Reflections

St. Brigid and the Fruit Tree There was the moment you could bear it no more. Your eyes brimming with great glistening drops summoned by the hunger of the world, the callous and terrible things men and women do to one another. Your tears splashed onto cold stony earth, ringing out like bells calling monks to prayer, like the river breaking open to the wide expanse of sea. From that salt-soaked ground a fruit tree sprouts and rises. I imagine pendulous pears, tears transmuted to sweetness. There will always be more grief than we can bear. There will always be

O night! O guide! O night more loving than the dawn! O night that joined The lover with the Beloved; Transformed, the lover into the Beloved drawn! —excerpt from John of the Cross’ prayer (contemporary musician Loreena McKennitt has a beautiful song with these words set to music) Dearest monks and artists, We have some new dancing monk icons which we will be sharing with you over the next few weeks. Artist Marcy Hall has been busy at work creating these delightful images. Last week we shared Teresa of Avila, this week is another Spanish mystic, John of the Cross.

Dearest monks and artists, We have some new dancing monk icons which we will be sharing with you over the next few weeks. Artist Marcy Hall has been busy at work creating these delightful images. I love Spanish mystic St. Teresa of Avila’s very earthy spirituality, she is known for finding God among the pots and pans. Probably best known for her book on the soul’s inward journey, The Interior Castle, in which she likens the soul to a castle made from a single diamond, with a series of concentric rooms within. As the ego is slowly released and love

Dearest monks and artists, I was first diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis when I was 21 years old. The only other person I knew at the time with this disease was my mother and her body had been ravaged by the effects of deterioration, with multiple joint replacements and eventually use of an electric wheelchair for mobility. I first dealt with my diagnosis through denial. I had just graduated from college and travelled across the country to begin a year of volunteer work. I managed to push my way through fatigue and pain for about six years before I was forced