Hold On Tight!

Ferry Mast
Martha's Vineyard MA

Most of the United States has been having some wild weather lately. Sadly, there were some fatalities from tornadoes in Georgia, and undoubtedly significant hardship involved in a fierce Midwest blizzard. Here in Worcester, 40-mph winds slinging heavy bands of rain bounced me around during my predawn run, and constituted a significant change from the same time the previous week, when the utter absence of wind gave me the confidence (and the excuse I was looking for) to venture out into air that was 60 degrees colder (a brisk -1 Farenheit) than what I faced this morning.

On some level, I count such crazy variation in this winter's climate as an opportunity to build up swagger and credibility to bring to the 20-mile mid-February race that I've run on Martha's Vineyard every year since 2010. I'll be eager to swap stories with other runners to see how we each dealt with "Freeze Week," when Worcester didn't crack 20 degrees for four or five days. In another way, halfway through a winter that's not been much snowier than last year's abnormally dry and mild season, and not nearly as consistently wintry as 2011's (admittedly above average) juggernaut of snow and cold, I can't help but see connections to the discourse on global climate change, both in the popular press and in the scientific literature. These aren't the kind of winters that caused me to fall in love with New England in particular, and the cycle of four distinct and sequentially integrated seasons in general.

Personally, I'm quite willing to believe in a credible connection between human activity and shifting patterns in the global climate. Yet I recognize my inability to easily liberate myself from many of the habits of resource usage, and relating to the environment more as a source of commodified resources than as a living community in which humans participate in a countless number of interlinked processes, that characterizes modern technological society. I would happily admit to dreams of an age, in the not too distant future, when humanity is able to utilize ever-advancing technical skill and a (hopefully) ever-deepening sense of responsibility to multiple future generations to mitigate, if not reverse, the deleterious effects that our activities have on the world. In the meantime, though, I feel limited to adapting to the conditions that are occurring, and their increasingly broad and unpredictable variability. Basically, I'm just hanging on and trying to enjoy the ride. Yet I have a sense that it's not a road that we're supposed to be traveling, and it seems that our collective wisdom has fallen asleep at the wheel.

The Old Neighborhood

For the first time since returning to Holy Cross a week ago, I managed to rise early enough for a stroll around campus before breakfast and a full day's work. Bundled up against the pre-dawn chill, yet immaterially warmed by the radiant glow of dawn on the southeastern horizon, I devoted much of my thirty-minute tour of the College's grounds to simple prayer– meditating upon blessings of the new day, seeking guidance for issues that I anticipated facing, begging advice as I prepare for an upcoming 5-day silent retreat for students.

"The old neighborhood"
Haddon Township NJ

This morning's exercise also reminded me of some walks I took around "the old neighborhood" while I was visiting my parents in South Jersey over Christmas. I'm not sure precisely when, but I know that my habit of meditative walking has its roots in the paths that I found through the tree-lined blocks surrounding my home. Whether treading these paths alone, or doing so in the company of my mother, my father, and/or our beloved Beagle (recently deceased after 16+ years), there was something about tracing a loop for 30 to 60 minutes. I've used my walks to catch up on family news, to take a break from family news, to give the dog some exercise, to clear (or fill) my head, to meditate upon the lives occurring within the houses in my neighborhood, many of which look very much like my own.

A typical Victorian home
Cape May NJ

Even though I no longer call South Jersey home, as I strolled its most familiar blocks during the last week of December, I did feel quite welcome and at ease, "at home on the road," to paraphrase quite liberally a Jesuit principle about finding one's home and community not merely (or only) in the place where one's mail is delivered. By the same token, Holy Cross will not always be my apostolate or place of residence, and in the future it too will feel like another "old neighborhood," where I can associate a memory, an insight, and a story with every bend in the road well-worn by my strolling feet.

May your walks be exercises for body and soul, and your homes be blessed.

Snowshine

Viewed from a distance, the snow cover on campus shone brilliantly in today's radiant sunlight. Seen from a foreshortened and immediate perspective however, the snowshine took on a texture of light and darkness, glimmers teasing shadows around tufts of crystal. Not unlike the contoured terrain and the air of mystery I encounter when I take the time to truly see what lies before (and within) me.