Introibo ad altare Dei

“What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us from ourselves?”

- Thomas Merton


The trusted “member of the band” recently recalled for me in an email correspondence the fist line of dialog in Ulysses by James Joyce, he wrote:

- Introibo ad altare Dei (“ I will go to the altar of God.)”

One of my initial reactions was to respond by using the church’s formal retort by the altar server to that celebrant’s proclamation at the beginning of mass, I responded:

- Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam (“To God who gives joy o my
Youth “)

Admittedly a little scholarly assistance was required to accurately recall the precise Latin verbiage and it’s translation. to the presider’s “Introit.” It is said that Biblically this prayer of the priest is requesting deliverance from oppression and affliction while the assistor expresses gratitude for the experience of innocence and trust in the unconditional love of God.

It is no surprise that this correspondence facilitated a diversity of personal explorations into my own spirit, which is a little deeper and more frightening than Cyclops’ cave. It would probably take volumes to decipher and articulate the intricacies of contemplations and obscure images that churned throughout this pilgrim’s interior. It would also be erroneous to misconstrue that any recorded log of this cursory journey would in any way be comparable to that of Homer’s Odysseus and Joyce’s Bloom. Though, what was discovered in the recording of this chartless journey does provide some insight into the salvation history indicated by selective footprints marking modest progress of the pilgrim, or lack thereof.


Telemachiad Phase One (“in which Doris gets her Oats”) - Summary

Twelve years of age has been selected for centuries as the benchmark identifying a person’s passage from youth into adolescence and adulthood. It is expected that intellectual, emotional and spiritual maturity are to be in complete sync with that of the maturing of hormones for the transition to be considered somewhat successful. But then again boys never really seem to “grow up” but that’s another subject for another entry isn’t it? As this pilgrim turned that page that marked the twelfth birthday everything seemed to be falling into place for the transition into adulthood. Hopefulness reigned and great dreams were beginning to be translated into defined plans. However, in retrospect most of these were more dreams and fantasies than constructive strategies.

One of a multitude of cultural celebrations and symbols that recognize successful passage into the next chapter or life’s phase was found in the pilgrim’s involvement with The Boy Scouts. This organization provided an environment where one could be his authentic self and explore new worlds within and without. As a matter of fact on the very first night of becoming a scout this newbie pilgrim gained the attention of the older ones as he tested out of being a Tender Foot to the next level of being Second Class. By the end of the first twelve months as a scout he had achieved the levels and classifications of First Class, Star and Life and earned multiple Merit Badges while being appointed as a Patrol Leader in charge of twelve scouts. These achievements and progress were reported as quite rare and unusual.This phase marked off "successful!"

While rapidly moving forward in the Boy Scout world this accidental pilgrim had also become the “altar boy of choice” by the new pastor in the local church. The pilgrim only lived a block away from the church and it was quite convenient for him to be the one selected to serve most of the early morning masses. Besides, he knew the Latin responses without referring to the cards placed on the stairs of the altar. It was also coincidental that this newly assigned pastor had come from same old hometown of Bayonne, New Jersey as the pilgrim. The pastor often spoke about how he knew many of the family members of this young server including the uncles and grandfather. The pastor fondly referred to this family as “Polish Mafia.” When the pastor realized that this young adventurer was in the parish scout troop he encouraged the pilgrim to work towards a special award reserved for Catholic scouts , “The Ad Altare Dei Award.” Catholic Boy Scouts could work towards and receive a special award in recognition of their Christian journey by living and acting on their values of faith and service. The young pilgrim’s father was pleased with the boy’s progress as a scout and faith-filled believer.

Working hard to complete everything that was required to receive this award diverted commitment from studies and other social activities. Fortunately it was wintertime and baseball playing did not suffer from this diligence. Then came the scheduling of the big interview with the local Bishop, the pastor and the scout troop leader. Filled with abundant confidence it was obvious that the “it (the award) was in the bag.” and “nothing could stop this train now.” The scout-altar boy overflowed with confidence. A note was sent to each candidate’s home. In the note was the schedule for the interviews and an explanation … “It is important to please reserve this time…etc and so on.”

Just twenty-four hours away from this interview the boy’s family received word that the pilgrim’s paternal grandfather had died. Though the boy’s father was the youngest of seven children, the baby of the family, he took control of organizing all the funeral arrangements. He expected that his family members would be present and available at all times, at the wake and funeral. Emotions ran rampant throughout as the youthful searcher attempted to sort out a newly found dilemma. The grandfather’s wake was in conflict with the scheduled interview for this perceived prestigious award. The father insisted on presence of each of his family member but he did make an effort to intervene by speaking with this pastor, who knew the father’s father, for some understanding and hopefully a rescheduling his son's interview. The pastor was uncompromising and said that the young altar server scout could reapply the next year. That dream of achieving the award along with the exuberant youthful innocence was buried along with the grandfather.

