The Class of 2012

With yesterday's awards ceremony and Baccalaureate Mass, and today's Commencement Exercises, the members of the Class of 2012 have graduated from the College of the Holy Cross. I've been blessed by their company throughout this academic year, and pray for their continued happiness, success, and growth as they continue their journeys through life. The campus is certainly much quieter without them tonight.

Awards Ceremony
Dinand Library

After passing through a gauntlet of faculty applause (at left),
the Class of 2012 takes the field.

Congratulations, graduates!

Tools of the Trade

Still life with frame and chain.

Twenty-some years old, and still going strong.
The only thing she lacks is a granny gear.

As my post-marathon recovery enters its third week, the imminent conclusion of the academic year, the arrival of warmer weather, and the coming Memorial Day weekend have renewed my enthusiasm and ambition in the realms of fitness, recreation, and exploration. Two Fridays ago, after a slightly early finish at work, I claimed a section of the driveway for the joyful toil involved in disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling the road bike I was given by a family friend when I was in high school. Despite a lack of professional knowledge and a dearth of equipment pertient to bicycle maintenance, I still took great pride in getting reacquainted with the bicycle's components, as well as the elegant design and sound craftsmanship involved in this light yet powerful machine. Since then, I've put 35 miles on it, and I'm pretty sure that its gears are in better shape than my legs, at least for now. In any event, I've been enthralled by the synergy between the Trek's whirring wheels and my body's cycling heart– both creating something much more than the sum of their parts.

Ready for another season of New England summits.

Lest I spend too much time on the pavement between cycling and running this summer, I've made a list of mountains to climb and trails to explore. Wasting no time, this Memorial Day weekend is booked with plans for two separate trips. First, a two-summit day hike in New Hampshire with a group of friends that should see one of them successfully conclude an effort to climb each of that state's 4,000-foot peaks (all 48 of them). The next day, a long journey to northern Vermont with a good Jesuit friend to successfully complete a bucket list item of my own: reaching the highest point in each of the six New England states. [Stay tuned for a retrospective entry on this particular endeavor.] These boots (made for hiking) have seen many adventures, and I'm eager to stick my feet in them for many more miles of backcountry trails and rock scrambles above treeline during the months ahead.

Every good adventure deserves a break along the way.

One of the books that I read last year, Matthew Crawford's Shop Class as Soulcraft, explored the relationships between people and machines, and the effects of a technological age on the ability to understand and manipulate the workings of the tools that we use. Crawford expresses concerns about making items so "user-friendly" that the user no longer has direct control over them; he cites automatic faucets in public restrooms as a key example. While I happily leave skilled work on my community's vehicle fleet to the experts, I do find a measure of satisfaction in being adept at checking and replacing certain fluids, changing tires, and handling similar minor issues in order to keep a Prius like the one above running smoothly.

Crawford Notch, NH

My summer adventures into New England's splendid and varied natural scenery will certainly entail keeping myself in shape. Yet they'll also involve the use of some tools whose utility, craft, and intricacy impress me anew. From hybrid drivetrains to rugged bike chains, from boots to Birkenstocks (a delightfully soothing reward for my feet after a day of running, hiking, and/or cycling), fresh appreciation of the items that bear me into the wilderness is laying the groundwork for savoring the places to which I'll travel, and the people with whom I'll soon share those journeys.

Empty Grandeur II

The seniors will notice a few changes when they return to campus in a few days. Lawns are being cut, shrubs are being trimmed, and flowers are being planted in newly-mulched beds around various buildings.

Smith Hall and the Hill Dorms

A variety of banners highlighting themes of Jesuit education appeared around a central gathering space.

Buildings that were heavily used during finals week are being cleaned and put back into order. While checking out some summer reading items, the librarian gestured to five fully loaded book trucks marked "Returns." Over in the science complex, the detritus of marathon study sessions is being scoured from countless nooks and crannies.

Dinand Library– packed to the gills a few days ago, now eerily empty.

Benches such as these will surely facilitate many more good conversations, and witness a few tears, as the members of the Class of 2012 take their leave.

A senior and I had a long chat here the other evening.

After gifting this community and this city for four years, they'll receive hard-earned diplomas, as well as grand and well-deserved blessings, from a grateful College next week. I can already taste the bittersweet mix of emotion gathering in the atmosphere, awaiting expression amidst both well-planned pageantry and serendipitous encounters between seniors, parents, professors, administrators, Jesuits, and staff. For now, it remains strangely quiet, a tranquil prelude to the year's final movements.

