Imbolc Waxing Bridgit Moon
The snow comes down here like a fluffy waterfall. Behind its flowing curtain pine trees bend to greet it, a gentle wind bends it slightly toward the southeast. The limestone of the Monastery stands out brown and tan and rust, a wainscoting for the horizon while rising above it is the gray sky, its up turned pitcher still full with frozen water, still pouring on us here.
The interior here, the monastery rooms and church have become more welcoming, our shelter in the face of this quiet storm. My interior, too, rejoices at the calm the snowfall brings. It is a time for listening, for being with those I care about, a time for retreat.
Ah, there’s the bell for 8:45. I have to go. The herd gathers again.