That particular event marked the launching of the pilgrim’s vessel away from the church and possible religious and spiritual considerations. Anything and everything Catholic or even religious seemed unimportant and naturally unreliable. The great unplanned odyssey then began that would last almost twenty-two years. There was no consideration of the possible influence of any great protector and grace provider during the storms encountered along this series of passages. However, the action of that pastor and his insensitivity did spark a fire that would fuel a burning light illuminating the journey. Without this pastor initiated incident the great adventure would not have occurred and the lessons would not have been learned and nor the discoveries made. He thought that through his departure he had left God but God had never left him. As the accidental pilgrim's salvation history indicates grace was present all ways and carefully gradually guided this pilgrim back home to the altar of God. When the spirit was ready - the real metanoia commenced


amdg


'Til I Die

I'm a cork on the ocean
Floating over the raging sea
How deep is the ocean?
How deep is the ocean?
I lost my way
Hey hey hey

I'm a rock in a landslide
Rolling over the mountainside
How deep is the valley?
How deep is the valley?
It kills my soul
Hey hey hey

I'm a leaf on a windy day
Pretty soon I'll be blown away
How long will the wind blow?
How long will the wind blow?
Ohhhh

Until I die
Until I die
These things I'll be untill I die
These things I'll be untill I die
These things I'll be untill I die

- Brian Wilson

These are The Days

"...These are the days of the endless summer
These are the days, the time is now
There is no past, there's only future
There's only here, there's only now..."

- These Are The Days, Van Morrison




It seems as if it were just a few short weeks ago that I was wondering if winter would ever end. We had more snow than ever recorded in this part of the country. Philadelphia, where Leigh was living at college, had three blizzards back to back. She was literally “snowed in.” I was unsure if we would ever see the green grass of the earth again as our property had been covered with snow from the week after Thanksgiving until early March.

But the peculiar answer to my prayers was found in three to four days of rain, which caused some serious flooding problems to a number of homes not too far away from where I now sit. “Be careful of what you ask for,” I have been advised.

It seemed that the media prone meteorologists were trying their best to be optimistic about the future. Everyday there seemed to be a report about how it would be five degrees warmer than the previous day. But then these highly paid prognosticators were punished for their false hope and their worldly optimism, as the weather would not cooperate. And we would experience another day of gray, damp and cold winds.
Turning to ground hogs and almanacs also became last resort resources to try and anticipate a sun drenched warm dry blessing of a day. “Just one” the prayers requested!

The pages on the wall calendar flipped and days were marked off. The pictures on the month’s page illustrated a memory of what once was and what could be. The days were crossed off and without great fanfare as they would secretly and gradually grew warmer .The sun would last a little longer in the heavens. Then a sudden burst of unusual brightness would come as if it got off course and would tease us with a bright warming day and for a moment everything looked as though it would be ok. But it was an anomaly and the clouds and cold re-entered the scene driving the wandering pilgrims to prayers of despair.

We all know that there are seasons to the year and that nature slowly and sometimes dramatically moves through time transforming itself and our experience. Yet even with this awareness hope had waned and frustration grew.

But now here I am sitting on my deck at dawn at the end of May listening to the welcoming and celebratory chorus of the morning birds while the watching the “wedge of freedom” flying geese honk their way across the horizon .The hours that were marked and remembered as being yesterday were filled with immense brightness and summer like warmth. The birth of the new day indicates the same. The voices on the car radio proclaimed that this weekend once reserved for remembering the great sacrifice of men and women has been transformed into a celebration in to the first week of summer. (Though the calendar says we have seventeen days before that officially happens.)

It takes a while but I think I am beginning to get it.

During the dark gray cold barren winter I was compelled to stay in the shelter of my home on those lonely mornings. Yet, it wasn’t really that impossible for me to be present to the moment but at times it was a bit of a struggle. The warm aroma of the freshly brewed coffee served as incense blessing the prayers of gratitude for the chance at living another day. Now this pilgrim sits witnessing the dawn amidst the silent strong standing trees accompanied by the bird and cricket chorale. The breath of God breezing across his face as the heaven’s great canopy evolves from black to crystal blue filling him again with humbled gratitude. Admittedly, the great warmth and gradual grand entrance of the sun amongst the freshly blossomed flowers provides a great grace that fuels a welcomed hope-filed spirit.

Well, it is said the “Truth will set you free.” So I feel compelled to say that it is obvious that I have a preference for summer. One of my colleagues once suggested that “summer” to me is a verb. That might have to do with my wearing top-siders (boat shoes) year round, golf shirts and at every chance slipping on shorts! The only thing missing for me as I sit out on my deck facing a pristine forest is water, a lake or ocean. After my quiet reflective time I make sure I take my daily walk around the small neighborhood lake. I make no apologies, as I am a Pisces! But back to the complete truth.

There is a unique serenity to the fresh fallen snow that purifies the barren wintered landscape with its virgin white blanket. Listening to the soft blessings of the flakes as they fall and witnessing the Currier and Ives type landscape is a grace that can fill the spirit to last a lifetime. There have been hours of delight and laughter with the girls being free spirited in the freshly fallen snow. Sledding, snowballing and some shoveling provide fuel for the reflective spirit. And yes I love pulling up my collar in autumn as I walk through the orange-yellow – red browned adorned neighborhood. And, yes spring with the view of the first leaf and flower engenders a spark of grateful optimism.

