Backing Off

Nearly 400 miles into my training for the Boston Marathon, I've been blessed with the endurance to move through twelve weeks of running, the grittiness (and occasional folly) to stride through a chilly January and snowy February, and the company of a training partner who has now officially made it through a winter of outdoor running for the first time. I've managed to tweak my schedule around two trips to Washington DC, and just last Monday, I caught up (while striving fiercely to match pace) with a good friend during a seven-mile pre-sunrise loop through the city and the National Mall.

Yet a familiar danger in my annual marathon preparation is the risk of overtraining or injury, which tend to be related. The latter can occur on its own– I've had my share of near-wipeouts on slick wintry surfaces– but the former is a more complicated matter. Pushing hard in pursuit of a new threshold– clicking through my weekly 800-meter repeats in 2:45, getting under 7:15 pace for a grueling, hilly 18-mile long run– can lead to a breakthrough... or a breakdown. I'm prone to shove my way across some boundaries of time or distance, and often self-critical when I consider backing off and admitting to some sobering physical and mental limitations. Ambition is a great motivator, but rather needy in terms of attention.

So it is with mixed feelings, but also a subtle sense of prideful prudence, that I skipped a run this week, in hopes of bouncing back for a scheduled 20-miler on Saturday. One of my knees had been feeling weird for an entire day– not seriously affecting my walking stride, but clearly telling me that all was not well in this crucial and majestic joint of bones, muscles, and tendons. Another round of snow meant that the track would be unusable once again, a source of mounting frustration. And the marathon lies a mere 24 days away... no time to be courting the risk of a long-term injury.

Frosty greenhouse reflections
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

It's been a good exercise in patience, a virtue that seems appropriate for any number of contemporary situations that also seem to demand urgency. On the third day of spring, the Holy Cross campus remains blanketed with snow. Our nation's budgetary and political climate could certainly benefit from a change in season. Both Pope Francis and Justin Welby were installed this week as leaders of their respective global faith communities, each of which is characterized by great diversity and vibrancy, as well as voices clamoring for strong and positive solutions to troubling issues. I imagine that there are those people who would have wanted these and other changes to have been tackled swiftly and accomplished decisively. Yet there's a sense in which our responsibilities and motivations to labor towards worthy goals shouldn't be equated with the ability to achieve them entirely on our own.

Psalm 130 proclaims, "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits and I hope for his word. My soul looks for the Lord more than sentinels for daybreak. More than sentinels for daybreak, let Israel hope in the Lord." Though I haven't always embraced such waiting and searching eagerly, I have found that the faith it entails has played no less a role than my own determined efforts in getting to a desired point– a new season, a marathon's starting line, or the successful completion of a project. And I trust that the same applies to all situations in which Christ is laboring, inviting not only our participation, but also our patience.

Turning the Corner II

In the spirit of my previous post, I've spent much of this week appreciating the interplay between winter's lingering grasp and spring's subtle encroachments. A few days of strong sunshine melted most of last week's 22 new inches of snow, and made temperatures in the upper 40s feel quite mild. On the other hand, clear nights dotted by brilliant stars piercing chilly air alluded to mid-January more than mid-March. Students returning from spring break travels responded variously, depending on where they had spent the previous week. Those who skied in northern New England and Canada welcomed the warmth; those who volunteered or vacationed in southern locales seemed slightly bitter (why discard the pun?) over a return to the reality of Worcester's climate. I stayed here, and found particular insight into the ongoing seasonal tension in daily observations of the campus greenhouse.

It all came together this morning: a brilliant pre-dawn sky, utter calm, temperatures in the mid-teens, and a room full of flowers. Transparency to warming light nourished growth, but the clear glass also suggested a certain vulnerability. One crack, one loose joint between pane and frame, and frigid air could steal inside, hijack the fan-stirred air currents, and breathe invisible doom on blooms eager for truly fresh air and genuinely earthy anchoring. Menacing tendrils of frost and sliding drops of condensation seemed quite intent on a two-front sortie against the vibrant plants in plain sight.

As I shivered slightly against the cold, yet felt certain warmth in the beauty of the morning, I took a lesson from the greenhouse. There's a danger in seeking protection from threats that results in an opacity around the soul. On the other hand, there's paradoxical strength in a faith that's transparent, trusting in the invisible and immaterial to keep us open to daily blessings and graces, and safe from the more harmful possibilities that are inherent in the situations we encounter. And while signs of things to come may seem like the spoiling of a surprise, there's great joy to anticipate in knowing that what's growing within will soon be moved and planted outside, where it will be even more fruitful for, and rooted in, this wonderful and changing world.

