Narrative Encounters

"Revelation"

We make ourselves a place apart

Behind light words that tease and flout,

But oh, the agitated heart

Till someone really find us out.

'Tis pity if the case require

(Or so we say) that in the end

We speak the literal to inspire

The understanding of a friend.

But so with all, from babes that play

At hide-and-seek to Fod afar,

So all who hide too well away

Must speak and tell us where they are.

–Robert Frost

[in "The Poetry of Robert Frost," edited by Edward Connery Lathem]

Over the past few weeks– amidst Christmas travels, a Jesuit gathering, some vacation, and a return to my community in Boston– I've found the notion of narrative joining my prayer, my pleasure reading, and my encounters with those whom I haven't seen for the past few weeks or months. The liturgies of the Advent and Christmas seasons tell a remarkable story: God becomes human, the heavenly and the earthly meet, glory and humility mingle. Or, to put it more bluntly, a baby is born to young parents during a long and arduous journey, at a time when they're lucky enough to find crude shelter at the edge of a modest town surrounded by desert.

Some of the books I've read (and would recommend) over winter break have narrated events whose stark reality can't be ignored: Joan Didion writes about her husband's sudden death and daughter's near-fatal illness in The Year of Magical Thinking; Jeffrey Eugenides presents everything from a transatlantic refugee voyage to the heyday and decline of Detroit to the title character's painful self-discovery in Middlesex. Their stories are not always easy to hear or comfortable to ponder, yet I found something profoundly consoling in my sudden glimpses of the authentic person and life underlying each narrative. These books bestowed a fresh energy on my imaginations of the Gospel accounts proclaimed over the past few weeks; both named and unnamed characters appeared with faces not unlike those I saw on the bus from Boston to Philadelphia, in the airport after Christmas, or in the supermarket on the Southern Shore before a recent snowstorm.

Liberty Bell pavilion
Philadelphia PA

I noticed these ideas affecting how I swapped stories with my relatives about my community and studies in Boston while at home for Christmas, and how I've been telling my community about Christmas with my family now that I'm back home in Boston. Recounting the events, I've found it difficult to portray the full character of the people involved. Yet in the conversations, I've noticed more of my character being revealed, and a greater attentiveness to (and gratitude for) the formation that my relatives and my Jesuit brethren contribute to the daily pages and longer chapters of my life. At the same time, I've been making prayerful efforts to look beyond the social anonymity easily read in a crowd at a bus station, in line at a grocery store, or at a museum like the Liberty Bell pavilion in Philadelphia. Even the effort to imagine– however erroneously– the lives of those whom I merely pass in such settings has gently enriched my sense of the shared humanity that can be seen there.

With today's feast of the Epiphany, the Church's proclamation of the great stories of Jesus' birth will soon be completed, until the liturgical cycle begins anew at the end of November. But the call to embrace and participate in narratives of encounter, at least in my hearing, continues to build. Next week, I'll be in courses and seminars with classmates whom I'm still getting to know. By the end of the month, I'll be sharing Bible study discussions once again with Salvadorans at the parish where I serve. As I begin my training for the Boston Marathon in April, mine is one among hundreds of thousands of narratives that will converge– if only conceptually– on Patriots' Day. It's my hope that we can all welcome and encounter one another, and ourselves, more fully in the coming days, weeks, and months... one story at a time.

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

First Day of Spring

Between a lively day of work, a series of meetings, a quiet afternoon hour in a town park, and a pleasant dinner with a friend, yesterday's official arrival of spring included much activity... fitting, it seems to me, for a season characterized by new life, revival, and a healthy degree of delightful mystery.

Spring buds
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Morses Pond Land
Wellesley MA

"Praying"

It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

– Mary Oliver

[From Thirst: Poems by Mary Oliver]

Poetic Friendship

I often find that poets are graced with linguistic talent that eloquently clarifies my own reflections. In that vein, and in light of my previous post, I happily rediscovered the following poem by Robert Frost over the weekend. According to the marginal notes I keep in a volume of his works, I've shared it with many friends over the years, and even used it in a talk on vocations.

"Revelation"

We make ourselves a place apart

Behind light words that tease and flout,

But oh, the agitated heart

Till someone really find us out.

