Pilgrim Path

This blog is the work of a seeker and poet. Walking stick in hand, I head out into the world, not of the world, but in the world. My words and my friends carry me along and light the pilgrim path of spiritual journeys.

Wednesday, January 06, 2010


After years of rising at 3:30am, Brother George had refined his sense of sight, allowing him to discern the hour of his rising without the use of an alarm clock or watch. He was always the first to stir despite many brothers who’d lived in Saint Aelred monastery for decades longer. As sexton, it was his responsibility to press the button that set the bells to ringing, calling all to the service of Vigils. (It had been many years since he had to pull on a rope to sound the bells.)

With a twist and a shove, he hoisted himself to an upright position on his sway-backed bed. Bending over he flapped his hands around trying desperately to locate his sandals. It would be a very rude awakening to set foot upon the cold, clay tile without benefit of footwear. With success at hand, he reached for his walking stick and took four measured steps to the wall where the bell button was located.

Brother George coveted his role as sexton, most often during the early morning hours as he roused the other monks from their slumber and called them to their place in the abbey for Vigils – waiting for the light. But what he particularly enjoyed was the extra time it gave him to sit, meditate and write poetry.


Fourteen billion year old molecules
crashing, caroming
randomly becoming
fire, water, earth and air
heading toward this one,
perfect morning
where truth reveals itself,
for just a moment,
to those with ancient eyes.



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