Things visible and things unseen

An on-line version of a museum exhibit entitled The Inner Beauty of Flowers (link below) has recently captured my attention. The exhibit features photographic images of flowers taken not using standard photography, but with x-rays. I've returned to the site several times, in part to admire the beauty and delicacy of the images, and in part to reflect on the nature of vision.

A standard photograph relies on reflected light to reveal the color, shape and definition of an object. In contrast, a radiographic image is produced when light is transmitted through an object, penetrating its surface and revealing something of its inner structure.

As this year draws to a close, I've been thinking about x-ray vision, trying to perceive the inner beauty of the year, trying to look beyond the outer surface of events, places, and people in order to see that which is within. Perhaps what seemed to be a difficult situation held hidden grace. Perhaps an unseen hand was supporting me when outwardly I felt myself to be falling. Perhaps a seed lay buried within a task that seemed meaningless or futile, its fruit still to flower and unfold.

The year has been constantly abloom with perceptible grace and beauty of every kind, but these x-ray images challenge me to not stop there. Events or situations that, like a flower, carry beauty on the surface also hold a deeper beauty. With the eyes of faith we can look within and see the delicacy of a petal-like moment of grace, the sturdy coat that protects a waiting seed, the strong stems and roots that support fragile growth, and the tender sweep of God’s hand that upholds us throughout the year.

Scripture helps us see this inner beauty, especially the Psalms, those ancient prayers that penetrate so deeply into the visceral depths of human joy, lament, gratitude and pain. The annual liturgical cycle grounds our year in the life of Christ, the imprint of His life held deeply within each of us. Silence also fosters our capacity to perceive the heart of the matter. And always, the Light of Christ illuminates our days, months and years.

On the last days of the current year and the first days of the coming year, our scripture readings during Vespers come from the Letter to the Colossians. The first chapter contains a beautiful passage that speaks of Christ:

He is the image of the invisible God,
the firstborn of all creation;
for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created,
things visible and invisible,…
all things have been created through him and for him.
He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.

As we step from one year to the next, reflecting back and looking forward, let us also look deeply, illuminated by the Light of Christ, and perceive the inner beauty of this year of grace.



Postscript: The Inner Beauty of Flowers was exhibited this past summer and fall at the Botanical Gardens of Smith College in Northampton, MA. From the link, click on "X-Ray Images." Thanks goes to Sister Kathleen Christa, who is originally from that area of Massachusetts, for sharing with me these beautiful and unique images.

Evermore and evermore

This morning, on the Feast of St. John, I took a cold, early morning walk in our woods, rounding the corner into the back pasture just as the bell rang calling the community to Lauds. I hustled across the field, stepping with quick but careful feet across stubble that still bore the remains of Christmas snow. Over my left shoulder, a delicate light infused the sky with endless shades of rose. To my right, the cemetery rested quietly, filled with memory and longing for God. Straight ahead, toward the southwest, was the back of the chapel, where, if I hurried, I could make my way up the back sacristy steps just in time for the opening verse.

I made my way hastily over the snowy stubble, surrounded by woods, ice, graves, hay bales and a few sluggish birds who were too cold to sing. The sound of bells cut insistently through the freezing air. The dawning light looked timeless. The moment felt eternal. I felt connected with everyone and anyone who has ever hastened across a winter field at dawn in order to lift their voice in praise to God.

Desire for God lies within each of us. We are each called to express this desire in our own particular way, and in our own particular time, but the desire itself is eternal, and is rooted in God’s desire for us. For us monastics, we express this desire through our liturgical prayer and our life in community. My hastening steps this morning were not about avoiding being late. They were about desire for God, about wanting to be present, to sing, to unite my voice with those of my Sisters as together we join in the eternal song of praise to our Lord.

I made it through the field, past the icicle-laden barn, and up the back steps just in time to catch my breath in the sacristy before stepping into my place for the opening verse. My hastening steps were at one with the steps of all who have ever hastened to sing praise in the House of God.