Even though I know I will probably worry about the weather again I realize there is “a time (and reason) for every season.” Maybe all of this sensitivity about all of this has to do with the change of season in my personal life… you know…the career, spiritual, personal and physical components of the journey.

The plans that I have been cautiously carefully crafting concerning how I could coordinate and manage the next season seem to be constantly sidetracked by some offstage director. I can’t deny that there exists a place in my heart for all the memories both fond and dark and what brought me to this second chance. I can’t deny dreaming about an idealistic future of perfect days…perfect experiences on perfect days all being unwarranted perfect blessings for an imperfect pilgrim.

But if this moment is filling this spirit with anything it is the blessing of being present to the now. I wish I could say I am a Zen practitioner or a faithful subscriber to St. Ignatius’ Suscipe . I remind myself of a cartoon character Popeye who says about himself , "I 'yams whats I ams, and dats all that I 'yams." But I am trying…in being who I am I am trying to be present, trying to be open and trying to do what ever it is I need to do. I am grateful …for my family and to have this moment!



These are the Days

These are the days of the endless summer
These are the days, the time is now
There is no past, there's only future
There's only here, there's only now

Oh your smiling face, your gracious presence
The fires of spring are kindling bright
Oh the radiant heart and the song of glory
Crying freedom in the night

These are the days by the sparkling river
His timely grace and our treasured find
This is the love of the one magician
Turned the water into wine

These are days of the endless dancing and the
Long walks on the summer night
These are the days of the true romancing
When I'm holding you oh, so tight

These are the days by the sparkling river
His timely grace and our treasured find
This is the love of the one great magician
Turned water into wine

These are the days now that we must savor
And we must enjoy as we can
These are the days that will last forever
and you've got to hold them, in your heart

--- Van Morrison



Suscipe

Take Lord, and receive
all my liberty,
my memory,
my understanding,
and my entire will --
all that I have and call my own.
You have given it
all to me.
To you, Lord,
I return it.
Everything is yours;
do with it
what you will.
Give me only your love
and your grace.
That is enough
for me.


--- Ignatius of Loyola


The song of the second chance dance

Mary’s melancholic mockingbird metanoied me
The soul sanctified solo song sweet sentiments.
By the hour the sun shed a final fiery flash
In her horizon departure.
Not forgotten was the robin’s baptismal melody
At the advent of another consecrated dawn.
Immersion , Redemption, confirmation, actualization,
Almost twenty two thousand days to discover
The name I was given before I was born.
The spark surprisingly fading quickly
Yet the chimes sang gently shaken by the breath of God ,
Thoreau’s morning wind, the spark transformed burst to flame.
Waves of tears flowing from your hallowed eyes.
blessed your flushed cheeks with smiles.
Answered prayers caressed your hearts.
My holy trinity had lowered this paralytic
into the presence of great consoling healer.
New gift, original gift revisited
Humbled and undeserved
whispering “yes” to your invitation
Softly singing the song of the second chance dance.

- John Sobecki


Picture - Leigh Sobecki

amdg

Launching out into the deep

Meditating on Leigh’s forthcoming graduation from St. Joseph’s University in the next couple of weeks and the start of my own new life journey in retirement causes me to recall our days of sailing. It was this time of year that Lindsay and Leigh would help me sand and paint our sailboat’s bottom, re-teak some of the wood and make sure all the lines and related equipment were “ship-shape” (cleaned oiled, tightened, replaced, tested and readied for our launch.)

Vessels are launched when they are ready to set sail. They also use the terms christening or commissioning for the launching of new or refurbished vessels that have been on journey and need to retreat and be revitalized. Regardless of the vessels age it is a significant event and in many ways spiritual. The vessels have been prepared to handle the waters and winds that will carry them on their adventures on the open sea. The care and love that has gone into preparing the vessels for the days of smooth sailing and potential rough weather in the unchartered waters is only surpassed by the preparedness, care and skill of the vessel’s helmsman and crew.

There comes a moment in time where the vessel and crew are said to be “ready as ready” can be and the vessel needs to be launched out into the open waters to begin her journey. All the plans and preparation are just that now, plans and preparation.
The great adventure is to begin and if there is one thing to be sure it is that the vessel and crew will be tested. The ambiguity and possible fear of the unknown could hold the vessel back from launching .If she is launched any anxiety that surfaces about the future will have a negative impact on her potential safety and the possibility of enjoying the pleasures and grace of Poseidon on beautiful days on the open sea.

OK the waters may not be completely unchartered but for this particular vessel it is all new. The crew who may be untested and how the vessel will handle on the waters are not completely known. So with the launch comes a leap of faith and hope. Other vessels have reported rough passages but also fair weathered cruising and some have returned filled with wonderful stories of new lands, adventures and filled with treasures. Some report seeing the remains of others scattered on distant rocky shorelines of a new world and there are others have not been heard from after their initial launch. So what’s the point of the vessel if she is not to set sail? Is she to stay at dockside in a safe harbor until her hull begins to weather and rot and decay from non-usage?