'Tis pity if the case require

(Or so we say) that in the end

We speak the literal to inspire

The understanding of a friend.

But so with all, from babes that play

At hide-and-seek to Fod afar,

So all who hide too well away

Must speak and tell us where they are.

–Robert Frost

[in "The Poetry of Robert Frost," edited by Edward Connery Lathem]

Morning Glory

This morning's sunrise suffused my room with beauty as charming as any lyrical grandeur I've encountered in subtly crafted poetry or intricately composed music.

The Heart of Autumn

The Heart of Autumn

The afternoon ends early,

the twilight is amassed,

as memories of summer

recede into the past.

The long nights gain momentum,

light slants more feebly still,

as indoors-driven viewers

take refuge from the chill.

Beyond Thanksgiving's gathering,

a breadth of bounty spread,

as winter's thinness nears us

an Advent lies ahead.

Year-end decay dispelling

seeking for darkness light

obscure amid the bustling

that overlooks delight.

In sweet good time arriving,

when blessings may seem few,

it comes, my faith rekindling,

ever ancient, ever new.

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

Present from the Archives

Recently I've been encouraged to write about my daily experiences in a way that's immediate and uncritical, as a complement to my style of prayer and reflection that's more analytical and intellectual. Although both avenues assist me in my desire to recognize God's presence, follow Christ's call, and heed the Spirit's guidance, I tend to privilege the latter, and often deny myself the liberty to engage the former. Rummaging through a (physical, not virtual) folder of poetry that I used actively during philosophy studies, yet have neglected on my shelf for much of my regency here in Worcester, I found many treasures that I'd forgotten, relics of a familiar yet now distant part of my identity. I'm praying for a renewal of this sort of vision and expression, for even a brief reading of several such poems– including the one below, written at the foot of the tree pictured with it– clearly affirmed that inspirational substance is never lacking.

"Fallen Leaves"

Draped in tranquil muted brilliance

obscuring grass withered by hardening soil

atrophied shards of life flung down

by ominous breezes

or chilling, slicking drops

their ephemeral beauty threatened

by those who would remove

the unkempt detritus

rather than slow and reap

a second autumn harvest

and live more deeply

their solidarity with the fallen.

I bared my feet in humility

sunk against the hardness of dormant life

letting its crackles rekindle my vital flames

sent to gather the fallen

into the smudged liberation that

(I) found (me)

at the foot of deeply rooted

redeeming wood.

Tower Grove Park

St. Louis MO

October

One of my favorite Robert Frost poems, and one of the few that I've memorized, always comes to mind at this time of year. His vivid writing and gentle rhythm seems not to capture the array of changes and shifts in the landscape in early autumn, but rather to liberate the physical and spiritual senses to attend to the sublime transformation in both the external and the internal environments.

"October"

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes' sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost–

For the grapes' sake along the wall.

– Robert Frost

The Berkshires

Near North Adams MA

Beckoning Changes

"A Time to Talk"

When a friend calls to me from the road

And slows his horse to a meaning walk,

I don't stand still and look around

On all the hills I haven't hoed,

And shout from where I am, "What is it?"

No, not as there is a time to talk.

I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,

Blade-end up and five feet tall,

And plod: I go up to the stone wall

For a friendly visit.

– Robert Frost

It's been a long week filled with much activity– various labors on the different aspects of the grant proposal with which I'm involved, attending a number of campus events, receiving and meditating upon several letters from friends, a series of conversations that have been both challenging and rewarding, and trying to avail myself of opportunities for rest and prayer amidst it all.

A strong cold front passed through New England late Thursday night, ushering in the first taste of autumn after a warm summer and a spell of flooding tropical rains as the academic year opened a few weeks ago. Beyond the initial sense of refreshment and excitement that I feel with the arrival of cooler temperatures, crisper air, and the first hints of changing foliage, I notice God's invitation to the sort of friendly visit that Frost describes in this poem. After a week of writing and meetings related to the grant project, I feel the call to relate some of my story. After some sessions of intense listening, I feel as if God may be willing to listen to me. Reflecting on my growing participation in campus life, I sense an opening to deepen my participation in God's designs for my life.

