In Merton's Hermitage with Griffin

 My essay in the spring issue of The Merton Seasonal is called “In the Hermitage with John Howard Griffin.” In reading about how Griffin felt living in Thomas Merton’s hermitage for months as he worked on Merton’s biography, I debated whether I would ever want to stay there, if given the chance, as well as if I would want to be a hermit somewhere else.

The Merton Seasonal comes out quarterly from the International Thomas Merton Society. Each issue focuses on exploring Thomas Merton's writings for today's world, and on reviewing new books that have come out about him. If you don’t have a yearly subscription to the Seasonal, you can buy this issue, as well as other earlier issues in stock, for $5 per issue, or 3 issues for $12, 5 issues for $18, postage is included to U.S. addresses.

 Checks made payable to “ITMS” should be sent to: Dr Paul M Pearson. Thomas Merton Center, Bellarmine University, 2001 Newburg Road, Louisville KY 40205

At Merton's Gethsemani Monastery

At Merton's Gethsemani Monastery

    Trappist, Kentucky

Pray for us, Thomas Merton,

who’ve come for consolation.

Pray for those who rise with the bell 

at 3 a.m. to touch the incorporeal, 

who enter heaven’s silence

and wonder if they’ve heard things right.

Pray for the farmer driving holy rolls 

of Cistercian hay to pay the bills.  

Pray for monks pouring good bourbon 

into fruitcake and fudge to sell.  

Pray for the cheesemakers 

filling molds with fresh milk.

Pray for those who study mysteries 

they can never clearly explain.

Pray for the comely lass at Vespers

who distracts from Gregorian chant.

And pray for me, 

a Protestant in Catholic’s clothing, 

who meditates under the ginkgo tree

where the Dalai Lama once sat,

who bows at the right time, 

kneels with the wrong knee, 

almost remembers to cross himself

when passing by the sacred Host. 

Pray for us—the confused and fakes, 

the spectacular failures and saints.  

Ratchet up our screw-loose hearts.

Orphans at your gate.

first published in Liturgical Credo

*

My essay "Tinkering with Grief in the Woods," about spending a week at Gethsemani Monastery while dealing with grief, was published by Literal Latte: https://www.literal-latte.com/2012/09/tinkering-with-grief-in-the-woods/

Easter Dawn

 

Easter Dawn

The air is cool and hesitant.

Stars twinkle out slowly 

as the black sky gives way 

to the promise of the hidden sun.

Feelings of longing, belief,

and hope fill my body 

and surge with unspeakable joy!

Expectant grays give way

to the pink, orange, and yellow of dawn

as the light of the young sun 

rises slowly over dark shadowed trees.

People gather as the sky deepens to blue.

The excited chatter and songs of the birds 

lift our hearts that rise 

with the steady strokes of wings,

rising towards the unknowable 

Presence.

Mark Liebenow

Listen

 In the morning, before you begin your activities, find a quiet place where you can listen to the day opening up. - Mark

Find a Bench

 

Find a bench where you can pause your busyness. - Mark

Simplify Your Life

            Simplify your life. Listen. Take care of others. - Mark

Prayer

        I don’t know how to pray. I only know to sit in a quiet place and listen.  - Mark

Heart Mountain Internment Camp

I stood by the remaining guard tower that watches over the dry, windy landscape in Wyoming. This was the site of the Heart Mountain Internment Camp during World War II. Ten thousand Americans lived here in 650 barracks. Little remains of the camp now, one of ten such camps where fear triumphed over humanity. In the distance was Heart Mountain, named by the Crow people because it looked like the heart of a bison.

The camps were set up in isolated and harsh regions of the country. Barracks were hastily assembled out of green wood and tarpaper. Not insulated, as the wood dried, gaps formed between the boards and dust constantly drifted in. In winter, when temperatures dropped to 20 degrees below zero, the inmates had to stuff newspaper and remnants of cloth into the cracks to block the cold.

Of Mountains and Bone

Turtle Island Quarterly

My nature poem “Of Mountains and Bone.” Inspired by Ansel Adams’ black and white photograph - “Tetons and the Snake River.” It’s the fourth poem down.

(The photo with this announcement is not of the Tetons, but it gives you a nature scene to look at. Do check out Adams’ stunning photo.)

www.fourdirectionpoetry.wixsite.com/turtleisland/12-3-1

Sitting On Porches

In small towns, like the one I grew up in Wisconsin, as well as in the older neighborhoods of large cities, there are still old houses with porches. Often they are close enough to the sidewalk that people walking by can talk to the people sitting there. Porches are also good for writing.

In the summer, in the time before air conditioners and cable TV, people would come out to their porch after dinner to cool down, put their feet up, and talk until it became too dark to see each other’s faces — how everyone’s day went, who was having surgery tomorrow, who was in town visiting relatives, and what did everyone think about the plan to build a new school?