Sailing requires knowledge, skill, preparation, a desire for adventure and the ability to soak in the peace and serenity of a warm sun accompanied by the gentle breath of God. Sailing requires patience, an abundance of appreciation for nature and an unending trust in oneself and God. Sailing is fun, thrilling and peace filling. It is also important to develop the intellectual side and understand some of the scientific principles behind sailing including; Bernoulli’s theorem, mathematical plotting of course setting considering wind, current and tides, astronomy and, basic meteorology. Almost more importantly a good sailor needs to trust…trust her intuition, her knowledge and her faith. Sometimes, as with in rough weather where the helmsman feels that she may have lost control of the vessel, she needs to trust completely and do something that for most is counterintuitive and that is to “let go” …of the helm. The result will be that the vessel will head up wind and right herself.
Try it sometime. The success of our passage will be measured by not how well we developed the skill of sailing (or living) or how fast we made it from here to there or the treasures we accumulated but “how “ we sailed (lived.) Did we make the journey with compassion, integrity and unselfishness?

So is it any wonder that why we celebrate launches, christenings, confirmations, commencements, graduations, weddings, new jobs, promotions, the first game of a sport season and even retirement? There are some groups who celebrate a death of family member or a friend. In reality they recall the fond moments of the person’s life but in some cases there is absolute delight that the great new voyage to forever has begun. These celebrations are centered around events that honor the transformation that is taking place: the caterpillar to butterfly; egg and seed become being; the girl to woman; the boy to man; and, the naive meanderer or latent sinner who becomes the illuminated pilgrim serving others with inspired unselfish love.
A launching has commenced. They are all celebrations of hope and delight.

Fr. Bill P. recently reminded the small gathering at liturgy at Loyola in one of his homilies that we are all commissioned to “launch out into the deep….” (Luke 5:4) with trust and enthusiasm. The word enthusiasm comes from the Greek “en theos” or “in (with) God.” Consider carefully constructing and preparing a vessel just to leave it tied up at dockside in a safe harbor and never to go out to venture on to the sea! Even if the sail is for a day cruise or a short sail, the purpose is to go out “into the deep,” …be what you are intended to be, be authentic, be that vessel that affirms for yourself and the world that you are here on the journey with love and trust in your heart.

So this is for Leigh and her friends, who are graduating,
for Lindsay who has “launched” into the world of work,
and for all graduates, those who are being christened, women who became mothers,
the first communicants, newlyweds, those laid off from work, those retiring and anyone who is launching out into the deep on a new journey…hoping that you are prepared, and ready and that your seas are calm and your adventures are filled with wonder, peace and love.

I have adapted my favorite prayer for your launching…

“MY LORD GOD, we all have no idea where we are going. We do not see the road ahead of us. We cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do we really know ourselves, and the fact that we think we are following your will does not mean that we are actually doing so. But I pray that we all believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And hope we have that desire in all that we are doing. I am hopeful that that we will never do anything apart from that desire. And we know that if we do this you will lead us by the right road, though we may know nothing about it. Therefore, I pray that we will all trust you always though we may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death and that we will not fear, for you are ever with us, and you will never leave us to face our perils alone.”

- Thomas Merton, "Thoughts in Solitude"
© Abbey of Gethsemani




Painting – Breezing Up, Winslow Homer









amdg

The "Delightful Surprise": Poetry 101

"O me, o life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless

trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish.

What good amid these, o me, o life?”

- Song of Myself, Walt Whitman

Why am I always taken back by those experiences that are little delightful surprises? You know what I mean. I am marking time doing this or that throughout the day and then suddenly out of nowhere comes an unexpected, un-planned, unseen event or person that brings a humble smile across my face and my heart. These surprises seem to come in all forms, sizes and scope. Some are more dramatic than others. Some seem some so coincidental or unnatural that others consider them as miraculous. Some call these graces, blessings or tender mercies. Some say it is a result of just being present to the world, as sometimes we move so fast that we can often miss those “delightful surprises.”

Recent meditations and reflections on where I have been and what I have done with my life and discerning where I want to go from here have been arduous exercises that would seriously disappoint Ignatius of Loyola. Weaving in and out of the busy-ness of the day and the consideration that my journey so far had been a series of Odyssean mis-steps that kept me away from being open to the current song of the morning bird or immersing myself in the beauty of bright piercing orange-red streak across the heavens at sunset. Opening the street posted mailbox the other day I received a package from the college where I recently served as advisor and faculty member. The departure was not planned and I had been attempting to put

the complete experience behind me. That desire for amnesia would change with the opening of the packet.

In the package was a computer summary and detail of the student evaluations for an English class I had taught on the main campus a year ago. Opening the report I critically thought” Well, this is typical” not realizing that what was about to happen was one of those “delightful surprises”, “gift”, “blessing “ and “grace.” The students rated me, the learning environment and so on and so forth. I hate to say that I wasn’t too surprised with the almost perfect scores I received on teaching, methodology, and helpfulness and so on and so forth. What took me back completely was the number of handwritten comments about what they learned and liked most about the class and the experience. Most of the eighteen students wrote about how they liked and appreciated the sections and lessons on poetry. Comments like “ I never liked poetry before”, “who would have thought poetry can be fun”, “I like learning about the different types of poetry”, “Mr. S made learning poetry interesting and fun,” to “ “I just bought my first collection of poetry because of what I learned in this class.” Flabbergasted! Unbelievable! Humbled. These were the comments a group of 18 and 19 year olds that I struggled to keep awake in our class at eight am three mornings a week.