Though the weather is growing cooler, I still feel the draw to come outside– both in a physical sense and a spiritual sense. Though my spirit is willing, my mind can be weak or resistant... and so I go slowly to the edge of the wall that I have built, and hope to more freely meet the one who patiently awaits me there. 

Down the Shore

"Devotion"

The heart can think of no devotion

Greater than being shore to the ocean–

Holding the curve of one position,

Counting an endless repetition.

– Robert Frost

This short little poem, one of several by Frost that I've memorized, came to mind often during my week "Down the Shore," as we say in South Jersey. I'm always captivated by the beauty here, whether in an ominous storm front, a marsh along my morning cycling route, or the meeting of smooth sandy beaches and rolling ocean waves on a sunny day. My love of the sea and the coast was born here, and is renewed each time I visit.

Thunderstorm over Avalon NJ

Bayside marshes in Sea Isle City, NJ

Seagulls on 7 Mile Beach, Avalon NJ

Sunrise over Townsend's Inlet, Avalon NJ

Branching Out

Rehm Library

College of the Holy Cross

Worcester MA

I've been spending lots of time with my laptop lately, doing research and writing for a grant-writing project at Holy Cross. In seeking some music to keep me company during long hours in this lovely library, I've discovered some wonderful folk artists whose artful compositions and finely crafted lyrics have filled me with unexpected inspiration and admiration. Today, the song "Head Full of Doubt" by the Avett Brothers caught my attention– I listened to it several times– with its rich musical texture, several stark phrases (let alone the opening refrain), and some questions it poses to me about dreams, authenticity, and happiness. Feel free to look it up, have a listen, and let me know what you think.

Also, I'm trying out something new for the style of this blog; the large picture between the blog title and the most recent post will reflect the image I have on my desktop. As always, your comments are most welcome!

Rain

It's been raining on and off all day here in Worcester, a marked change after a few days of lovely summer weather: mild sunshine, blue skies, cool breezes. The varying sounds– heavy drops sliding off the broad leaves of the shrubs outside my window, the percussion of the occasional fiercer downpour, the whisper of tapering drizzle– created a nice soundtrack for some work, reading, and prayer I enjoyed in my room this afternoon and evening. Amid the more laid-back schedule of the summer, I'm grateful for the gift of more time and energy to notice, meditate upon, and appreciate simple blessings like summer rain.

Excerpt from "Rain"

The rain is slow.

The little birds are alive in it.

Even the beetles.

The green leaves lap it up.

What shall I do, what shall I do?

– From New and Selected Poems: Volume One

By Mary Oliver

Weekend Highs

It's been a busy weekend for me– a celebration for Nativity graduates who are now graduating from high school, the wedding of two Dartmouth classmates, a day trip and hike in northwestern Connecticut with a friend who's also a teacher. And just as the dust settles from all of these festivities and travels, it's time for me to pack my lunch, set aside my sports clothes, and prepare for the start of the final five-day week of the school year. I'll treat the notable graces and blessings of these events in turn.

Imagine that, just before graduating from high school, your middle school invited you and your family to brunch, with a slideshow filled with laughter-inducing images of your younger days, and the gift of a book and a promise of support as you head off to college. For the second year in a row, members of the Nativity community– current and former teachers, administrators, and our alums and their families, gathered to honor and send off another group of young men to college, most of them the first in their families to embark on that journey. Though these students came and went long before I arrived, their presence reminded me of the latent importance of the work I'm doing with the 27 boys whom I formally instruct, and the 29 boys whom I hopefully teach in other ways. At the close of the school year, when the frenzied activity of eagerness for summer vacation can obscure the studies and tasks yet to be completed, signs of the future fruition of my efforts are as welcome and heartening as the spring blossoms I've been encountering over the past few weeks.

