my final weeks of training, as well as the long trip from Hopkinton to Boston on April 16. I'm hoping that I'll feel more connected to the running community in the events preceding the race, and be more proactive in seeking training partners as I look beyond my period of post-race recovery. Most of all, I'm praying that this lesson sticks; that despite the benefits of running in solitude, I'll strive to affirm and strengthen a foundation in community and companionship for all the training I pursue, both in running and in life.

Boylston Street
2011 Boston Marathon

Third Sunday of Lent

Atacama Desert, Chile

When I prove my holiness among you,

I will gather you from all the foreign lands

and I will pour clean water upon you

and cleanse you from all your impurities,

and I will give you a new spirit, says the Lord.

– Entrance Antiphon, Third Sunday of Lent (for the First Scrutiny)

Running Lessons

Yesterday's 22-miler wiped me out for much of the afternoon; laundry, reading this month's National Geographic, and listening to NPR's Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me! were the only activities that I could handle until my strength rebounded during and after supper. My mind felt no less sluggish than my legs, as if it too had muscled up and down rolling hills and forged through stretches of cold headwinds along a sprawling figure-eight course spanning several rural towns. The run– from both a physical and mental perspective– was a mixed bag; the strength and ease of my pacing oscillated in response to the terrain and weather, while my endurance and resolve were increasingly tested as the miles wore on.

From a spiritual standpoint, and in the context of Lent, those two and a half hours on my own– I didn't keep track, but I believe that fewer than twenty cars passed me, and I passed fewer than ten people on the roads or in their yards– reiterated some lessons on solitude, loneliness, and companionship that have been recurring for the past few weeks.

I've long experienced solitude as a blessing, though I've perhaps failed to fully appreciate its power or utilize its potential. Consequently, I run the risk of taking it for granted, or being insensitive to those for whom such a state is difficult, if not impossible, to attain. Not everyone is able to enjoy a balance of responsibilities or develop a level of fitness akin to the circumstances that allow me to relish the gentle glow of dawning sunshine reaching across meadows tangled with last season's withered grass. Nor is my pursuit of solitude through endurance athleticism, or simply closing my door, a perennially effective means, let alone the only one, leading to such a state of body, mind, and soul.  

I've increasingly experienced periods of loneliness as genuine hardships, and struggled with how to escape or counteract their deleterious effects on my frame of mind. Having grown in my ability to distinguish such loneliness from solitude, I'm learning not to take the former as lightly as I once did. Furthermore, praying through the texts encountered at Mass during Lent is reminding me that loneliness is imposed on some people by dint of age, social class, family situation, or other circumstance, whereas I (not without unease) have typically resigned myself to it as the cost of certain choices, like training alone for a marathon.

I continue to struggle with companionship; despite being a firm believer in the life-giving power and graces of genuine friendship, I've not always lived up to the very ideals that I desire for myself and encourage others to pursue. I strive diligently to be trustworthy and reliable, yet put less effort into relying upon the trustworthiness of my closest Jesuit brothers and long-time friends. I prefer– likely with some hidden or carefully overlooked pride– to imitate Jesus in my actions and ministry rather than to accompany him in the lives of those with whom I work and live. I easily make training plans to prepare my mind and body for athletic and adventurous pursuits of my own, yet experience far more difficulty in shaping my heart and soul for the far superior sustenance of keeping myself in good company in a truly deep and mutual way. Thankfully, God's abundant mercy and life's ever-changing circumstances offer countless opportunities to undertake courses of growth, both in the refreshing peace of genuine solitude, and in the vivifying exchanges of true companionship. God willing, I'll use them well, wherever (and with whomever) my training leads.

Lengthy Plans

East Brookfield MA

My training schedule calls for a 22-mile run tomorrow. It's the longest run I'll attempt until the marathon, and it's filled me with a mixture of enthusiasm and anxiety for the past few days. On one level, there's the pragmatic array of preparations: mapping a route, setting aside my hydration pack and a pair of energy gels to keep me nourished, and double-checking the laces on my running shoes. Yet beyond the practicalities of getting ready, I find myself seriously considering how best to use all that time.

Basic math– 7 minutes per mile multiplied by 22– suggests I'll be passing through rural scenes like the one above for 154 minutes, or just over two and a half hours. On a retreat, that would be enough time for two distinct prayer periods with a break for journaling and a cup of tea. In the office, I could proofread several grant proposals, develop a schedule for a three-day conference, or scrutinize a complicated budget during that interval. In the community, that's more than enough time for Mass, socializing, dinner, and conversation after we've cleared the dishes. In each of these situations, the rhythm of contemplation, the focus of a task, or the presence of my Jesuit brethren causes the time to pass unnoticed, filled as it is with the delight of progressing through a project or engaging in animated conversation.

