A still summer evening. Effortless air. Light so relaxed it has no need to be lit. The earth quiet and unselfconscious in the pale twilight that lingers around the straight, still pines. The promise of dawn resting beside the hearth of nightfall.
Stepping into this evening is like stepping into home. It absorbs my restlessness. It welcomes my wandering thoughts. It lets me sit still, or slowly pace the porch, or shed a beautiful, shining tear that reflects the beautiful, shining cloud above the treeline to the north. The evening welcomes me, a stranger, to its hearth.
This evening has something to teach me. I think it is about how to be home, like the evening. About being a still, effortless, unselfconscious home that can absorb the restlessness of others, welcome their wandering thoughts, let them sit still, or pace the porch, or shed a beautiful, shining tear.
In the stillness of evening, the earth is actually spinning in space. But the evening holds the gift of gravity with a graciousness that seems effortless, that seems lighter than light, that glows with the infinite radiance of a single tear.
A monastery is kind of like that. In a whirling, swirling world that feels the tilting of its axis as if it were a listing ship, a monastery is like the stillness of evening. Holding the gift of gravity and light. Unselfconscious and quiet. Absorbing restlessness. Offering a hearth to wanderers. Treasuring the infinite radiance of a single tear. Resting in the promise of dawn.
It is home, like the evening.