This morning, a single time-bound morning in the midst of eternity, was the perfect morning for us to join our voices with those of the ages in a timeless Christmas hymn by a 4th century Christian poet: Of the Father’s Love Begotton.

Of the Father’s love begotten,
Ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega,
He the source, the ending he,
Of the things that are, that have been,
And that future years shall see,
Evermore and evermore!

O that birth forever blessed,
When the Virgin, full of grace,
By the Spirit blest conceiving,
Bore the Savior of our race;
And the Babe, the world’s Redeemer,
First revealed his sacred face,
Evermore and evermore!

Let the heights of heav’n adore him;
Angel hosts, his praises sing;
Pow’rs, dominions, bow before him,
And extol our God and King;
Let no tongue on earth be silent,
Ev’ry voice in concert ring,
Evermore and evermore!


Postscript: We had a beautiful (and white!) Christmas celebration here at the monastery. You can see a few photos on our Community News web page. We'll be posting more on our Monastery Moments photo gallery in the next day or so.

Christmas Eve

This afternoon, I took a leisurely stroll through the back pasture, a cup of hot chocolate in hand. The work of the day had been completed - chapel decorated, music rehearsed, hand-bells polished, the sacristy prepared for Midnight Mass. The late afternoon hours were now awash in a kind of calm yet focused anticipation with First Vespers of Christmas just an hour or two away.

Outside, the pasture was astonishingly quiet. Slanting shadows lay in quiet repose across the cut field. Sparrows skipped leisurely across the haphazardly-angled stubble. Crows flew in a kind of aerial amble, seemingly in no particular hurry to get no particular place. Over at the edge of the lake, three ducks swam lazily, and only the barest of breezes disturbed the watery reflection of the wintry sky.

Gazing upward at the trees, the plethora of bird nests caught my eye. It seemed that nearly every tree had a patch of bent twigs and pine needles that had been carefully woven into a humble yet fitting home. Having just completed festive decorations and rehearsal of complex music, the rustic simplicity of bird nests in barren branches was a gentle reminder that the real preparation for Christmas is in our hearts.

Over these past days, our entire community has helped complete the hard work of preparing our home for a joyous celebration of the Nativity of our Lord. The monastery and chapel are beautifully adorned. The monastic dining room is festively decorated. Music rehearsal is complete. Christmas dinner preparation is down to the finishing touches. But these are just signs of the real preparation, signifiers of the adornment of our hearts as we each form a fitting interior abode in which to welcome our Lord.

In a few minutes we will gather for First Vespers of Christmas, followed by a simple supper. Then the monastery will be quiet, awaiting the first notes of Joy to the World at Midnight Mass. During those Christmas Eve hours, always hours of astonishing quiet, I will adorn the home of my heart with calm yet focused anticipation, readying a fitting place for the arrival of our newborn King.

Spice blog

‘Tis the season when 'Sister chefs' beyond the usual 'Sister chefs' begin wandering into the monastery kitchen and start pulling recipe books off the shelves and rummaging through the spices and reaching for rolling pins and measuring spoons and butter and eggs. These days, the kitchen lights are on at odd hours. Cookie sheets seem to be running a relay race into and out of the oven. And any random shortcut through the kitchen just might yield a fresh-baked something or other still warm and gooey from the oven’s heat.

Even as Advent continues, we’ve begun preparing for Christmas. Trees are up (even if not yet lit), wreaths have been hung, banisters are beribboned, and creches have been devotedly arranged. Up in the chapel, the first rehearsal notes of Christmas music have been sounded. Out front, the monastery mailbox has been as stuffed as a Christmas goose with greeting cards a-coming and a-going. All is nearly ready for a festive Christmas celebration to soon begin.

