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

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims, I am so excited that we have the next two dancing monk icons ready to view! Marcy Hall completed King David and Prophet Miriam, both described as dancing with joy in the Hebrew Scriptures, and give us a way to honor the Jewish roots of the Christian tradition. I am moved by both images, but perhaps especially by Miriam in these difficult days where the news feels so relentless with wars being waged all around us, with children dying, with so many struggling to get their most basic needs met. John and I have been

Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims, I was delighted to receive the image above the other day from fellow dancing monk and artist Karen Newe. The text comes from my book The Artist’s Rule, specifically the fourth chapter, which is one of my favorites on the importance of sacred rhythms for creative renewal. Seeing my words appear in such a visually delightful way was a gift. I have been pondering the gifts of sacred rhythms and my own creative renewal a great deal this summer with time to rest and heal and nourish myself deeply. This is a part of my own annual

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