Dearest monks and artists, Welcome to all of our new subscribers who signed on during our sabbatical time! I have thoroughly enjoyed taking this time to step back from email and social media and allowing more time for silence and reflection. Summer lends itself to a holy pause and a time to look ahead to the coming year and what rhythms we want to create for ourselves that allow listening to a deeper voice. I was reminded too of those foundational things which sustain and nourish me most. I feel ready to dive back into the work I love so

Dearest monks and artists, We like to take some Sabbath time each summer to step back from the work at hand and have time for play and free flow of ideas. Usually this happens in August, but because we will be traveling back to the States for a family visit in July, we decided to take our newsletter and posting break during this next month or so until early August. Sabbath is one of the principles of our Monk Manifesto: “The meaning of the Sabbath is to celebrate time rather than space. Six days a week we live under the

Dearest monks and artists, In the northern hemisphere we approach the celebration of the summer solstice, the longest day. The seasons are connected to the different cardinal directions, as well as the four elements. Hildegard of Bingen, a 12th century Benedictine Abbess, allied the direction of the south and the season of summer with the element of fire. We find a similar connection in the Native American Cherokee tradition and in the Irish Celtic tradition. We might think of summer as the season of fire and stoking our passions. It is the season of coming to fullness connected to the Hour

Delightful to me to be on an island hill, on the crest of a rock, that I might often watch the quiet sea. That I might watch the heavy waves above the bright water, as they chant music to their Father everlastingly. That I might watch it’s smooth, bright-bordered shore, no gloomy pastime, that I might hear the cry of the strange birds, a pleasing sound. That I might hear the murmur of the long waves against the rocks, that I might hear the sound of the sea, like mourning beside a grave. That I might watch the splendid flocks

  Dearest monks and artists, “What is serious to men is often very trivial in the sight of God. What in God might appear to us as ‘play’ is perhaps what He Himself takes most seriously. At any rate the Lord plays and diverts Himself in the garden of His creation, and if we could let go of our own obsession with what we think is the meaning of it all, we might be able to hear His call and follow Him in His mysterious, cosmic dance.”  ~ Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation We live in the midst of chaotic

St. Kevin and the Blackbird (after Seamus Heaney) Imagine being like Kevin, your grasping fist softens, fingers uncurl and palms open, rest upward, and the blackbird weaves twigs and straw and bits of string in the begging bowl of your hand, you feel the delicate weight of speckled blue orbs descend, and her feathered warmth settling in for a while. How many days can you stay, open, waiting for the shell to fissure and crack, awaiting the slow emergence of tiny gaping mouths and slick wings that need time to strengthen? Are you willing to wait and watch? To not