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.