Wish you could be here to see the monastery all dressed up in Christmas finery. Wish you could hear the early notes of “Greensleeves” floating down the chapel steps. Wish we could hand you a fresh-baked something or other still warm from the oven’s heat. Instead, just imagine a stroll through the monastery kitchen. Imagine the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg and toasted pecans. Imagine a dog-eared page from a well-used recipe book. Imagine a dusting of flour scattered across the baking counter. Imagine one of us offering you a brownie fresh from the oven, a cup of hot tea, and warmly wishing you and yours all the blessings of the season.






May peace and joy be with each of you as we await with great anticipation the coming of our Lord.

The Oratory of the Heart

In the previous post, as I wrote about the "oratory of the monastery," I was aware that the presence of our monastic chapel is part of the circumstances of our particular monastic call. But most of you reading this blog do not have a monastic chapel as part of your home. Or do you? We each have the oratory of our heart, that place of reverent quiet and humble presence in which we sit in silence with God. And although I live with a beautiful chapel just one floor down from my room and one floor up from my workplace, for me, too, the oratory of my heart is the primary place in which I meet God in silence, prayer, and praise.

Tonight in the "oratory of the monastery," we will sing the first of the ancient O Antiphons. For centuries, these have been sung during Vespers on the seven days leading up to the eve of Christmas. Each of the seven antiphons begins with “O,” is followed by a title of our Lord, and concludes with a plea for our Messiah to come. The texts of the antiphons are rich with scriptural allusions and images, especially from the prophecies of Isaiah.

As the antiphons progress toward the eve of Christmas, so too does the intensity of the plea. Yet to my ears, no plea is more poignant or tender or intense than the simple preface of “O.” It’s as if that one simple word, that solitary syllable, contains both all barrenness and all hope, all poverty and all promise.

In these final days of Advent, as we are busy with many things and many words, may the oratory of our hearts, our interior chapel, resound with silence and expectant wonder, speechless but for the absolute simplicity of the poignant, humble, hope-filled “O.”


December 17th (O Sapientia)
O Wisdom, coming forth from the mouth of the Most High,
reaching from one end to the other mightily,
and sweetly ordering all things:
Come and teach us the way of prudence.


For more information about the beautiful and ancient O Antiphons, or to follow them this week, here is a link.

Choir practice

Tonight, after supper dishes were washed and put away, we gathered in the chapel for one of our occasional choir practices. It’s a chance for us to learn new music, review seasonal antiphons, and in general try to keep us singing as one voice. As we gradually assembled in our choir stalls, you would have thought we were gathering for prayer, not for practice. It was the same silence, the same reverence, the same sitting in prayerful expectation as it is for Lauds or Vespers on any given morning or evening. The only thing that gave it away that we were not gathering for prayer was the absence of lit candles and bells.

In the monastery chapel, we fall readily and naturally into the reverence that befits the space, no matter whether our purpose is cleaning the chapel, music rehearsal, or preparation for liturgy. There’s no idle chatter, no loud gestures, no needless extravagance. The only extravagance is that of God's goodness and glory, of our prayer and praise, and the extravagance of reverent silence in the midst of this often noisy and chaotic world. As we gathered and departed tonight in the most natural of silences, I realized the extent to which we’ve internalized St. Benedict’s instruction about the Oratory of the Monastery:

Let the oratory be what it is called, a place of prayer;
and let nothing else be done there or kept there.
When the Work of God is ended,
let all go out in perfect silence,
and let reverence for God be observed…

(From the Rule of St. Benedict, Chapter 52, “On the Oratory of the Monastery”)

We interrupt this color...

...to bring you a rose abloom in winter.




Today is Gaudete Sunday, a day when we – for this one day only – wring the somberness right out of Advent’s liturgical color of violet. What’s left is a beautiful shade of rose to match the hope and joy of the scripture readings of this day.