Empty Grandeur

Final exams have ended. The last of the underclassmen (except RAs) seem to have moved out, a year (or two, or three) at Holy Cross under their belts. Nearly thirty students and a handful of chaplains entered the silence of the five-day Spiritual Exercises retreat this evening. While many of my Jesuit brethren are grateful for the peace that attends the close of a busy semester, not to mention the conclusion of grading final papers and exams, I already find myself missing the students who contribute so much to this school's identity and the vitality of this beautiful campus. While most of the seniors have departed to enjoy a few days on Cape Cod and elsewhere, before returning for the social events of Senior Week, a handful have chosen to remain here, engaging in one last, long, loving contemplation of the home they've created, and been created by, at Holy Cross. The Class of 2012, and legions of their proud admirers, will assemble next Thursday and Friday for the pomp, circumstance, and emotion of Baccalaureate Mass and Commencement. In the meantime, if my stroll this evening through a suddenly empty campus is any indication, every nook and cranny will continually hum with the echoes of the fine young men and women who breathed life into this community throughout the year.

Memorization

Throughout the semester, my weekly rhythm has included attending a 10pm Mass each Tuesday in a cozy downstairs chapel. Though I often arrive tired after a long day of work, my spirits (if not my physical energy) gently revive amidst the curving lines of the walls and ceiling, the familiar dialogue of the prayers spoken by priest and people, and the community of students who, like me, are faithfully present each week. Lately, the topic of rhetoric has consistently appeared in our conversations after Mass, inviting dialogue about the value of carefully crafted (and delivered) speeches, inspirational and thought-provoking poetry, and literature in a linguistic context increasingly saturated by social media and its concomitant reduction of language to a more abbreviated and far less eloquent form.

Last Tuesday, three of us made good on a friendly promise (in the eyes of the rest of the regular attendees, a lively challenge that they supported) to recite the Gettysburg Address from memory. Having done this before, I relished the opportunity to renew my acquaintance with my favorite piece of rhetoric from the history of the United States. This Tuesday's challenge concerns the poem below; one of my favorites from the work of Robert Frost, it's lodged in my memory no less firmly than the words of President Lincoln. As an additional twist, this being the final weekday night Mass of the semester (exams conclude on Wednesday, and many students, apart from the seniors, have already left campus for the summer), I've invited members of our informally regular group to bring a poem or inspirational passage– whether memorized or not– that speaks to the adventures of the semester, represents a particularly apt expression of one's thought and feeling, or embodies the delightful dexterity of language and imagery.

Committing these two works to memory took some effort; not an excessively arduous endeavor, but hardly a straightforward one. Repeatedly reciting each clause or phrase, gradually forging them into paragraphs as one adds links to a chain, slowly ingrained the flow of these words into the same mental pathways that allow me to navigate Boston without a map, recall the street addresses of Jesuit communities I once called home, and remember friends' birthdays with a reasonably strong degree of accuracy and timeliness. Yet Lincoln's speech and Frost's poem are more than mere data to be catalogued by neural chemistry; they are poignant, emotional expressions of human experience as deep and intricate as any robust conversation, and no less of an exchange between speaker and listener. The process of memorization, to me, has brought me into a stronger relationship with these men whose works (and lives) I increasingly admire. For in getting to know their words, I become (I imagine) more familiar with their manner of seeing the world, perceiving its inherent meanings, and expressing their personal hopes, dreams, and fears for that world and its people in light of their own experience. Moreover, having stood on the rural Pennsylvania battlefield where Lincoln delivered the two-minute speech whose enduring significance far surpassed his stated assessment of its power, and encountered any number of divergent paths in yellowed woods both material and spiritual, I feel as if my own efforts at memorizing words inspired by, and echoing in, such landscapes attain some fleeting approximation of the labors undertaken there by Lincoln and Frost to develop these now-timeless expressions.

Whatever pieces of poetry and prose I choose to memorize in the future– suggestions are welcome– I hope to deepen the graces that have recently attended such efforts. Whether it's a newfound "relationship" with an eloquent author, an additional bond strengthening an existing community, or an opportunity to hone one's mental fitness or recapture the splendor of language, I'm gladdened to discover anew that, the more I remember, the more I learn.

