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.

Sede Vacante

Not too long ago, I watched the video of the doors being closed and the Swiss Guards standing down at Castel Gandolfo, as Pope Benedict XVI's resignation officially took effect. Remembering where I was– in a training session at a palliative care hospital in the Bronx– when Benedict's election was announced in spring 2005, I found myself somewhat emotional and certainly grateful over all that has occurred during the past eight years in the life of the Catholic Church, and the life of the world. As has been reported in the news, until the cardinals elect a new pope in a few weeks, a situation known as "sede vacante"– literally, an empty seat– will occur.

In a much different and far less pious way, I feel like I've taken a sede vacante approach to this blog lately. I've had ideas and inspirations for posts, but not necessarily the time and inclination to translate them into text. I've made choices and embraced priorities that carry my attention and energy in different directions, often with happy and fruitful results. And in this season of Lent, one of the practices I've adopted is an exclusion of "screen time" from my evenings... in order to focus on prayer, conversations with my brother Jesuits, and penning letters to friends near and far. The blogosphere as a whole, and my little corner of it, likely don't mind the hiatus.

I imagine that the media will be turning their attention back to the Vatican when news of Benedict's successor is announced, and perhaps occasionally in the meantime with related stories about papal history and some of the figures and issues involved in this time of transition in the Catholic Church. Just as my life goes on– with all of its excitement, challenge, opportunity– during my absences from blogging, the life of the Church– its ministry, its work, its community and worship– goes on, often in ways far less newsworthy yet no less wondrous than the emotion and ritual of Benedict's farewell. Even without a duly elected person in the position, I deeply feel the presence of a firm and gentle hand at the helm, guiding the people of God through the affairs of our time.

I'm not sure whether or not I'll post again during the sede vacante interval, but I'll certainly be deeply engaged in the activities to which I'm called, and in which I'm grateful to participate, throughout the coming weeks.

Hold On Tight!

Ferry Mast
Martha's Vineyard MA

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

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

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

The Old Neighborhood

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

"The old neighborhood"
Haddon Township NJ

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

A typical Victorian home
Cape May NJ

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

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

Snowshine

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