Gaudete Sunday, or the 3rd Sunday of Advent, is so named because the first word of the Entrance Antiphon for this Sunday begins “Gaudete…”, or “rejoice.” On this Sunday, sensing the nearness of the Lord, we pause in midst of this pensive, yet hopeful, season to rejoice, to be glad. We interrupt the liturgical violet and light a rose-colored candle. We pull out a rose-colored vestment for the priest. Many of us wear our joy on our sleeves, putting on rose-colored sweaters or scarfs. We all, as it were, see the day through rose-colored glasses.

Yet even as we rejoice, we know we are still in the midst of deep midwinter. We still wander in the bleakness of the desert. We are, to use an image from today’s Gospel reading, still imprisoned, awaiting the coming of our Savior. Yet today, in the midst of bitter cold and swirling snow even here in the Deep South, we put on our rose-colored glasses and let out a joyous cry, knowing that Emmanuel is near.

Come, Lord Jesus.

The desert and the parched land will exult: the steppe will rejoice and bloom… Isaiah 35: 1 (from today’s 1st reading)

Therefore, we bow...

During Vespers this evening, a reading from St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans began “Therefore….” As soon as the word was uttered I knew that one of St. Paul’s beautiful and carefully-wrought passages would follow on the pivot of that one word. I couldn’t help but hear the careful reasoning of Romans 5 in light of the mystery we celebrated today, the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

The beautiful antiphons of the Divine Office have been ringing in my ears all day as I’ve pondered the mysteries of this great feast. And now, the nuanced beauty of St. Paul's letter to the Romans. This interplay of mystery and reason, faith and understanding, is a wonderful interplay, with reason ultimately bowing before the mysteries of God.

Therefore, as this wonderful feast day draws to a close, let’s let St. Anselm, 11th century Benedictine monk, scholar, and Doctor of the Church, have the last word, as the theologian bows before the mystery of God's grace:

"The sky and the stars rejoice; the earth and the waters rejoice; day and night rejoice… O Lady, full and more than full of grace, to you I cry praise…To you I sing hail, Virgin favored of God and more than favored, you in whose blessing every nature is blessed, not only creatures by their Creator, but the Creator by his own creatures..."

(From the Office of Readings for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception)

9:30 pm in the passageway

Last night I walked through the back passageway and passed Sister Eileen, a physician, who happened to have her stethoscope in hand. I completed my errand, and then, with the stethescope image still in mind, I paused in the passageway to listen, to wrap my ears in quiet, to auscultate the heart beat of the night… Against the window, shadows breathing with the wind… Outside, the tenor voice of a distant owl… Inside, the rhythmic breath of a house turning the final page of the day, nestling warmly under a blanket of night, and falling gently asleep in the arms of God.

The first word of the Rule of St. Benedict is “Obsculta,” or "Listen.” Listening is at the very heart of Benedictine life, inclining our ear to the heartbeat of God, attending to the indwelling breath of the Spirit. We listen through Sacred Scripture, the Word of God. We listen through the Rule of our Holy Father St. Benedict. We listen through the writings of holy ones. We listen to each other. Always, we seek to incline our ear to the heart and breath of God.

Now, in the light of morning, in the midst of the busy-ness of the day, may our hearts stay inclined, our ears wrapped in quiet, our hearts listening deeply to the very breath of God.




Postscript: As a follow-up from the previous post, my errand late last night was as one of St. Nick’s elves. Sister Sara Aiden and I moved from floor to floor and door to door, delivering the treats that had been prepared by St. Nick. Nearly every Sister had remembered to place a shoe outside her door, but we elves had mercy on the two who forgot!

Making a list

It was an innocuous trip to the back porch this afternoon, but I seem to have caught St. Nick in the middle of a task. Lists were prepared, paper sacks were arranged, fruit was at hand, and an ample supply of candy filled a couple of grocery bags. St. Nick was nowhere to be found, so I snooped around for a bit and took a few snapshots.