"The Road Not Taken"

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh,

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two road diverged in a wood, and I–

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

– Robert Frost

Mt. Greylock
Adams MA

Good, Tough Miles

Start/finish line
2012 Providence Marathon

Early yesterday morning, standing in the street under a layer of fog in downtown Providence, I found myself grateful for the opportunity to be just behind the starting line, ready to embark upon my seventh marathon in as many years. Mentally reviewing the long path that brought me here– an oddly mild and snowless winter that made training far less treacherous than in years past, an absurdly sudden and severe spike in warmth that led me to defer a Boston Marathon entry until next spring, a well-exercised body and mind that showed some new signs of fickle and inconsistent strength (my Jesuit brethren assure me that I'm merely "getting older," and it's nothing to be worried about)– I felt anew the gift and privilege of being able to travel such an intense and circuitous route, and the gentle reminder to enjoy the journey, rather than fret over the pace at which I make it.

I largely forgot that advice as soon as the starting gun fired, sending more than 1,500 runners hurtling into the streets of Providence, navigating quiet neighborhoods largely devoid of residents or spectators on a quiet Sunday morning. My fellow runners and I quickly found that some of the mile markers– upon which the more serious folks rely for feedback on their fine-tuned race plans– were placed rather inaccurately. Nobody was running an eight-minute mile followed by a five-minute mile; I'd likely be fielding sponsorship offers from Mizuno if that were the case. Delightfully scenic stretches of the course– several scattered miles along a wooded bicycle path, a swing around a golf course overlooking Narragansett Bay– alternated with comparatively mundane suburban enclaves and impersonal warehouse districts. I all too easily found things to critique, and despite the exchanges of humor and sarcasm among those of us with the same gripes (mostly about those mile markers), I knew that such negativity was detracting from my race.

I can admit to some disappointment that I wasn't able to achieve the final time that seemed within reasonable reach until the 17-mile mark. I can admit to some frustration over the quirky weather that forced me into a prudential decision that I'm still quite happy to have made, swapping Boston for Providence, in order to sustain my ongoing tradition of training for and completing a spring marathon. I can now, in hindsight, recognize that this wandering course and my inconsistent transit through it proved to be an uncannily apt metaphor for an academic year that has seen a fair share of those themes alongside steady progress and slowly emerging strength in certain areas of my life.

Despite all this, as my community and friends remind me, there's so much to appreciate. I met a Chilean Jesuit at mile 4 who, like me, was running Providence for the first time. One of his housemates, with whom I lived in St. Louis, was at mile 25, having completed a half-marathon while we were legging the middle miles of the full. He and I were perhaps equally surprised to encounter one another, yet the high five we shared as I lumbered by was the best one of the day. Though my mile-to-mile pace was hardly smooth and steady, I still notched my second-fastest marathon time ever, which also preserves a hallowed space for the 2010 Boston Marathon, in virtually all criteria of personal and objective judgment, as the best race of my life. A few other friends came out to cheer, and one treated me to an amazing brunch (post-marathon hunger didn't overly skew my opinion– this little storefront eatery stacks up to the best diners in Worcester), a favor I'll repay before too long. And although I won't be exercising heavily for a while, I'm able to walk and manage stairs without too much soreness, instilling gratitude for locomotion itself as well as the body's ability to recover from stress and injury in remarkable fashion.

I'm aware that just over three hours of running have given me material for reflection, prayer, and discussion that could fill three months. Why do I run? Why am I so self-critical? What is a given stretch of my life's journey, or the entire span of my existence, all about? Where is there weakness to be accepted, potential to be strengthened, talent to be applied? What sustains joy as I keep the odometer rolling? I'm increasingly counting on my community and my friends to help me tease out some answers, whether we do so around an altar or a dinner table, amidst a busy campus or a quiet forest, during a gentle stroll or a swift cycling expedition (yes, I'm preparing my mechanical steed for a new season). In any case, I'm grateful that, once again, a marathon finish line has been not only an achievement in itself to celebrate, but also a welcome start to a new cycle of exploration, training, and growth.

My finisher's medal– note the Rhode Island State House and the state motto, "Hope."

Keeping the Flame

Art deco sconce
Financial District, Boston MA

Walking back to the car after attending an open house at an architectural firm's spectacular new office in downtown Boston, a row of these sconces caught my attention. The image doesn't do justice to their imposing dimensions– more than five feet high, and pitched outward nearly 40 degrees from their second-story perches– nor their provision of brooding illumination over an otherwise nondescript sidewalk. By the same token, this post may not do justice to the feeling of resonance that suddenly emerged as I saw in this architectural element a metaphor for the state of mind in which I've recently found myself– feeling somewhat heavy, certainly stuck in a measure of brooding, yet also faithful in my potential for illumination.

