In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert's there are few.
Shunryu Suzuki - Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind
The retreat
Sheridan, you have been good for me,
Set in high desert, nested by the Tobacco Roots;
Still and quiet nearly every hour of every day.
Such soothing silence rarely found in manic America,
Or found by few, as we rush through our lives.
Nearly a year and a half in your bosom, Sheridan,
And most of the time spent alone on a quiet retreat--
Withdrawn from talking, socializing, seeing friends,
From the noise and confusions of urban life.
Generous time alone to think and to write,
Sheridan, a stream of little poems unsuspected
To lie in my mind or heart, waiting quietly for birth.
You’ve drawn forth from me more effort in writing
Than I’ve known before, at least since my youth
When I labored long on a forced dissertation.
You’ve given me time and opportunities to think,
To walk with my dogs, to plant trees, to do chores,
To read and especially to write, free from distractions,
Free from seeking to meet others’ expectations,
Free from beliefs or thoughts that have grown old.
Only in shorthand do I call these scribblings “poems.”
I eschew the structures of fixed rhymes or meters,
Aiming more at truthfulness than at poetic beauty.
Truth remains for me the measure of my words,
Allowing the rest to float away with the waters of a creek,
Mill Creek, arising somewhere in the Tobacco Roots--
I know not where—and passing through Sheridan,
Somewhere joining the Ruby, then the Jefferson,
Forming the mighty Missouri, and flowing ever away
Out to sea in the Gulf, hence into all oceans,
For all are one. As we walk along the Missouri at Great Falls
We shall be mindful of Mill Creek’s crystal waters,
Now flowing by unseen, utterly mixed with other waters,
Flowing as life flows away in old Moses, in younger Elijah,
And in me, an old man looking and longing for the ocean.
Quiet meditation transcends all that is written--
But there’s a time to speak and to write,
And a time to sit or walk alone in lovely lonely silence.
Writing seems to be integral to my soul’s ascent
Indifferent to whether anyone reads these words or not.
Ascend to the light
Under the quiet light of reason.
Ascend to the light
In silence and in solitude.
Ascend to the light
And disappear into night.
Sheridan, you have been good for me,
Set in high desert, nested by the Tobacco Roots;
Still and quiet nearly every hour of every day.
Such soothing silence rarely found in manic America,
Or found by few, as we rush through our lives.
Nearly a year and a half in your bosom, Sheridan,
And most of the time spent alone on a quiet retreat--
Withdrawn from talking, socializing, seeing friends,
From the noise and confusions of urban life.
Generous time alone to think and to write,
Sheridan, a stream of little poems unsuspected
To lie in my mind or heart, waiting quietly for birth.
You’ve drawn forth from me more effort in writing
Than I’ve known before, at least since my youth
When I labored long on a forced dissertation.
You’ve given me time and opportunities to think,
To walk with my dogs, to plant trees, to do chores,
To read and especially to write, free from distractions,
Free from seeking to meet others’ expectations,
Free from beliefs or thoughts that have grown old.
Only in shorthand do I call these scribblings “poems.”
I eschew the structures of fixed rhymes or meters,
Aiming more at truthfulness than at poetic beauty.
Truth remains for me the measure of my words,
Allowing the rest to float away with the waters of a creek,
Mill Creek, arising somewhere in the Tobacco Roots--
I know not where—and passing through Sheridan,
Somewhere joining the Ruby, then the Jefferson,
Forming the mighty Missouri, and flowing ever away
Out to sea in the Gulf, hence into all oceans,
For all are one. As we walk along the Missouri at Great Falls
We shall be mindful of Mill Creek’s crystal waters,
Now flowing by unseen, utterly mixed with other waters,
Flowing as life flows away in old Moses, in younger Elijah,
And in me, an old man looking and longing for the ocean.
Quiet meditation transcends all that is written--
But there’s a time to speak and to write,
And a time to sit or walk alone in lovely lonely silence.
Writing seems to be integral to my soul’s ascent
Indifferent to whether anyone reads these words or not.
Ascend to the light
Under the quiet light of reason.
Ascend to the light
In silence and in solitude.
Ascend to the light
And disappear into night.
|
To behold a tree Is prayer, and more so than Mass Poorly attended, Mind distracted, not present To the presence of the One. |
MTMonk. Welcome to the website of Fr. William Paul McKane, OSB, a Benedictine monk residing alone in the Ruby Valley in Montana. We shall post brief essays, poems, prayers, photographs, and links on this website. My main interests are in our spiritual life, in philosophy, in seeking the truth about God and man. With a doctorate in political science / political philosophy, I am also interested in the well-being of our citizens, of our political system and society, and of our world.
MTMonk. Empty Monk. A real monk seeks to be empty of self, or self-centered existence, in order to allow God to reign in and through him. MTMonk just happens to be suitable for a monk living in Montana, MT.
A monk’s purpose and way of living is simple: to seek God. One seeks God in faith, truth, goodness, beauty, and in silence. Monk comes from the Greek word, monachos, in turn based on the Greek word monos, meaning alone. A monk must be essentially alone to be all one in God. Alone with the Alone is the familiar phrase by the Greek-speaking philosopher, Plotinus (204-270 A.D.) To be alone with the Alone is the way of the monk. Meditation is the lifeblood of a monk, and it is conducted in silence and in the darkness of unknowing.
A monk’s purpose and way of living is simple: to seek God. One seeks God in faith, truth, goodness, beauty, and in silence. Monk comes from the Greek word, monachos, in turn based on the Greek word monos, meaning alone. A monk must be essentially alone to be all one in God. Alone with the Alone is the familiar phrase by the Greek-speaking philosopher, Plotinus (204-270 A.D.) To be alone with the Alone is the way of the monk. Meditation is the lifeblood of a monk, and it is conducted in silence and in the darkness of unknowing.