The Feast of St. Nicholas is not commonly celebrated in the U.S., but it is a long-standing tradition in Germany. The earliest Sisters in our monastic community were primarily of German heritage, the town of Cullman was founded and settled by German immigrants, and we are a great-granddaughter house of the Abbey of St. Walburga in Bavaria. Given this background, a number of German traditions were incorporated into the life of the monastic community. We still retain some of these, and celebrating St. Nick’s Day is one of them.

On the Church’s calendar of saint days, the Feast of St. Nicholas falls on December 6. On the eve of the 6th, each Sister puts a shoe outside her bedroom door and awakens to find it filled with a sack of fruit and other goodies. It’s a fun, simple tradition, and a treasured legacy of our earliest Sisters.

While our spiritual and religious traditions are paramount, simple community traditions such as this help knit us into a family and connect us with the Sisters who lived this life before us, who lived in the rooms we now inhabit, put shoes outside these same doors, and worked on the same tables that now hold sacks of St. Nick goodies.

As I snooped around amongst the fruit and candy this afternoon, I took a good look at the lists of names. We find our names on all kind of lists around the monastery – readers for Mass, candle bearers for processions, cantors, table decorators, and the like. Yet there is another list of prime importance to us - our Book of the Names of the Dead, which was displayed in the chapel during the month of November. Our lives are intimately connected with those listed in that book. They are the ones who formed us, passing on the tradition of seeking God through the monastic way of life, as well as the particular traditions of this community, from Sister to Sister and generation to generation. When I place a shoe outside my bedroom door on Sunday evening, I’ll do so conscious of the close connection between the lists of we, the living, and the list of those who helped build, form and shape this monastic community. They, St. Nicholas, and all the saints, have given us a treasured legacy indeed.

Bearing the cross during Advent

This morning we had one of those Masses that leaves the sacristan feeling like she barely escaped with her life. The cross-bearer forgot to bear the cross. The organist couldn’t find the music for the final hymn. And there were a couple of other heart-stopping moments.

Heart-stopping if you’re a sacristan, that is. Hopefully no one else was aware that the cross was carried by someone who, as Mass was about to begin, realized that the cross-bearer was contemplatively settled in a pew far, far away. Hopefully no one else noticed that the flautist suddenly stopped 'flauting' and began searching for missing music amongst the stacks at the organ. And hopefully no one else noticed the couple of other sacristan-heart-stopping moments.

Yet from my perspective as sacristan and flautist, it was, strangely enough, the perfect opening for Advent, this season of preparing for the coming of the Lord. No matter how well we prepare, we are human. Things go awry. We lose the music amongst the music. We lose ourselves in contemplation. We prepare and prepare, yet when the lights are turned on and the candles are lit, we still need each other to help us carry the cross and sing the song.

As we prepare our hearts for the coming of the Lord, it's good to be reminded of our emptiness. It's good to be reminded of just how much we need our Lord, and need each other. And it's good to be reminded of the many ways in which the Lord comes to us. Sometimes it's in the guise of the one who helps another to bear her cross and sing her song.

Postscript: Today during lunch someone said "That was a beautiful Mass." Inwardly, the sacristan smiled. She had escaped with her life.

Beginning again...

It’s that time of year. Tonight at Vespers we enter the season of Advent, beginning another round of the Church year, another cycle in which we encounter the Lord through the seasons of the liturgy, always beginning again, yet moving ever deeper into life in Christ.

The liturgical year is not a mere remembrance, or commemoration, of events from the life of Christ. We are not spectators. We are not watching a drama. Rather, in the seasons of the liturgical cycle the life of Christ unfolds, both drawing us into His life, and pouring life into us. Through times and seasons, we encounter the Eternal One.

We are able to see the seasons of our own life in light of the seasons of Christ’s life. In our own times of watchful waiting, we recognize the season of Advent and trust in the coming of our Savior. In our own times of desolation, we recognize Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, and know that He is with us in our pain. In our own times of resurrection, we recognize God’s abounding power and grace.