If you know me you already know that I am not being boastful with this illumination of sorts about my students’ perceptions and feedback about my teaching. What is important is that “who would of thought one who in his early pre- teen years hated poetry would eventually be delighted to no end that he would be a catalyst to helping young adults finding some joy in their own discovery of poetry.” So this “delightful surprise” was the seed that transformed my personal reflections into “gratitude” for those teachers and friends who took the time and care to introducing me to the world of poetry – reading and even attempting at writing my own…. specifically: Irving (professor/mentor), Bill Z. (my creative writing professor), Kirk (counselor, poet and journeyman) and all of course the gratefulness is abundance of all those poets!

It is interesting to say the least to recall those teen years and how I was embarrassed to share with my best friends that I had been a closet poet of sorts. A member of a secret society of one I struggled to craft ideas and feelings in poetic format or just rewrite favorite verses from favorite poems in a spiral notebook. I had made sure that I securely hid this collection under my bed with old paperback poetry anthologies of Blake and Frost and of course a few Playboy magazines .It was a number of years later that as teacher I had hoped to pass on what I had learned and share with my students the joy I had found in the world of poetry... and somehow maybe reach another “closet poet” or two. The “delightful surprise” suggests that maybe; just maybe I was able to do just that.

Who would have predicted that this “surprise” would happen just days before “National Poetry Month?” So here are a few items and links I used in my classes when I would teach poetry.

There is a moving introductory monologue about the purpose of poetry in the movie Dead Poets Society where the teacher, Mr. Keating, gathers his class full of prep school boys and says:

“We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because

we are members of the human race.  And the human race is filled with passion.

Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary

to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

To quote from Whitman: "O me, o life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless

trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, o me, o life?”

Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on,

and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute

a verse. . What will your verse be?”



(watch 9 minutes)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TiKM6g-dfBo&feature=related

Here is from My Favorite Poem Project. It is famous and everyday folks reading their favorite poems.

http://www.favoritepoem.org/

May I suggest watching the following:

We Real Cool

OUT, OUT

The Holy Longing

Then there is a collection of videos of famous poets reading their poetry at the Dodge Poetry Festival and I have collected a few of my favorites here.

http://www.youtube.com/grdodge#p/u/18/wHT9kilQ1kg

http://www.youtube.com/grdodge#p/u/57/-sbyQzGue1c

http://www.youtube.com/grdodge#p/u/44/kKFe0wY-7-A

http://www.youtube.com/grdodge#p/u/3/6PRHqylG2ic

One of my favorite poems about finding one's voice.

Autumn Poem

In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings

flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —

it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges.
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,

its ticks and wheezings,
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life

to come through,
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward

to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of heaven,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,

and he begins, like Saint Francis,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,

from so many wrong paths I can't count them,
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.

Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this world.
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying

to type it down, in lumped-up language,
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.

--- Mary Oliver

Two more interesting poetry web sites....

http://www.poets.org/

http://poetsonline.blogspot.com/

amdg

Ashes to Ashes: A New Chapter Begins

Now the darkness only stays the nighttime
in the morning it will fade away
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time
it's not always going to be this grey

- All Things Must Pass,

(George Harrison)

In a blink of an eye thirty years seem to have blown by just like that. Yes, just like that. A full chapter written in the book of life was completed just the other day. “Ashes to ashes” is more prophetic than this pilgrim could ever imagine. Now there are blank pages in my journal/log waiting to be filled and navigational charts with no particular course yet plotted. only the current safe harbor and end point identified.

Sitting in the middle of a debate as to the significance of recalling where one was the night the US hockey team defeated the Russian Olympic team at the lake Placid Winter Olympics in February of 1980 fueled an avalanche of emotions. That date and time is burned deep within my heart. I had been burned out at my job at a local college and was separated from my wife. The burn out had foundation in some diseased roots and was killing off any prospect of any type of growth or maturity.

Just three days before my thirty second birthday, Friday February 22,1980, Ginny and I reconciled our separation and we were getting back together. My family had always paid attention to one’s birthday as a “special” day not just for the person who was celebrating the anniversary of his or her birth but also for everyone who was blessed by the gift of the presence of that person in this life. If that wasn’t cause enough to celebrate there was the young college age amateur US Hockey team defeating the powerful twelve year undefeated Russian team made up of mostly professional athletes at the Lake Placid Olympics! Now a nation was celebrating with Ginny and I. “This was truly going to be a memorable birthday” I, recall thinking. It was also the night I received that dreaded phone call with the news that my father had suddenly without warning passed away from a major heart attack. My cheers transformed to tears. It was memorable !!