I'm not one to constantly check my watch while training; I trust my body to find and sustain a natural and sensible rhythm. Yet, conscious of just how much time I'll have on my hands (my feet will be otherwise occupied) during tomorrow's 22-mile odyssey, I'm reluctant to waste it, and wary of passing it in the mindless monotony of my stride. I could play the ornithologist and catalog the birds I glimpse, despite my inability to identify more than a few species. I could attempt to brainstorm poetic verse or creative narratives, letting my visual and linguistic imagination run more wildly than the gently regulated pace of my training. I could delve deeply into the sort of conversational prayer that's been elusive this Lent; after all, if I'm crazy enough to be running through the middle of nowhere on a Saturday morning, speaking aloud to God shouldn't seem any less bizarre.

In any event, the long chunk of time awaiting my usage tomorrow morning is clearly on my mind amidst a quiet Friday in the office at the end of spring break week at Holy Cross. The campus will be much busier by the end of the weekend, and my training will become more intense in the coming weeks, potentially crowding out the luxury of such deliberation on my relationship with the time that I'm given each day. Hopefully, I'll be blessed with some good insights tomorrow as I pursue not only a broad yellow finish line in the heart of Boston, but also the continuing graces and growth that keep me on the best possible course in life.

Through the Lens

In addition to my responsibilities in the Grants Office, I'm occasionally invited to photograph events on campus for the staff in Public Affairs. I covered two athletic events– women's basketball and men's hockey– at the end of February; yesterday, I was one of several campus photographers working at an awards luncheon for Holy Cross staff– basically anyone who isn't a professor, student, or head of an administrative department. By my estimation, nearly 300 people attended the function, which included a series of awards for 5-year increments of service, as well as distinguished recognitions of several employees for their devotion, dedication, and other highly esteemed qualities.

O'Kane Hall
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

I've never been completely comfortable photographing people, especially those whom I do not personally know. "Random" shots, no matter how carefully composed, still strike me as impersonal, despite their ability to portray the tender human interplay of a given moment. I witnessed several yesterday: colleagues leaning across a table to chat, a tradesman from the physical plant gently resting a hand on his young son's head, the smiles exchanged between award recipients and the College's president as they shook hands. Yet the very moments that I captured in these photographs– images that will hopefully charm viewers of the website and readers of the publications where they may appear– escaped my gaze in the instant when they occurred, driven from my consciousness by the act of peering through a lens.

Fenwick Hall
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

A wise Jesuit with whom I shared my developing interest in photography once cautioned me, "Don't hide behind the lens, nor miss what the camera helps you to see." I heard his words constantly as I moved about the ballroom yesterday, striving to be appropriately friendly and engaging while also sufficiently innocuous so as not to unduly influence the people whom I photographed. A certain level of focus on movement, lighting conditions, background, and other compositional elements noticeably shifted the character and depth of my presence in the room. Only in reviewing my images– and culling some truly awful ones– did I feel a fuller sense of appreciation for the events that I witnessed, the people whom I met, and the sense of community that I experienced during the luncheon. This insight continues to challenge me– whether or not I have a camera in hand– to be fully present to the variety of situations and people I encounter in my daily rounds, and to see not only through the fine photographic equipment with which I'm increasingly entrusted, but also through the senses with which I'm so lavishly blessed.

Snow and Spice

My training plan called for 7 miles of hilly running this morning. The local district called off school as plows dealt with the 7 inches of snow that had accumulated overnight. Roads were slushy, but footing was firm, and traffic was lighter than usual. As I delighted in some pristine winter scenery for the first time in over a month, I also quietly savored the fact that this was not the stupid run that I still intend to avoid during the remaining days of winter.

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

This morning's seven-mile slog (running in slush is vaguely akin to walking uphill in mud) was hardly my fastest spin through Worcester's hills and neighborhoods, yet it served up an unexpected and marvelous gift from a hitherto unremarkable landmark. Just after clearing one of Worcester's many bizarre intersections, I pass a pie factory, which is typically devoid of visible activity. Yet today the whole area smelled of nutmeg. The contrast couldn't have been more jarring– cold breezes whisking snowflakes through air suffused with the aroma of a tropical spice. I certainly ran a little faster, motivated by the idea of indulgently adding some nutmeg to my post-run bowl of oatmeal, strawberries, and cranberries. (It's delicious, by the way!)

In light of the musings that inspired yesterday's post, this strong encounter with the ordinary shaped my day; I engaged in more small talk than usual, sensed some sharper focus in hours of researching and indexing information on a variety of postdoctoral fellowships, and felt a little less preoccupied with unearthing radically significant insights from daily minutiae. Rather, as I did with my camera during a slushy seven-minute walk to the office this morning, I took in scenes as a whole, while also appreciating the simple (and also majestic) confluence of their myriad components. Who knew that snow and nutmeg could do so much?