As the liturgical cycle ends and begins, I’ve posted below some circular/cyclical images from around the monastery, taken in different seasons. Also, a brief excerpt from a wonderful poem by Gertrude von LeFort entitled The Holy Year:

...Bow down, O years, and stand still ye months, take
the shoes from off your feet ye wandering days!
For Eternity is speaking to my soul...

My pilgrim boat

Day after day, I return to the same wooden choir stall. Nothing much changes. I chant the same Psalms from the same books in a set four-week cycle, the pattern broken only for feasts and solemnities. I make the sign of the cross at certain, unchanging, times. I bow at the same phrases. The same three hymnals remain anchored in front of me. Day after day, morning and evening, I climb into the boat, hoist my sails, and go nowhere. From afar, the whole effort might seem like a fool’s errand. But from up close, anchored in the boat, the journey is ceaseless, and the vista ever-changing.

We generally think of pilgrims as those who journey across land or sea, moving from here to there as part of a spiritual quest. Movement seems inherent to the notion of pilgrimage. Thus, you might think of monastics, with our commitment to stability, as the antithesis of a pilgrim. Not so. We are indeed pilgrims, but our journey is inward, not outward, and for us, pilgrimage is a way of life, not a singular event. The commitment to stability and fidelity, rather than anchoring us in passive immobility, actually creates an environment – a vessel, if you will – that frees us for an inner pilgrimage of ceaselessly moving deeper and deeper into transformation in Christ. The monastic liturgy, the arrangement of the monastic day, and the community life advocated by our Benedictine Rule are all integral to fostering the continual monastic journey of seeking God. They form the ship in which we sail.

I have returned to the same choir stall and the same set of books thousands of times. It has yet to get boring,and I have yet to chant the same Psalm twice, not because the Psalms have changed, but because I have changed. Just as genuine pilgrimage has a transformative effect the spiritual traveler, the inner pilgrimage of monastic life has a transformative effect on the monastic. Each time I encounter a Psalm I encounter it in light of my ongoing conversion in Christ. The Psalms don’t change, the Psalms change me.

In about an hour, I’ll walk up to chapel for Vespers and sit down in the same wooden choir stall - my pilgrim boat - that I sat in this morning. I will chant the same set of Psalms I chanted four weeks ago. With sail hoisted, I'll be rounding the next bend of my ceaseless pilgrim journey into the heart of God.

Breaking open the day

 If someone handed me colors and a brush and asked me to paint a picture of this day, I would paint the pomegranate that spilled its riches across a platter at lunch this afternoon.

We’re not accustomed to having pomegranate around here, but it was on sale at a local market and one was purchased and sliced and arranged on a platter for lunch. Nearly everyone paused as they passed, with some partaking and some not, but all admiring the festively-colored seeds spread across the plate like a meadow in bloom.

The day has been like that, a ripe fruit broken open by the sun and sowing its seeds across the hours – seeds of prayer, work, leisure, Sacred Scripture, laughter with an employee, prayerful concern for someone undergoing surgery, thanksgiving for the gift of music on this memorial of St. Cecilia… Beautiful seeds all, some muted, some richly colored, all opening like blossoms across the hours of the day.

And now, nighttime. Supper dishes have been put away. Our easy laughter and conversation over dinner have ceased. The Psalms of Compline have been recited. It’s time to slip into the ripening darkness of night, until we break into the hours of a new day.

A baker's dozen

One flashlight, two hammers, three phone calls, four screwdrivers, five Sisters, and a dozen or so vigorous kicks… It took all that and a dedicated employee to free a Sister and a guest who were trapped behind a stuck door in the basement of Ottilia Hall late this afternoon.