That day was a week before I was to run my first twenty-six mile marathon. With the encouragement and faith of my family and close friends I endured the emotional and physical draining pain and completed that race that took place two days after a late winter blizzard had coated the roadways. I Dr. Zchivagoed my way across the frozen pathways of the county park with my running companion Bernie at my side for most of the journey. As the pain increased the run became a slow jog and I found myself alone running on empty. Just as my body, and spirit were to hit the proverbial twenty-mile mark wall my brother drove up in his car riding along side me throwing his fist in the air in victorious support! I wasn’t alone, my dad’s spirit and all the prayers of friends and family carried me those last six miles to cross the finish line! It seemed appropriate to have a storm be part of that marathon and week-long experience. I had forgotten though that storms don’t last forever.

It is sad to say that running that 26-mile marathon was not as difficult as attempting to bring back some spark to my career path. You see marathoning required preparation, planning, persistence, hard work and faith, much like career planning. For the next eleven months I tried just about everything to no avail. The despair led me to participate in a training seminar led by the guru of career gurus, Richard Bolles (author of the famous What Color is Your Parachute.). My chute was not opening and I was falling fast!

It was the eleventh hour of the eleventh month since that I day of infamy in Lake Placid and my own emotional upheaval. This pilgrim sailor had been drifting from any sense of faith or religiosity and the drifting had become status quo. I had thought that the events of almost 12 months prior would have catapulted me into action or at least a new calling magically delivering me from the perpetual whirlpool. This educated experienced trained counselor proved his ineptness by not being able to help himself. It was then on an Ash Wednesday not quite one year from that Miracle on Ice that a transformation was unknowingly initiated and would unfold. On my way to lunch that fateful Wednesday I saw Fr. Ken executing his religious duties by dispensing ashes to any passerby who was inclined to be blessed in a conference room. I thought “What the heck. I have nothing to lose.” You can take the boy out of the church but you cannot take the church out of the boy! I was marked and had been for years .

That evening of my reconciliation marking I received the most unusual phone call from this guy Herb who was the President of a local consulting firm. I had been referred to him about a potential job. We spoke for an hour about things like hope and faith of all things. He asked me what I believed in! What a strange interview …what a strange conversation for two strangers …but there was something…something that connected us? He was a pilgrim also but he knew where he was headed. Herb would eventually hire me and became my mentor concerning matters of business and faith .He became a dear friend. Leaving the security of employment at the college by joining Herb and his partner and a their associates my life would change forever. Well, at least for thirty years!

Just about a week or so ago at a mass after receiving ashes on Ash Wednesday at Loyola House of Retreats Fr. Tom offered up a prayer for Fr. Ken. I couldn’t recall how I knew this Fr. Ken. So after mass I met with Fr. Tom and then I recalled Fr. Ken and the ashes almost thirty years ago to the day. I told Fr. Tom this story and we both became a little weepy. The grace of the sacramental “receiving the ashes” started to sink in. I prayed for Fr. Ken.

This pilgrim sailor’s voyage brought me to places and experiences I never dreamed would be possible for me. Most importantly I was blessed with two lovely daughters. The career and successful thriving business introduced me to new companion pilgrims on the long journey home. Eventually the business hit the perfect storm and sank. The desire for personal survival not only increased the art of personal petitioning prayer but it would bring me back to working at a college. I had come full circle.

But we all know that the loop needed to be closed to be complete. Just days before going to that mass on Ash Wednesday at Loyola a couple of weeks ago I was informed that my position at the college where I was working for the past couple of years was eliminated. One third of the positions in our division were wiped from the rolls. As one who used to consult companies how to restructure and reorganize I was now the recipient and outcome of someone’s recommendations. The thirty year chapter had come full circle and to a to a close.

Now there are blank pages in my journal/log waiting to be filled and navigational charts with no particular course yet plotted. only the current safe harbor and end point identified.

Currently personal considerations include retirement, volunteering with a faith-based or national service group, or even some teaching or writing. It isn’t really what we do that matters but how we do it that is important in the big picture. This pilgrim is slowly learning to listen to the voice of the heart, which almost came to a full dead stop a year and a half ago. I am humbly grateful for the journey past, where I am now and for the journey yet to come. My Second Chance Dance has been confirmed and the vessel is cleared to continue the voyage.

“ Say goodbye to your golden yesterdays or your heart will never learn to love the present”

- Anthony DeMello SJ

“At the Day of Judgment we shall not be asked what we have read but what we have done; not how well we have spoken, but how holy we have lived.”

—Imitation of Christ: Book I, ch. 3, Thomas A’ Kempis

amdg

A Perfect Day for Reading and Remembering

'Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all.”

JD Salinger - Catcher in the Rye (Holden Caulfield,)

It seems funny how things turn out sometimes. Who knows where inspirations really come from or why the stars align certain way. I read once that only about 1.5% of the population has real vocations or callings concerning their life work or careers. This statistic included clergy, medical professionals and some teachers. The rest of the population just plod their way through the muck earning honest days wages and hopes everything comes out satisfactorily in the end. For example, I was thinking the other day about how I really wasn’t much of a reader in my pre-teen years except for a comic books and Mad Magazine. The novels and stories that teachers forced us to read aloud in droning monotone in class were mostly obscure classics that didn’t interest anyone and I couldn’t relate at all to most of the characters. The exception may have been some of Mark Twain’s works. I was labeled an “immature reader.” So I wore that label proudly!

