How necessary it is for monks to work in the fields,
in the rain, in the sun, in the mud,
in the clay, in the wind: theses are our spiritual directors
and our novice-masters.
They form our contemplation.
They instill us with virtue.
They make us as stable as the land we live in.
My little daughters and I planted a pumpkin patch by the light of the waxing gibbous moon.
Laughing and digging and hoeing we went down the rows,
placing the young plants I tossed
next to the dug holes
dinting the earth.
My youngest with her trowel and small hand stuffing the blocked roots into the rich earth,
planting more than pumpkins, setting deep into darkness
the bright sparks of dreams and faith
beneath the lambent aura of moon;
the Milky Way sifting dusty light over us;
fields full of fireflies weaving
vibrations in the deep-blue between this and that,
between expression and the inexpressive,
between being and the ground of all being.
Our watering netting all that we buried there:
droplets like tiny moons falling
into beds of hidden galaxies,
like so much light,
so much grace and gift.
How I wanted to stop the moments and hold them, keep them from falling through my fingers,
but they drip and pool in my heart; bright moon-silver puddles:
and this is the way of receiving
and of letting go.
Thank you, Lord, for all your grace and love you cast out in your boundless nets.