My close friends and brothers are aware of some of the lights and shadows that play across the contours of my daily life, and this week has seen plenty of both. As I begin to consider graduate programs for future years of study in theology, and perhaps geography as well, I feel both enthusiasm for a return to the life of a full-time student as well as anxiety over choosing an area of specialization in the absence of clearly refined, specific, and well-articulated topics of personal interest and general applicability. As I gratefully accept invitations to guide friends in discerning long-distance moves, mostly for graduate programs of their own, I feel the buoyant enthusiasm of sharing their excitement over good decisions. And while I'll be thrilled to welcome two good friends back to Boston at the end of the summer, I occasionally perceive a dulling sense of stasis in my assignment (made and accepted with a similar measure of confidence and faith) to remain at Holy Cross for another year.

On the other hand, I notice a gentle radiance and soothing sense of peace as I consider anew the more constant elements of my life, especially enduring friendships. Tomorrow, I'll travel to Cape Cod to visit the increasingly infirm grandmother of a close friend; having grown close to this friend's family over the years, I endeavor to make the trip whenever she and her mother make their own respective voyages to spend time with their gracefully aging relative. In whatever mood I find myself– thankfully, there's time for inner clouds to part during the drive through southeastern Massachusetts– I find that such visits are always appreciated to a degree that readily outweighs my initial assessment of what my presence offers. And I often find my inner light strengthened and amplified by the compassion, interconnectedness, and love that I witness when these three remarkable and inspiring individuals gather.

That's one of many sources for the flame that I strive to sustain, however cold and dark I may feel in body, mind, or spirit. I'm not sure whether or not the architects and designers had any of this in mind when constructing this feature of Boston's urban landscape, but I'm thankful that such magnificent sconce retain their power to elegantly light the way.

May Day

May 1 is a big day in much of Europe, as I learned firsthand ten years ago while studying in Prague for the spring term of my sophomore year at Dartmouth. Communities in the countryside organize festivals featuring maypoles, dancing, athletic competitions, and other celebrations of the season. Cities play host to parades and rallies that honor the dignity and contributions of workers, organized by the trade unions which, a mere generation ago, provided much of the physical, political, and social momentum that drove totalitarian governments from power.

Here in the United States, it's just another day in the office, on the factory floor, or on the road for those of us blessed with employment in an economy that, despite any empirical gains in strength and vitality it has achieved in the past year, remains a source of fear and anxiety for far too many people. Whatever the unemployment figure may be in the minds of economists and policymakers, it represents men and women of many ages and backgrounds who find themselves unable to work, and obscures the very real, unique, and sometimes private struggles of those who desire to contribute to the needs of their families, communities, and nation through the tangible, productive, and dignified labor of their bodies and minds.

As I live and work on a college campus, I'm aware of some particular significance that attaches to May Day in our corner of the higher education landscape. Today is the last day for high school seniors across the country who have been offered admission to Holy Cross to postmark and submit their deposit, the first formal installment of a four-year investment of time, money, study, formation, and experience that will transform them in yet-unimagined ways. For the members of the Class of 2012, commencement exercises are a mere two dozen days away, bringing not only a formal conclusion to their fine and distinguished tenure at Holy Cross, but also a raft of emotions distributed across the full spectrum of the human experience– hopes and anxieties, elation and sadness, conviction and uncertainty. In conversations with some of them over lunch, after Mass, or between classes, it's clear that there's much on their minds and hearts, whether or not they're sufficiently comfortable or unhurried– deadlines for papers and upcoming exams loom large in this final week of classes– to articulate them aloud.

There's plenty of work to be done– in our communities, in our country, in our world– towards ensuring justice, peace, stability, health, and productivity among all people. There's much to celebrate in the lives of those who labor to accomplish these goals and provide these goods to their loved ones and their neighbors. There's much to support, develop, and encourage in the community of study, service, and reflection that exists here at Holy Cross, so that our next class of graduates will go out and take their place in this great human enterprise. On a quiet, cold, and rainy morning (apparently, April showers are late this year), that's the work in which I'm grateful to be involved, and in which I place a great deal of confidence and hope.