Reflections

St. Benedict and the Rainstorm Early February evening. Benedict and his twin sister Scholastica, talk for hours about dealing with wayward monks, childhood memories, regrets, and how they sometimes steal away to the forest to dance. The beeswax candle extinguished, she went to fetch another, dinner plates pushed aside with drips of grease left from roast chicken, celebrating this yearly time together, the extra jug of wine nearly emptied. He gets up to leave but she protests. Benedict’s own Rule, requires him to be back at his monastery overnight. Perhaps she knew she would die only three days later. Or

To receive this love note straight to your in-box, subscribe here (and also receive gifts!) How to Be a Pilgrim Air travel is like ancient pilgrims walking on their knees, flight delays and narrow seats offer their own kind of penance. You jettison excess baggage, leaving behind the heavy makeup case, knowing the rain will wash you free of artifice. Books you wanted to carry left too, no more outside words needed, then go old beliefs which keep you taut and twisted inside. Blistered feet stumble over rocky fields covered with wildflowers and you realize this is your life, full of sharp

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims, I am relishing the slower rhythms of summer, time for unstructured schedules when I can follow my own inclinations, noticing what my body and spirit need in a given moment. I have much work to do on my manuscript to have it ready by August, but what nourishes the writing process for me is allowing time for diversions like making seashell mandalas, writing poems, and going for long walks when things in my mind need a little shaking loose. John and I went on a spontaneous trip out to the island of Inisbofin (Island of the

To receive this love note straight to your in-box, subscribe here (and also receive a gift!) Stopping by the Holy Well Gentian blue sky, dandelion seed clouds play hide and seek with the sun. The long walk on the pilgrim road, across blooming limestone to this flowing fissure. Brightly colored ribbons hang like old party streamers from branches, banners of longing: a prayer for healing the great divide of the heart, or a beloved consumed by cancer. Or simply an echo of the psalmist’s ancient cry, “How long, O God?” into the vast and thunderous silence. No pronouncements in reply, no choruses of