We tried everything.  Removing door knobs didn’t help. Passing tools through the basement window to remove interior door hinges didn’t help. Spirited kicks and some fairly athletic moves against the now-unhinged door didn’t work. The old credit card trick didn’t work. It was either break the glass window of the door, which was too small to be of much help anyway, or remove the door frame. A dedicated staff member returned to work and pried off enough of the door frame to – at last! – push the door open.

It takes all of us around here, and sometimes more than all of us. This afternoon, we experienced the abundance of a ‘baker’s dozen’ in many ways – the good-natured attitude of our guest, the dedicated employee who returned to work after having already departed for home, and most of all the grace of the Spirit that animates and enlivens and keeps us joyful and at peace even when we’re “stuck” in a trying situation.

Postscript: The one tool we were missing? A camera! Here's a photo from the aftermath...

The view from a hallway on a Friday evening

When you imagine a monastery, I’m not sure what picture comes to your mind, but here’s the view I had last evening as I stood on a chair in a hallway and pulled things off a closet shelf for a Sister that needed a hand.

It was mid-evening. Vespers and supper were long over. We had prayed Compline and the community was now dispersed into our various living areas. I was in the Community Room on my floor. Down the hall, a Sister was crocheting. Another was reading. A couple of others were visiting. I left to walk to my room, saw a Sister gazing somewhat helplessly at the top shelf of a hallway closet, and I stopped to grab a chair and lend a hand. Any of us would have done it; I just happened to be the one who came along.

So standing on a chair in a hallway on a Friday evening, the view was this: a community at peace, relaxed yet attentive, some gathered in quiet community, some absorbed in the silence of the evening, some of us tending together to a simple task, for all of us the prayers of Compline still echoing in our hearts… The view was of a community enjoying company, appreciating solitude, gladly helping one another… The view was of the monastery as we experience it – not as an edifice, but as our home.


Postscript: Today, Saturday, the view is of attentive listening and thoughtful speech as we gather for our Fall Community Meetings. It is so good to have our mission Sisters home at the monastery!

Signs and 'wanders'

It seems that with any gathering of people, a gathering of signs inevitably follows, and the monastery is no exception. If you were to wander around our house, you would see signs aplenty. Posted at various places are prayer requests, sign-up sheets, instructions, reminders, thank you notes, meeting minutes, interesting articles, monastic labora assignments, and on and on.

Mostly, our communication takes place on a person-to-person level – whether one-on-one, at table, at work, in living groups, or in the gathered community. But posted signs are a kind of shorthand that helps keep us organized, on track, and informed.

Our signs are mostly functional and mundane, dealing with the day-to-day practicalities of life in community. Yet I would venture to say that there’s something in our postings that transcends mere practicality. Underlying our varied signage is a kind of monastic decorum rooted in respect for individuals and a desire to create an atmosphere that is conducive to seeking God.

An essential element of monastic life is a kind of graceful orderliness. It’s not a regimental sort of order. Rather, it’s more like a well-crafted work of art that has a pleasing proportionality, a balanced composition of color and shape, yet is able to move and flow and accommodate the spontaneous, the unexpected, and the seasons of life. A well-placed reminder or a timely bit of information helps us keep our common life well-balanced and peacefully composed, as well as creating a welcoming environment in which we can receive the guest as Christ. These are signs of kindness, signs that help us navigate well as we wander through life, and as we welcome those who wander.

Yet more importantly than creating a contemplative environment, our signs illustrate the value that we place on people, on communicating well, on making sure that everyone gets the message, that everyone is informed. Each Sister matters, and we want everyone to have the opportunity to read the thank you note, the meeting minutes, the reminder about a special gathering, the congratulatory message, the program from an event a Sister attended… These are the kinds of things that help create not just a monastic environment, but a monastic community. These are signs of love, signs that remind us we are not wandering alone.

Our various signs are rooted in our Benedictine values. Individual postings may point toward a practical end, but they also point toward a greater end of a balanced, peaceful, loving atmosphere in which we can seek God together, wandering as one through the seasons of life in harmonious, compassionate community.