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.