To receive this love note straight to your in-box, subscribe here (and also receive gifts!) NEW! Listen to the love note in audio form or read below: Dearest dancing monks, I have been sitting and listening for my own word. It arrived first about a week or so ago. I have been blessed to have some quiet time over the holidays to reflect on the inner and outer movements of this past year. Reflecting on the significant shifts for me over the last year helped to open the door for where I am being invited to focus my love and attention for

New Year blessings dearest dancing monks, I am not a big fan of resolutions because they mostly involve buying things for self-improvement. What if this year wasn’t about “improving” yourself, but deepening into your own heart of longing and releasing all that gets in the way of that journey. I have been praying with the gospel text for the Feast of Epiphany on Sunday in preparation for our upcoming online retreat. (In some churches it is celebrated Sunday, in others on January 6th). I have been struck by what a powerful invitation it offers to us as we enter a new year,

Winter Solstice At this winter’s turning of the year let us go gently — for once – into the night, its dream-drenched, glittering stillness a haven for our souls. There is something beyond the dull brightness of mid-day, fluorescent and buzzing. Something to praise beyond the sun, triumphing over the intricacies of shadowed moonlight. Bring in the old, beautiful realm of Holy Night, echoing with ancient voices, rustling with intimacy’s passion, luminous with stars. Cradled in darkness, be restored to the embrace of mystery. Glory wakes here. Let it kindle your joy. —Rebecca Parker Dearest monks, artists, and pilgrims, In

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

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