I am in retreat.

We are where our minds are – colloquially, where our heads “are at.” Consciousness is our only location. For most of my life, ages 25 to 65, my mind was principally occupied with the work of the world. Though I preferred the world of the spirit – art, faith, grace, beauty, truth – they reeked of defeat. Saints were losers. Writers were big only if they hit it big. Money, power, fame seemed the human summit.

I worked hard to win in the world. I dreamed of glitzy glory. I made my play for billions and fell short. I cannot pretend if offered money, power, and fame at the expense of spirit, I’d have turned them down. I wouldn’t have. Better Bill Gates than Thoreau any day. Gates et al. could revel in their triumph, not just sigh for an eventual eminence. I wanted to be flirted with at cocktail parties and flattered by maître di’s.

Though I cringe at my error, I do not regret it. Only by indirection do we find direction out. Only by singeing do we learn the nature of fire. Gain only glows in the light of loss.

My daily missives continued to engage in the work of the world – only now as a critic. Inveighing, I strove to fix what ailed us. Cassandra and Ezekiel weren’t mystics but worldly actors, urging practical reforms with their fiery prophecies. Dreading the world’s direction, I roared – until even loved ones clapped their ears.

Defeated – by facts – my attention gradually shifted elsewhere. Repairing the world – tikkun olam, the Hebraic dream – wasn’t going to happen. Humans were not good “deep down” – I’d mistaken us. Money, power, fame ruthlessly overrode art, faith, grace, beauty, truth – sneering, gloating. Winners win in this world, screw the next.

Where, under these changed circumstances, should I point my brain? This was not a conscious inquiry: minds, like bodies, are pain-averse and have minds of their own. I quit sobbing about our misdirection because I couldn’t change it – or stand it. I retreated – to the world of the spirit, to (in Ezra Pound’s formulation) the “news that stays news,” to a value pyramid that places Thoreau and Emily Dickinson up top and John D. Rockefeller and Bill Gates far below, nearer the fiends.

Our years in Rome goaded me in this direction. Art, faith, grace, beauty, and truth are more honored there. The events leading to January Sixth and November Fifth pressed me past a precipice. I no longer believe in the salvageability of our species. Our slide toward doom cannot be reversed. Soon we will all be burning like poor L.A.

Yet we must live – until we die. Our brains must be busy – but with what? My attention fled – to the world of the spirit. I woke considering music, poems, ways to be good. I studied saints – with reverence, not contempt. My prose panted for pleasantness. My dreams bobbed on childhood cadences: “While we have time, let us do good unto all men; and especially unto them that are of the household of faith.” Sounded right to me.

Was my retreat defeat – or victory? That depends on where one stands. One man’s saint is another’s psycho. With a gallant death in battle, have you won or lost?

I am happier here. Yes, it’s a hideaway, some might say cowardly, but culpable? It doesn’t feel so. I fought my battles with my little strength. I recovered my balance, once lost to the allure of the world. I am doing all I can for the souls I love. Isn’t that what it means to be good?