I think it was my best friend Matt who handed me a copy of a little paper back at about age 13 or so that would change me forever. The book was banned in some libraries and it wasn’t used or taught in schools as it had curse word, prostitute, pimple bursting and passing gas in it. Matt was a hero of mine as he was quietly rebellious without a cause and the first person I knew who loved social protest folk music. While the rest of us were dancing to Buddy Holly, Dion and the Belmonts and waiting for someone like the Beatles, Matt was strumming his banjo along to Pete Seeger, Peter, Paul and Mary and of course Bob Dylan. No one really played banjo in suburban Jersey in ‘62. He passed on to me his sacred book of controversy wrapped in a brown paper bag and I was sworn to secrecy as to the source of my new found treasure. If I were in therapy I would probably get a better grasp as to why I like to recall this event so clearly. Maybe it has to do with Matt dying from cancer just a few years afterwards when we were both about 19 years old. The main character in the book he had given me had a brother he loved die from cancer. Maybe there is something else to it.

The cover of Matt’s new book looked stupid with this guy with a suitcase and the title was confusing. I used to judge a lot of things and people by what I saw on the surface. This book began to change that perspective. I had no clue back then when I first opened that book that years later I would eventually become a college English major and get a graduate degree in English. Who would have thought that a kid who chagrined reading books without pictures would one day pride himself in reading profusely? You see I had almost failed out of college. I was not adjusting well to the state of pre-adulthood while attempting to get filled with wisdom in the halls of “higher” learning. I was placed in a sophomore English class with the dreaded Professor Irving as our instructor. He was known as the hardest professor in the college. No matter how far in the back I sat in his class I couldn’t hide, as he would always find a way to ask me a question.

During one English class with the Professor the class herded itself in to take a test as we carefully placed our homework in his in-basket on his desk. We had to write a paper about the experiences of being born. Professor Irving was a little out there for most of us. Defiantly and naturally I wrote a poem:

“Birth is a process

Of being released

From one box

Into another

In preparation for

The final one

Six feet under.”

You could say I was still in my pessimist phase, besides I didn’t want to write a paper on birth. While taking the test Professor Irving flipped through the assignments and stopped and suddenly succinctly called out my name requiring that I stay after class. That was it. I had done it. My father would kill me. I might as well run away! After class I stood by his desk as the professor said, “follow me.” He called; I listened and followed sheepishly to be slaughtered. This student dutifully walked what I believed was my last mile in the ivy covered building. When we arrived at his office the inquisition was to commence. To my surprise he started by asking me about what kind of books I like to read and I could only think of the book that Matt had given me years earlier. The good professor didn’t move, as he sat expressionless. I had read other books since as I had begun to appreciate certain fictional and poetic styles but I could only recall the title and author of that one book. He shifted the questioning and asked me if I do much writing. I wrote regularly in a marble notebook, “mostly random observations and some attempts at poetry.” The queries then shifted about my academic major and my academic standing. I think I said “History and almost none.” He gave me a printed form after he signed it and I cried when he directed me to the registrar’s office and I thought he was expelling me from college. That’s when he informed me that I would be an English major.

This all happened around the same time Matt became quite ill and soon tragically passed from cancer. It was about the same time period when on a fateful night where I was drinking away my sorrows when an ole friend introduced me to this girl who went to high school with me who I really had not known. I became that English major and continued dating that girl for the remainder of the next two years. The good Professor Irving and I developed a close relationship and I eventually succumbed and married that young lady. (Did I tell you Matt was an English major too?) From that moment I became an English major and started dating Ginny I had straight “A’s” across the board for the remainder of my undergraduate career. Irving says to this day forty – two years hence that his mentoring led to my academic success and Ginny argues that it was her inspiration that motivated me. In order to maintain peace and harmony I tell them it was a little of both.

It was Professor Irving who encouraged me to go to graduate school and continue my studies. He was the one who encouraged me to consider teaching as a career. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. I thought it might be a good idea. What does someone do with an English degree anyway? But it was years later when I became head of a consulting firm that I hired Irving to do some work for me. Student had become teacher. He recently wrote a book about that experience where he dedicated the book to my staff and myself. If you look at my library of books (see my list on GoodReads) it is obvious that Irving has been quite influential in my life and I am eternally grateful for his influence, mentoring and friendship. He is truly the wisest man I have ever met. But I have to admit that maybe, just maybe if I hadn’t mentioned Matt’s book when Irving and I met in his office that day things might have been completely different.