Turning the Corner

As I write this, it's snowing again in Worcester. Spring break week at Holy Cross has been all winter– the sun hasn't made an appearance since Tuesday, and the latest snowstorm has been in no hurry to traverse New England. I'm one of a few Jesuits in my community who braved the conditions to walk to his office today, preferring to work there rather than from home. I enjoy a good separation between the two spheres, and as this is my eighth winter as a New England resident, it takes much more than 10 inches of snow and 25-mph winds to foil my 7-minute walking commute.

Stairway to Beaven Hall
College of the Holy Cross

However, last week, spring seemed to be just over the horizon. Sunrises were edging closer to 6am. Nights were getting "warmer." Daytime temperatures in the upper 30s (and occasionally 40s) were nibbling away at the snow cover, revealing grass that was matted and pale yet seemingly ready to sprout anew when the time was right. A colleague in Oregon who blogs about her gardening had posted pictures of an Algerian iris in her yard, flowering right on schedule in late February. Spring Training games were underway. I knew better than to think that spring's arrival was imminent, yet I knew that we were turning the corner from one season to the next.

Seasonal transitions are among the many qualities of living in New England that I savor. While the four seasons are rather distinct in this part of the world, the changes between them are relatively similar. Spring seems to gently, even unconsciously, yield to summer– by the middle of May, it gradually becomes hotter, and eventually it's time to say farewell to crisp evenings for a few months. Likewise, summer may try to extend its warmth into September days, but as sunrises grow later and sunsets grow earlier, autumn asserts itself with greater authority. Likewise, after several weeks of radiantly colored  foliage and a rich interplay between the dwindling warmth of the sun and the gathering chill of night, winter closes its grip with increasingly frequent frosts, and then arrives undeniably with the first big snowfall. There may be some back and forth in these seasonal shifts– an early snow in October, an errant blast of heat in April, a cool spell in July– but the progression from one season to the next never seems to be in doubt.

The change from winter to spring, on the other hand, is in a league of its own. It's not so much a transition as a struggle; thought its end result is inevitable, the process of getting there is never straightforward, and can sometimes seem very much in doubt. The stretch from the last days of February to the first days of April always intrigues and astounds me in its unpredictability. The arrivals of summer, fall, and winter are pretty reliable; it's the coming of spring that seems to require true faith. Winter seems poised to play hard until the bitter end this year, so I'm already confident that we've got one good spring on the way... and that it will get here, someday.

St. Joseph Chapel
College of the Holy Cross

In reflecting upon past struggles from which I've ultimately emerged with greater wisdom and experience, the problems I've overcome despite periods when no solutions were in sight, the shift from winter to spring becomes an apt metaphor. Looking at the state of our nation's political scene, or at the issues attending the papal transition in the Catholic Church, one could be justified in wondering what the future holds, where a positive way forward lies, and who may be the figures to lead and accompany us along that mysterious and uncharted route. I wouldn't dare to hazard a guess, but I need only look out the window to have faith that we'll get there, someday. For although it's cold and snowy yet again, I'm sure that we're turning the corner to a new season, even if it's a longer curve this time around.

Screened Out

Three weeks into Lent, I'm grateful for the grace of remaining faithful to a practice I'm trying for the first time. As I spend my work days using my delightful laptop to create budgets, tweak narratives, and correspond with colleagues to accomplish the tasks of the grants office– with only occasional breaks to check Spring Training box scores– I'd noticed myself getting tired out by all that screen time. I found that, in the evenings, I maintained a decent discipline of replying to personal emails from friends in a timely manner, but also a tendency to fritter away time in a range of generally worthy endeavors– daily news trivia on NPR, the nuances of the weather forecast for the next morning's run, or the BBC's latest take on world news. So I made a bold declaration to myself for Lent, and shared it with a few friends to keep myself honest: no screen time after I leave work each day.

After three weeks of screenless evenings, I'm increasingly grateful for the wealth of refreshing activity I've been able to enjoy while my laptop sits closed and unpowered on my desk. I've found greater focus and intentionality in my prayer and my journaling. I've written and sent a number of letters of varying lengths. I've made my way with greater swiftness and closer attention through my two latest books– Bernd Heinrich's Winter World and Jared Diamond's Collapse. I've enjoyed countless cups of tea while indulging in these activities. Most of all, I've enjoyed a different experience of connectivity– be it with the written word, the divine voice, or the gentle tranquility that seems to attend my deep engagement with both.

With days lengthening, and the end of Standard Time about to bestow an extra hour of light upon expanding evenings, I can anticipate sustaining my "screened out" evenings into the spring, when I might even be able to haul a chair outside to read, write, or pray by the radiance of a good sunset.