Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims, It is a very full season of life for me right now, having facilitated our Writing on the Wild Edges retreat at the end of August with John here in Ireland, then traveled to Germany to lead our pilgrimage in the footsteps of St. Hildegard of Bingen with Betsey Beckman (we are looking at fall 2021 for the next offering of that program).  In a couple of days John and I have a new group arrive to Galway where we will journey to local sacred ruins and explore the gift that Celtic monasticism has for

Fin and feather, flesh, blood and bone: the earth calls its creatures to leave the familiar, turn again into the unknown; to move steadily and continuously and at great risk toward an invisible goal, expending great energy with the possibility of failure… ~ Marianne Worcester Dearest Monks, artists, and pilgrims, Several years ago I had the privilege of leading a retreat on the shores of Cape May, NJ. Cape May is a resting place for weary souls seeking renewal and refreshment. It is also the resting place for Monarch butterflies as they make their long migratory journey to Mexico. In the

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims, The autumn equinox falls today in the northern hemisphere (click here if you are in the southern hemisphere welcoming spring)—a time when the sun rests above the equator, and day and night are divided equally. It heralds a season filled with change, celebrates the harvest, and ushers in the brilliant beauty of death. Autumn is a season of transition, of continual movement. At the heart of autumn’s gifts are these twin energies of relinquishing and harvesting. It is a season of paradox that invites us to consider what we are called to release and surrender,

St. Hildegard Strolls through the Garden Luminous morning, Hildegard gazes at the array of blooms, holding in her heart the young boy with a mysterious rash, the woman reaching menopause, the newly minted widower, and the black Abbey cat with digestive issues who wandered in one night and stayed.  New complaints arrive each day. She gathers bunches of dandelions, their yellow profusion a welcome sight in the monastery garden, red clover, nettle, fennel, sprigs of parsley to boil later in wine. She glances to make sure none of her sisters are peering around pillars, slips off her worn leather shoes

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims, September 9th is the Feast of Ciaran of Clonmacnoise, one of the great Irish saints. He lived in the 6th century and is one of the great monastic founders called the “Twelve Apostles of Ireland.” Ciaran had a kinship with animals. There are stories of him befriending a fox who would carry his Psalter back and forth to his teacher so he could learn. He had a cow which gave milk to all of the Abbey. The cow was so revered that when she died, her hide became a kind of relic and it was said to

What She Does Not Know (for unsuspecting Selkies everywhere) She does not know there is a reason she always feels out of place her life rigid and small, like living in a doll’s house a marriage more trap than longing and when she chokes on courtesy and convention the salt which burns her throat is not just tears. She does not know that when she stands on the sea’s wild edge and can finally breathe, dream, weep, her body strains forward seawater in her veins, barnacles behind her knees waves lap her ankles, thighs, torso, her cold breasts. She does