That same book seems to surface in the oddest places. I was drawn to see movie years ago called Field of Dreams. Yes, it had something to do with baseball and such .It was based on a book by W.P. Kinsella , “Shoeless Joe.” Ok, you have to know the movie to understand the impact it would have a man about forty years old . Not necessarily a great art flick but it still became one of my personal favorites and Ginny still says “arrggh” every time she catches me watching it as I shed a tear when the main character’s last line is heard,” Dad, you wanna have a catch?” In the movie and in the book the main character, Ray Kinsella, tracks down a once famous now reclusive author in Boston . Some inner voice whispered that Ray do this. In the movie the influential reclusive author’s character’s name is Thomas Mann who wrote a book that had a significant impact on Ray’s formation when Ray was just a boy. Sounds familiar doesn’t it? In the movie the main character takes his red and white VW van up to Boston to find this author. I had a VW van exactly like the one in the movie, same colors and same model year! Ray then takes this reclusive author to a Red Sox game at famous Fenway Park. Voices told him to do that too. Did I tell you that girl I dated and later married went to school in Boston and that I moved to a little town outside of Boston to teach and that my favorite team was and is the Red Sox? There is a scene in this movie where Ray parks his van underneath the famous CITGO sign in Kenmore Square. When I first started visiting this new love of my life I would visit her in Boston and stay at her friend’s apartment in Kenmore Square underneath the CITGO sign. Years later I returned to bean town as this pre-Chavez oil company, CITGO, had become a consulting client of mine and I spent a many nights in Fenway Park at “CITGO nights” with the sign smiling at me from over the green monster.

Ok “what’s the big deal?” you ask. Well, you see in the book “Shoeless Joe” the author that the character, Ray, sought out in Boston is “J. D. Salinger” who wrote a book “Catcher in the Rye.” It is the same book that Matt gave me in that infamous paper bag. There is also rumor that in real life the two authors , W. P. Kinsella and J. D. Salinger , were friends. Now it was just a couple of years ago when Leigh showed me this book she just read and described how neat it was. Of course it was “Catcher in the Rye.” To close the door on this chapter one daughter became a fan of the works of J.D. Salinger and the other became a pen pal of Ted Williams (and a Red Sox fanatic.)

Now somewhere fading quickly in my outer memory banks are a multiplicity of recollections and impressions about that book “Catcher in the Rye.” One of these seeds planted on my soul is of a dream the main character, Holden Caulfield, has. He recalls seeing children running almost aimlessly in a rye field and he has to catch them before they fall off the edge of a cliff. For years I thought about that dream and fed my own dreams about a need to be a “catcher.” So I still can’t tell you what led me to do what I have done in my life, in my career: teacher, counselor, consultant, corporate training, professor – all seem that they might have a common theme don’t you think? Unfortunately the children I once taught have grown but many are still running and not looking where they are going. I am still catching . Sometimes it’s not who recommended a book or why, or the impact or worthiness of the art of the book that matters but it's how the pieces touch your heart and what do you do about it to create your own story that matters.

“At the Day of Judgment we shall not be asked what we have read but what we have done; not how well we have spoken, but how holy we have lived.”

—Imitation of Christ: Book I, ch. 3, Thomas A’ Kempis

PS – A former associate of mine and blogger - found the original review of CITR, which is on the menu bar to the left here. I am not bright enough to link you to his blog so here it is. Thanks, Ken.

amdg

Charting A Course - Being Present to The New Year

“The wisest men tell us that everything, sooner or later, changes. All change commences with a specific moment. We say to ourselves, “ I won’t do this again, I must become different.” And we succeed ---- eventually.”

Frank Delaney, Ireland

Well it is New Years Eve and I have been mulling over resolutions and the concept of change in the New Year. (While most people are confident that they can be successful at accomplishing the goal of their resolutions only 12% of resolutions are reported at being successful.) I had drafted a short narrative that concerned itself with charting a course and how often I have been confronted with making corrections or adjustments based on unforeseen unplanned events or encounters while on the journey. But while revisiting my CABG (Coronary Artery Bypass Graft) experience it was quite clear how it was that “specific moment” that altered everything and all the resolutions and previously charted course and plans suddenly evaporated with the slash of a surgeon's scalpel. A metanoia and possible transformation slowly started birthing and I couldn't stop it. I couldn't accelerate it nor slow it down either…it just continued ….

No formal anticipatory resolutions then tonight. That which was has been instrumental in this pilgrim’s formation on this Odyssey and that which is forthcoming will both hopefully have a similar result and a reception of humble gratitude. Being present and letting go to what is… is resolution in itself.

Happy New Year. !!!

(I found the following in an original collection of poetry published circa 1921 while waiting for a flight at the Milwaukee airport. It is simple straightforward and sweet)

Lord, Make A Regular Man Out Of Me

This I would like to be- braver and bolder,

Just a bit wiser because I am older,

Just a bit kinder to those I may meet,

Just a bit manlier taking defeat;

This for the New Year my wish and my plea-

Lord, make a regular man out of me.

This I would like to be- just a bit finer,

More of a smiler and less of a whiner,

Just a bit quicker to stretch out my hand

Helping another who's struggling to stand,

This is my prayer for the New Year to be,

Lord, make a regular man out of me.

This I would like to be- just a bit fairer,

Just a bit better, and just a bit squarer,

Not quite so ready to censure and blame,

Quicker to help every man in the game,

Not quite so eager men's failings to see,

Lord, make a regular man out of me.

This I would like to be- just a bit truer,

Less of the wisher and more of the doer,

Broader and bigger, more willing to give,

Living and helping my neighbor to live!

This for the New Year my prayer and my plea-

Lord, make a regular man out of me.

- Edgar A. Guest

( "My cousin has great changes coming
One day he'll wake with wings.....

...My cousin as you see
Takes his changes easily
O happy we
Could we take each change so easily"

- From Cousin Caterpillar, Incredible String Band)