OUR
LADY OF THE PHILIPPINES
Trappist
Abbey
When
the moon climbs the cloudless sky and stillness pours into valleys pooling
waters of silence, I rise from sleep to dress, shuffling off loose dreams like a
sack.
Stepping
outside, I inhale brisk air like snuff—suddenly, I am wakeful, a clock about
to spring. I toss out bags of sand to rise more quickly.
In
the early chill the mountains stand as guardian shadows and night gleams like
dragonfly wings.
I
am eager for the work of God beckoning at the end of a solitary path just
beyond a row of trees bristling at wind snapping like a flag.
Bits
of gravel bite at my soles as turning the corner, I lift up my heart at the
sight of light spilling gently from the entrance to the church.
Stepping
inside, I am greeted by the bright echo of kneelers knocking the stone floor,
and softly rustling pages of stapled paper hymnals.
Gradually,
ethereal plainchant rises like a river, gathers itself, solidly transforming
into one long sonorous brilliant golden bell.
 |
| Brown Madonna (1938) by Galo Ocampo |
HERMITS
OF BETHLEHEM
Chester, New Jersey
Beyond
the threshold is silence.
Stillness
suffuses like light.
The
world outside is spinning.
Summer
flames at its height.
Solitude
is a boon companion.
Self-knowledge
climbs like a sloth.
The
bed is spare, a thin beard.
The
rocking chair is a moth.
Dig
in a cave in darkness.
Toss
out handfuls of soil.
Bake
bread in your heart, an oven.
Bring
steaming thirst to a boil.
Listen
for the least word of power.
Pierce
yourself with a sword.
Afternoon
deepens day shadows.
The
sun is a violent lord.
Dusk
emanates blood-red rays.
All
trials in an instant will pass.
Gaze
upon woods colored jade.
Dream
dreams of emerald grass.
 |
| Bethlehem—when the trees say nothing |
Credits - original publication:
ReplyDelete“Hermits of Bethlehem,” The Penmen Review (July 29, 2015)
Gonzalinho
“Why do I live alone? I don’t know. ...in some mysterious way I am condemned to it. ...I cannot have enough of the hours of silence when nothing happens. When the clouds go by. When the trees say nothing. When the birds sing. I am completely addicted to the realization that just being there is enough, and to add something else is to mess it all up. It would be so much more wonderful to be all tied up in someone...and I know inexorably that this is not for me. It is a kind of life from which I am absolutely excluded. I can’t desire it. I can only desire this absurd business of trees that say nothing, of birds that sing, of a field in which nothing ever happens (except perhaps that a fox comes and plays, or a deer passes by).”
ReplyDeleteIn Thomas Merton, When the Trees Say Nothing (2003), page 177
For Merton, the silence of the trees is a fullness, not an emptiness. The trees say something.
Gonzalinho
“O beata solitudo, o sola beatitudo!”
ReplyDeleteBeata solitudo, sola beatitudo: Attributed to St. Bernard of Clairvaux but now known to come from the work of Cornelius Muys (1500-1572), a Dutch priest, humanist, poet, and contemporary of the well-known humanist Desiderius Erasmus.
See:
http://books.google.com.ph/books?id=3FygQsGAzY8C&pg=PA217&lpg=PA217&dq=%22beata+solitudo+sola+beatitudo%22+st.+bernard&source=bl&ots=Fnm6h_tqQO&sig=--aTUnHt2ODiV310b6MwbqDlfZA&hl=tl&ei=F7juTb-_L5KiuQPFw8iPCQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=6&ved=0CD0Q6AEwBQ#v=onepage&q=%22beata%20solitudo%20sola%20beatitudo%22%20st.%20bernard&f=false
TinyURL: http://tinyurl.com/3ocnzhd
Original source of quote: Cornelius Muys, Vigilate et orate. Solitudo siue Vita solitaria, laudata: Cornelio Musio Delpho Encomiaste (1566).
Publisher: Antuerpiae: ex officina Christophori Plantini.
Grosenor Print of this book is no longer available.
See:
https://books.google.com.ph/books?id=gGfQXaCc0rwC&pg=PT3&lpg=PT3&dq=cornelius+muys+o+beata+solitudo&source=bl&ots=a25aFrEWsX&sig=ZZ73ebkv8xkB625BYS8ZJf5iYoY&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjaxa69gvfKAhVjG6YKHcU3DfkQ6AEIJDAB#v=onepage&q=cornelius%20muys%20o%20beata%20solitudo&f=false
TinyURL: https://tinyurl.com/znk3g25
Gonzalinho