Following the event for the Nativity grads, and a quick stop at home to grab a snack and change into a nicer outfit, I drove to northern Massachusetts for my second Dartmouth wedding this academic year. The groom and I were acquainted through many games of cribbage with the chaplain at Aquinas House (the Catholic Student Center at Dartmouth), with whom we both remain good friends; the bride and I both majored in geography and can trace our ongoing friendship back to an early morning breakfast with secretaries, bankers, and fishermen at an iconic waterfront diner in Portland, Maine while taking a break from a fieldwork project during senior year. The wedding, conducted within an Episcopalian liturgy, was replete with the values of faith, commitment, love, and community– expressed in song, word, action, and fellowship. When she walked into the church on her father's arm to the delicately passionate piano and violin of Dvorak's "Songs my Mother Taught Me," I sensed every heart (including my own) suspended in admiration of the beauty we all beheld. When we as a congregation affirmed that we would "do all in our power to uphold these two persons in their marriage," I was reminded of the complimentary bonds of family and friendship that, in supporting and sustaining a marriage, uphold the exclusivity of that bond while also rendering it a gift that is inclusive of those who know and love its constituent persons. The reception– held in the church hall, had the feel of a church social, and everyone pitched in when it came time to clear plates and move tables and chairs for an exuberant hour of contradancing. Being in the fellowship of so many good, faith-filled people, discussing everything from Dartmouth memories to theological musings on the ministries which we study and carry out, was a truly delightful way to honor two wonderful friends who, in spending the rest of their lives together, will no doubt continue to inspire such wonderful gatherings long into the future. Congratulations and blessings to the happy couple!

My quest to reach the six high points in the New England states is now two-thirds complete, as a teacher friend and I meandered up a fogbound dirt road, then navigated some soggy trails and slick rocks en route to the highest point in Connecticut, located humbly on a slope leading from a wooded summit just barely in Massachusetts down to a level expanse of forest that contains a marker for the triple point where New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut meet. The entirety of our hike was fogbound, creating some ethereal vistas along our journey, made more haunting and powerful by the roar of streams fed by springs and seeping runoff after a week of rain. Pictures and the words of Henry David Thoreau are perhaps the best glimpses into the atmosphere of the day.

The next Toyota Prius ad?

"Other roads do some violence to Nature, and bring the traveler to stare at her, but the river steals into the scenery it traverses without intrusion..."

–Thoreau, A Week

"It is astonishing what a rush & tumult a slight inclination will produce in a swollen brook." –Thoreau, Journal, 12 February 1851

The highest point in Connecticut– south slope of Mt. Frissell

Take care and have a great week, everyone!

Frost and Trees

Hart Lawn

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

One of my favorite Robert Frost poems seems especially appropriate, given the long-awaited, exuberant display of spring blooms on campus.

"Tree at My Window"

Tree at my window, window tree,

My sash is lowered when night comes on;

But let there never be curtain drawn

Between you and me.

Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,

And thing next most diffuse to cloud,

Not all your light tongues talking aloud

Could be profound.

But, tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,

And if you have seen me when I slept,

You have seen me when I was taken and swept

And all but lost.

That day she put our heads together,

Fate had her imagination about her,

Your head so much concerned with outer,

Mine with inner, weather.

–Robert Frost

Along Linden Lane

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Smith Hall

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Praying

Tonight, after quiet visits to a number of local parishes for Eucharistic Adoration, I was reminded of a poem I composed for Holy Thursday three years ago. Though I don't quite feel the consolation and vitality I did in spring of 2008, these words still ring true to me.

We've washed, we've eaten.

Walking out into the darkness,

the Lord seeks our company

for a less gleeful sharing.

And so we seek him,

journeying from church to church,

faithful havens we often pass

in our hurried lives.

Each a modern Gethsemane

in a city honoring a saint

yet abounding in valleys

of gloom, despair, and tears.

No longer bread and wine,

now it is glorified flesh

and a cup of blood whose

fearfulness we can never know.

Spirits hover in darkened vaults

while cassocked seminarians,

and plainclothes religious,

and sacred laity pray together.

Lost in one way or another,

found here on their knees,

inclining toward a troubled light

still needed beyond the door.

Waiting

East Brookfield, MA

A country drive this morning with two of my brothers, which included a visit to the nearby Trappist monastery as well as an apple orchard several hills away, occasioned some reflections on the slow return of life and vitality to the more rural landscapes surrounding Worcester. As I've noted, it's been a long winter, in terms of physical weather and my own spiritual climate. With the conclusion of Lent, I've been musing on what has been accomplished by my training in prayer and action. I wish I could be prouder of my accomplishments in this area than I am of my shared achievements on the Boston Marathon course; it seems that I was not entirely successful in attaining my goals. As the Easter Triduum begins this evening with the remembrance of the Last Supper, I feel an affinity with some of the landscapes and scenes I witnessed today– fields still littered with autumnal detritus yet ready for new growth; bright yet still feeble flowers assailed by a blustery wind; the robin's nest outside my window, built delicately with a haphazard tangle of material. What will that future growth look like, and when will it emerge? What wondrous moments along that course are occurring today?

