I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for John Spiesman’s reflection “A Threshold Journey.” I have been thinking a lot about thresholds in this challenging and uncertain time of global pandemic. A threshold is the space between — something old and new, between an end and a beginning, between something known and unknown.  This time for me has been a time between old and new, between an end and a beginning, and between something known and unknown. This time has encouraged me to wonder what

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Kathleen Deyer Buldoc’s reflection “Window of Hope.” I soften my gaze as I stare out my study window, looking beyond what is to what was and what is yet to come. My mother is dead, lost with hundreds of thousands of others to Covid19. She fought her way to the end, as stubborn in dying as she was in living. Dementia stole most of her memory, but it didn’t steal her will to live. This window frames

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Bart Brenner’s reflection on filling the cup. You are the wine, / I am the cup. I can yield nothing till I am filled up. (O Sun, Earth Our Original Monastery Prayer Cycle: Morning Prayer, Day Six) The pandemic brought illness and death, and a strange way of living—lock down, masking, and social distancing. Living in a cloistered community was was not welcomed by many. As an octogenarian, living alone since the death of my wife six

I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Nancy Agneberg’s reflection “Contemplative Driving: Noticing, Wondering, Returning.” Although my father’s death was not unexpected—after all, he was 96 years old, I miss him. A lot During the eight weeks of Dad’s dying, I drove the same round trip every day. Thirteen miles in the morning and then again later in the day. My destination was my widower father’s home where he had lived easily and contentedly for several years. Even though I wasn’t walking the Camino