These are the monastery bells that call
the sisters to prayer. They resound throughout the neighborhood.
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TO
CLARE OF ASSISI
When you are so poor at heart that the
needle in your hand
is
silver enough;
When you are empty with fasting, dry with the thirst of longings
too
generous for fulfillment;
When the green garden, the sun and its shadows on stones,
are
all the splendor you need;
When you are entranced by the silent music that clings to dawn;
When strength flows to you from the firmness of earth
beneath your bare foot;
Then how mightily the cries of psalm and prophecy strike,
even
their square letters on the page;
how the gestures of ritual and the preacher's words console,
how blessings curve against the air like colored birds,
how the worn choir benches shine like palaces.
And when the sighs, the needs, the querulous complaints
of
those whose lives press against yours day by day
flame within you as the presence of the One you seek,
Then what joy floods your heart, how your attention flowers:
how gentle the hand you reach out,
how
true the word of comfort on your lips;
how
your life's grace comes down to us like song,
like incense, like the light.
Kate Martin, O.S.C.
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