Muir Woods

Muir Woods, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

We escaped the city, rickety split,
in a beat up hoopty-of-a-car,
trundling across the Golden Gate Bridge,
winding through the hills of Marin County.
At the crest of a hill we caught a peek of
the Pacific Ocean winking in the fading light.
A descent was made into the hidden valley
of Muir Woods where Redwoods grow
to impossible heights for improbable years.
Abandoning our car for the foot trails,
we wound through the trees like ant people,
the air fresh as the first day of creation.
The serenity cradled and cleared our
city-corrupted organs of perception,
the sound of our footfalls like Adam
walking with God in the cool of the day,
a soft breeze moving across the ear
whispering a wordless wisdom.

What MaryAnn Sees

What MaryAnn Sees, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

___________

What does MaryAnn see when she is looking up with eyes closed, palms together in front of her face, like a child in prayer? Do the heavens open up as she rocks back and forth murmuring to herself during the Liturgy? Is she escaping some private hell conjured up by mental illness? The third heaven of St. Paul or the third hell of Dante, literally or in metaphor?

She is a mystery.

Her stories have elements of the impossible or, at the very least, the highly improbable. When she turns her head away she forgets you are there, seeming to attend to other matters. No matter how many times you introduce yourself she looks at you as if it is a first meeting, that you are a new visitor to her church. She teaches humility like few can.

__________

Matins of Great & Holy Friday

Great & Holy Friday, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

An ancient liturgical hymn sung at the Matins service of Great & Holy Friday, here sung by Archbishop Job of Blessed Memory.

**********

Today is suspended on a tree He who suspended the earth upon the waters.
The King of the angels is decked with a crown of thorns.
He who wraps the heavens in clouds is wrapped in the purple of mockery.
He who freed Adam in the Jordan is slapped on the face.
The Bridegroom of the Church is affixed to the Cross with nails.
The Son of the Virgin is pierced by a spear.
We worship Thy passion, O Christ.
We worship Thy passion, O Christ.
We worship Thy passion, O Christ.
Show us also Thy glorious resurrection.

**********

Nighttime Conversations

Nighttime Conversations, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

___________________

murmuring wind
airs things
we cannot
or will not
share
constrained
by pride
locked out
of love
a prisoner
of our self
a stranger
to light
a withering
of life
___________________

Lenin Lurking

Lenin Lurking, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

The figure drags deep on a Marlboro Red and sends a cloud of smoke out into the light from within the shadow where he stands.  A bright dusk illuminates the outskirts of Moscow as midnight approaches.  It is yet another listless night for the man whose time has come and gone, left to wander the city, ignoring those around him and being ignored in turn.  A cold breeze finds its way down the neck of his tattered London Fog overcoat triggering a shiver and a curse.  He flips his cigarette disdainfully, watching it bounce on the cracked pavement with a shower of sparks before crushing it under the heel of his Doc Martens.

Shadows suit him as does the cover of night, but in Moscow this time of year the light is interminable and depresses him.  With no one around to observe his movements he leaves the shadow, like Cain cursed to roam the earth, and ventures Northeastward closer to the city center.  Thoughts of his former resting place come unbidden and unwelcome.  He no longer sleeps on Red Square upborne by veneration in his God-free dream state.  A Chef Boyardee can rolls into his path and he kicks it with disgust, "Capitalist trash!"

The can bounces off a large wooden gate with a clang scaring off some loitering cats.  The balding scowl-faced man looks left, then right, high stone walls running off in either direction.  His curiosity piqued, he is surprised to find the gate moving inward to his touch.  A surge of disappointment and a good deal of anger wells up as he realizes he has entered a walled monastery in the midst of the city.  Quickly turning to leave, the gate no longer responds to a push or a pull.  Howling does him no good.  He is trapped in this Soviet-forsaken place.  

How had things come to this?  Churches reopening everywhere, monasteries flourishing!  Lost in grief, he is startled to feel a gentle hand on his back.  "Vladimir, why do you kick against the goads?"  A thickly bearded man with gentle eyes stands at his side.  

Conflicting emotions rack him as he recognizes his old nemesis, expecting gloating but feeling a warm glow instead.  His shoulders sag, head down as he rubs his hairless crown in despair.  "You have won, Vasily Ivanovich."*

The Patriarch pulls the weeping man to his chest.  "We have all won, Vladimir Ilyich.  Christ is risen!"

***

The next morning church bells peal calling people to prayer at the main cathedral of the Donskoy Monastery.  A little girl with her parents pass the sleeping form of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin on a bench laid out as if in state.  The father senses the uncanny resemblance and blanches a bit.  "Can I give him a flower, Papa?" the little girl asks, already bending down to pick a wild one by the path.

"Yes, but let him sleep, little one.  Let him sleep."

___________________________

* Information regarding St. Tikhon of Moscow

___________________________

Meeting St. Innocent

Meeting St. Innocent, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

His earthly remains,
sanctified in life
by the indwelling
of the life giving Spirit,
lie in a church
onion-domed blue and gold
surrounded by the sights
sounds and smells
of a heavenly host
funneled through
earthly channels.
I saw his form
under a shroud,
unaware of whose
company I kept.
I openly wept when
a Russian friend
whispered in broken English
"Innokenty of America, you know?"
My shoulders began to shake as
his words sank in.
Gratitude came in waves
for this loving enlightener
setting me adrift
in a sea of wonder.
Prayers for my family
poured from my heart
pushing me
to the stone floor
of a church
in the heart of Russia.

Play-doh's Cave

Plato's Cave, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

my shadow
projected on
a wall

behind me
the glow of
a gladsome light

becoming a child
to learn
to turn towards

so much meaning
in so simple
a picture