"A Prayer in Spring"

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;

And give us not to think so far away

As the uncertain harvest; keep us here

All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;

And make us happy in the happy bees,

The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird

That suddenly above the bees is heard,

The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,

And off a blossom in mid-air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,

The which it is reserved for God above

To sanctify to what far ends He will,

But which it only needs that we fulfill.

– Robert Frost

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Elevated

The Loop, Chicago IL

"Elevated"

Coded lines shuttle the indecipherable mixture

of countless vital courses briefly channeled

by networks designed, crafted, forged

to serve the needs of the created.

A functional monument to wielders of earthly

powers, humming, churning, bearing

flesh-flecked sparks of heavenly

artistry carried by subtler forces.

Reared on a frame of steel, threading

a grid of industry, commerce, residence,

labor and leisure, each routed journey

a waypoint along a multitude of paths.

Subtle Artistry

As part of the Civil War unit that I'm currently covering with my 8th grade social studies class, I'll be highlighting the Battle of Gettysburg and its significance in the war. My brilliantly creative co-teacher suggested that I present a dramatic reading of the Gettysburg Address, in character, as a way to impress upon our students the masterful oratory therein, and the staying power of those words uttered nearly 150 years ago. For the past several days I've been working on memorizing the speech, and I find myself impressed not only by how much Lincoln was able to express in three short paragraphs, but also by the subtle artistry whereby he weaves together all sorts of linguistic structures, rhythmic cadence, and humble boldness.

While mentally rehearsing the speech during an 18-mile training run this morning, I happened upon a brilliant scene: the bare hedges and trees ringing the field along the road were delicately traced in frost that shone starkly against a gray overcast sky. Icy tendrils of white conspiring to outline every edge of dormant life froze my gaze while melting away the lingering bitterness of a stressful week in the classroom. Warm wonder at the hidden majesty just a few hills away from New England's second-largest city reminded me of the importance of seeking the gently shrouded craftsmanship awaiting the discerning perception of a keen spirit.

"The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here...", said Lincoln, ostensibly unaware of the future legacy of his two-minute address to the crowd gathered at Gettysburg that November day in 1863. What subtle artistry goes unnoticed amid quickened lives? What expressions of ours, though mere seconds in duration or a few sentences in length, can deeply move the lives of others? What surprises await us just beyond a bend in a day's journey, or wait to be conveyed through our very selves?

The Gettysburg Address

Gettysburg PA, 19 November 1863

President Abraham Lincoln

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Light of the World

The homily I heard this morning, preached by a Colombian deacon who will be ordained a priest this spring in Worcester, repeatedly stressed the phrase "¿Como podemos ser luz por los demas?"– "How are we able to be light for others?" On one of the first brilliantly sunny days in a little while in our winter-weary city, these words carried some extra resonance. The Gospel today narrates Jesus' use of a lantern as a metaphor for our lives: "You are the light of the world... no one lights a lamp and covers it with a basket; instead, it is put on a lampstand, where it gives light to all who are in the house." (Matthew 5:14-15)

As a teacher, I reflect often on how well I may be illuminating my students' lives, whether with factual information about United States history, discussions on different types of religious communities, or just the example of my dedication to ministry, community living, and a life of prayerfulness and service. I know that when I doubt myself, my light grows dimmer, and in the face of all the difficulties and challenges my students bear each day, I am not always confident that my seemingly feeble light is strong enough to overcome the darkness in the lives. It is as if I am not as aware of my own light unless I can see it mirrored back– in the sudden insight of a student, the support and companionship of a good friend, or the refreshing feel of a rich conversation.

