Welcome to our “little cloister”
where we
EXPLORE MONASTIC WISDOM FOR EVERY DAY LIVING
Drs. Almut & Chuck with little one
Home of
+The Hildegard Seminar,
+Kierkegaard Masterclass,
+Bach Passionweek Consolations,
+The 12 Days of Christmas Contemplations &
+The “Little School” of Spiritual Formation
We have been doing some difficult work on this journey, with what seems like nigh-impossible goals: to cultivate a virgin heart, to sit in perfect silence, to reach that inner room where God meets us. Even under the best of conditions, it would be easy to lose heart. Even in a quiet room, with a candle for focus, and time for concentration, the thoughts keep intruding, insistent: undone tasks, unchecked lists, repressed sorrows, old embarrassments, new fears. We are imperfect pilgrims.
On the fourth Day of Christmas snow drifted ever so quietly down to earth, tenderly covering the landscape with a white veil. Every year I am afraid of winter. Every year I am, again, taken by surprise to watch the beauty of the first snow falling, to listen to my silent steps in the thin blanket of snow. The whole world is washed clean and hushed into a peaceful rest.
It is often just so in the spiritual world. We get afraid when, in our lives, the last colors of Fall vanish and our life is put on hold under an icy layer of cold. Yet still, we know, somewhere below those cold layers there is life waiting to burst into bloom again in spring.
A brother came to Scetis in the Egyptian desert to visit Abba Moses and asked him
"Father, give me a word." The old man said to him
"Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything."
Is your heart, now, at the end of the day, on the Eve of Christmas, also longing for that silent night? When the hustle and bustle fades, the people are gone, the lights are off? And we are alone before the flicker of a last candle, wondering, even doubting, what this is all about?
Have you ever wondered what to do about the 12 days of Christmas? We have.
An unexpected sick time of quiet and reflection reminded us of the many who arrive at Christmas with a deep longing for wholeness and healing and hope. To those who share this longing we want to invite you to a quiet, new venture: 12 Days of Christmas. We will walk from Christmas Day, towards the threshold when the old year fades and the new begins, and on to the dawning light of Epiphany.
Perhaps because our normal listing of them, like any classification system, obscures their deeper meaning for our lives.
Saint Martin of Tours, a 4th century saint who was drafted by the Roman military, is famous for using his sword to cut his military cape in half to give to a beggar in the cold of the northern French winter. The virtues of Saint Martin are many, and one might say the episode with the beggar is evidence of great charity, or of compassion or kindness or mercy, or even of courage.
How do we know the proper value of work? How do we decide its role in our lives? In a monastic community the value of work is not measured in how much someone will pay to have it done. It is not seen in narrow economic terms. The value of work is instead measured in the contribution of that work to all the aspects of daily, shared, life. For monastics that means daily shared spiritual life – because ALL of monastic daily, shared life is our spiritual life. In the gospel, all life is seen through the ultimate lens of love of God and love of neighbor.
During our Italy pilgrimage one morning we woke up in the Monastery of St. Scolastica, at the foot of the mountain of Cassino, on whose summit Benedict founded his last (and some say greatest) monastery, Monte Cassino. St. Scolastica is a striking contrast from the gold and power of Monte Cassino at the top of the mountain.
On Monday of last week, we visited a cave in a valley near Subiaco, a one-hour drive directly west of Rome, into the Apennine mountains that run down the center of the peninsula. Benedict’s story begins in this cave where, as a young man he spent 3 years as a hermit, with a local monk lowering him food in a basket.
Pentecost weekend we spent biking into the blue country, the Bavarian country side which has inspired artists of the "Blaue Reiter" (blue rider), a group of early expressionists. Riding on trains and bikes towards the mountains we took in the stunning views and shades of blue and green imaging the excitement of a painter to match them.
Mother Day weekend I spent some time at this gorgeous monastery in the Schwarzwald. I walked through the gardens, tasted the herbs, enjoyed the warm sun and sang with them during evening prayer...
How looking beyond the present makes a walk more meaningful
One can stand in a place and feel the presence of other times, of momentous and of ordinary events. Every place one stands is old beyond reckoning. But some seem more likely to call you into the past – or perhaps the past lingers here like a ghost or a kind spirit...
"Oh God, our provider and sustainer! Your end has no end, but we find ourselves ending and beginning a new year. We ask that your compassion protect us this year from evil, that you call us sweetly to follow you, that you give us a longing to leave our old self behind, and that you guide us to walk in your love. May your grace bless the universe and shower us with favor."
-a prayer for the New Year, adapted from Rumi
I often do not know what to do with Advent, the season of walking towards Christmas. In this time of hustle and bustle we sometimes want to just walk away from it. But this year I was introduced to an Ignatian exercise which leads one to put oneself into the story. It is like reading the familiar again in new ways.
Today, the afternoon of Christmas eve, we decided to bike around town watching stores closing, visitors walking home, Christmas markets deconstructing. While we drove along, the church bells of the Munich churches started ringing, inviting to the first Christmas service. We listened to some street musicians, and watched the moon rising over the city. ...
For the past month, I have traveled regularly from our apartment in Munich out to rural St. Ottilien Abbey, a Benedictine monastery about an hour’s train ride from us. I go to meet with one of the monks there for spiritual direction. Sometimes I stay for the night, sometimes I return the same day, but every time becomes a pilgrimage.
Many years ago, I volunteered to be the caretaker at a small cemetery near a church in the country. It was done in part in pity because I saw how run down the place was. It had suffered the same fate as many cemeteries in the USA whose communities had fallen on hard times – the only flowers were wild, thorns were as numerous as the ivy, and many of the stones were leaning or falling. It was situated on a hill, around a corner, and had a lovely view of the valley. It sported a forlorn and wild beauty.
A “sabbatical” is supposed to be a time apart, a sacred time, a time of silence and waiting. Translated from the Hebrew it might be ceasing or releasing. It is, of course, based on God’s ceasing or resting on the 7th day after creation. Its religious purpose varies according to different traditions, but rest is clearly one of them, as is release from burden (even beasts were not supposed to labor), and making holy those things that grow naturally (fruit that grows in the seventh year without cultivation is seen as holy in a special way). All of these involve not just napping, but a considered attitude towards oneself, others, and the earth.
