Jun 01 2007
A Book Of Hours
I mentioned earlier of the influence Thomas Merton has had on my spiritual quest.
Recently, I came upon a compact volume entitled: “Thomas Merton - A Book Of Hours,”
edited by Kathleen Deignan, CND, that I heartily recommend both for Merton’s spiritual
wisdom and for her introductory comments.
See if you agree:
“Time no longer means anything in such prayer, which is carried on in instants of its own,
instants that can last a second or an hour without our being able to distinguish one from another.
For this prayer belongs less to time than to eternity.” (No Man Is An Island by Merton)
[Merton] learned that now is eternity’s nearest station, a threshold to the living presence where God
is found by sinking into the heart of the moment as it is. He wondered at the grip the present had on him:
the reality of now, the unreality of all the rest, held in the folds of conscious wakefulness. (A Book Of Hours, page 34.)
As I have written previously, I set aside some time each day for meditation.
The following poem paints with brief brush strokes how rich that experience is for me.
“Some Nod”
Black-scuffed metal balls,
Pomegranate sized,
Filled with grape shot,
Belt-leather bound,
Once strung donkey necks
For smugglers traversing
Tibetan mountain routes
In snow and mountain fog,
Now aloft my secret
Garden sanctuary where
I steal early King’s ransom,
Whisper distant from the surf.
Each morning sound them softly
Not to waken slumber-ers,
Who complacent remain unconscious
To this Presence dawning.
Instead, I summon a band of thieves
Determined as I am to descend
Along darkened corridors rough hewn
To the treasure vault carved deep within.
Asked later where we’ve been,
Aglow we are in splendor-radiant
From our early stilled adventure,
We tell them – some nod.