Some overnight rain froze into a thin glaze over the snowpack; this morning, the campus and city sparkled in the crisp, piercing rays of the winter sun. Strolling around campus after Mass, I couldn't help but notice that, even in stillness, the snow was more than capable of casting its brilliance far deeper than my mere sense of vision. Patches sullied by splashes of muddy slush are more numerous, yet the overall effect is still one of great beauty. I like to believe and hope that the same is true of each of us... even with less than ideal reflectivity, even with spaces of doubt or suffering or pain in our minds and hearts, we are still very much the light of the world, and well worth placing on lampstands rather than hiding where we are harder to see.

Some additional thoughts from Mary Oliver:

"The Buddha's Last Instruction"

"Make of yourself a light,"

said the Buddha,

before he died.

I think of this every morning

as the east begins

to tear off its many clouds

of darkness, to send up the first

signal– a white fan

streaked with pink and violet,

even green.

An old man, he lay down

between two sala trees,

and he might have said anything,

knowing it was his final hour.

The light burns upward,

it thickens and settles over the fields.

Around him, the villagers gathered

and stretched forward to listen.

Even before the sun itself

hangs, disattached, in the blue air,

I am touched everywhere

by its ocean of yellow waves.

No doubt he thought of everything

that had happened in his difficult life.

And then I feel the sun itself

as it blazes over the hills,

like a million flowers on fire–

clearly I'm not needed,

yet I feel myself turning

into something of inexplicable value.

Slowly, beneath the branches,

he raised his head.

He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.

– From "New and Selected Poems, Volume One" by Mary Oliver

Jesuit Community, College of the Holy Cross

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Fenwick Hall, College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Drifting Thoughts

The snow day count stands at seven. We haven't had a five-day week at the Nativity School of Worcester since January 3-7. They tell me that Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow; I was wondering what would have happened if the famous groundhog had stayed burrowed in... no end to winter? Yet I saw a sign of consolation in the Boston Globe the other day: the equipment truck for Spring Training leaves Fenway Park on February 8.

I've found some creative pastimes for recent snow days:

• Shoveling out a 7-foot diameter crater around our community's bird feeder; the snow had gotten so high that the squirrels could just climb up onto the dome-shaped guard and pillage the feed intended for the many juncos and cardinals that patronize our seedy little establishment. (Points if you found the pun!)
• Driving a brother Jesuit to and from an appointment during the storm, driving in second gear and doing L-shaped fishtail turns on city streets that one eloquent reporter described as "driving on Crisco." Vegetable oil may be an alternative fuel, but it's not an alternative driving surface.
• Helping to rearrange the furniture in our living room– an act as momentous as changing the balance of power in Congress– in order to facilitate an impromptu gathering of the brethren around the fireplace to share a little refreshment and a lot of stories.
• Hanging out with the guys from the grounds crew who plow our little enclave in the parking lot, and talking about fleet maintenance for everything from Chevy Impalas (great snow cars!) to 18-point plow bolt mechanisms on front-end loaders.
• Taking more pictures around campus, marveling at the mounting drifts, and wondering when the 12-foot high piles in the parking lots will finally vanish.

Tonight, I'll make a sandwich, pack a change of clothes for afternoon sports, and prepare to return to school tomorrow. I'll wind down with some journaling and prayer, grateful for the blessings of the latest round of snow, and ready for a long winter's nap.

Narnia or Worcester?

Bird feeder (and anti-squirrel crater)

Jesuit Residence, College of the Holy Cross

"Beyond the Snow Belt"

Over the local stations, one by one,

Announcers list disasters like dark poems

That always happen in the skull of winter.

But once again the storm has passed us by:

Lovely and moderate, the snow lies down

While shouting children hurry back to play,

And scarved and smiling citizens once more

Sweep down their easy paths of pride and welcome.

And what else might we do?

Two counties north the storm has taken lives.

Two counties north, to us, is far away,–

A land of trees, a wing upon a map,

A wild place never visited,– so we

Forget with ease each far mortality.

Peacefully from our frozen yards we watch

Our children running on the mild white hills.

This is the landscape that we understand,–

And till the principle of things takes root,

How shall examples move us from our calm?

I do not say that it is not a fault.

I only say, except as we have loved,

All news arrives as from a distant land.

–From "New and Selected Poems, Volume One" by Mary Oliver