Dearest monks and artists, This has been an incredible couple of weeks with our renewal of vows for our 20th anniversary where American friends and Irish friends gathered with us together to celebrate. It felt like our worlds were coming together in a beautiful way. Then, just before the pilgrimage began, a shipment of our things from Seattle which had been in storage for the last two and a half years, arrived. This included two pieces of furniture from my father’s family in Austria, an oil painting of my grandmother, lots and lots of family photos, and some other mementos from

St. Brendan and the Songbirds Imagine the hubris, searching for the Saint-promised island, the stubbornness to continue for seven journeys around the sun. Each day on the rolling sea, his fellow monks jostled and tossed by waves. Brendan asks late one evening: How will I know when I find what I seek? Easter Sunday brings liturgy on the back of a whale, but as if that weren’t miracle enough, they travel onward. The ship is tossed onto sand and stone. they look up to behold a broad and magnificent oak frosted with white birds hiding the branches entirely, downy tree

Miriam on the Shores “All the women went out after her with tambourines and dancing.” –Exodus 15:20 Her skirt hangs heavy with seawater, staccato breath after running from death. She can still feel soldiers reaching out to seize her blouse before the waves caved in. Collapsing on dry earth for a moment, the impulse to dance begins in her feet, spreads slowly upwards like a flock of starlings rising toward a dawn-lit sky. So many dances in secret before, night-stolen movements after exhausting days heaving stones and harvest. She finds herself now upright, weeping. To stand here, face to the

Dearest monks and artists, It was such a joy to return from our trip to the States last week and feel as though we were coming home to Galway. We recently made the decision to have our small storage unit, which has been waiting for us in Seattle ever since we moved two and a half years ago, shipped over to us. It has mostly boxes of family photos and two pieces of furniture from my father’s side of the family, as well as an oil painting of my grandmother. I have missed these family connections. Making this decision felt

Dearest monks and artists, I am just back in Ireland now after almost three weeks traveling in the U.S. for teaching and visiting family. It was a magical time away. I led two retreats – the Sacred Rhythms Writing and Movement Retreat in Cape May, NJ where 18 amazing dancing monks joined to dive deep into the creative well together. Then came a few days of rest and renewal in Maine visiting my aunt and her husband which was a the perfect time of play and exploration. And finally came the Exploring Archetypes through Expressive Arts Retreat in Reading, PA with

In honor of the Feast of St. Hildegard I share a reprise of a poem I wrote in her honor (and a new reflection below): 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

St. Francis at the Corner Pub Approaching the door, you can already hear his generous laughter. He stands on the bar upside down for a moment to get a new perspective on things, a flash of polka-dotted boxers as his brown robe cascades over his head, sandaled toes wiggling in the air in time with a fiddle playing in the corner. Rain falls heavily in the deepening darkness and he orders a round of drinks despite his vow of poverty and the single silver coin in his pocket, multiplied by the last Guinness poured. Nothing like a good glass of