I wish Celtic monasticism would have won out over Roman

And these excerpts from the early Irish and Welsh are why I wish this:

A hedge of trees surrounds me, a blackbird's lay sings to me, praise I shall not conceal,
Above my lined book the trilling of the birds sings to me.
A clear-voiced cuckoo sings to me in a gray cloak from the tops of bushes,
May the Lord save me from Judgment; well do I write under the greenwood.

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The path I walk, Christ walks it. May the land in which I am be without sorrow.

May the Trinity protect me whereever I stay, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Bright angels walk with me--dear presence--in every dealing.

In every dealing I pray them that no one's poison may reach me.

The ninefold people of heaven of holy cloud, the tenth force of the stout earth.

Favorable company, they come with me, so that the Lord may not be angry with me.

May I arrive at every place, may I return home; may the way in which I spend be a way without loss.

May every path before me be smooth, man, woman, and child welcome me.

A truly good journey! Well does the fair Lord show us a course, a path.

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And this from the homily of John Scottus Eriugena on the prologue to the Gospel of John:

"What was made in him was life." Far removed from the power of all reason and intellect, the blessed Evangelist has revealed to us divine mysteries.... This sentence can be read in two ways. We can say either "What was made," adding "was life in him," or we can say "what was made in him," adding "was life." Thus by virtue of this ambiguity, we can discern two meanings here. The interpretation: What was made fragmented in space and time, distinct in kind, combined or separate, all this was life in him, is not the same as: What was made in him was nothing other than life. Let our meaning be the following therefore: All those things which were made through him are life in him and are one in him. For all things existed--or subsisted--in him as causes before they came into existence in themselves as effects. The mode of existence beneath him of those things which were made through him is not that of those things in him whch are his very self.

All things therefore that were made through him live immutably in him and are life. In him all things neither existed nor shall exist according to intervals of time and space, but all things in him are above time and space and are one. Visible and invisible, corporeal and incorporeal, endowed with reason and without reason, all subsist universally in him, heaven and earth, the abyss and whatever is in them, these things live in him and are life, and they subsist eternally. Even those things which seem to us to lack all power of movement have life in the Word. And if you wish to know how and in what way all things which were made through the Word subsist vitally, uniformly, and causally in him, then take the nature of creatures as an example and learn to see the Creator in those things which were made in him and through him: "For the invisible things of him," as the Apostle says, "are clearly understood by the intelligence, being understood from the things which are made."

See how the causes of all things which the sensible sphere of this world contains all subsist simply and uniformly in this sun which we call the great luminary of the world. From there the forms of all bodies proceed, the beauty and diversity of colors and all the other things which can be said of sensible nature. Consider the manifold and infinite power of seeds, and how a great number of plants, shrubs, and animals are all contained at once in individual seeds, how there rises from them a lovely multiplicity of forms beyond number. See with your inner eyes how the many rules of a science become one in the artistry of an expert, and how they have life in the spirit of the person who masters them. See how the infinite number of lines becomes as one in a single point, and take note of other examples from nature. Raised up by these beyond all things as if by the wings of the contemplation of nature, you can gaze into the secret places of the Word with the pinnacle of your mind, aided and illumined by divine grace, insofar as this is granted to human beings who seek their God by rational arguments, and see who all the things which are made through the Word live in him and are life in him. "In him," as the divine voice says, "we live and move and have our being" (Acts 17:28).

The Power to Create

One thing I like about writing is that it gives me the power to make something out of nothing. Like God, really. I can create a person who will become as real as my next-door neighbor. Bria, with her shock of white-gold hair. Sister Agnes, whose eyes don't quite line up and who moves like a round, black cannonball. Lean and rangy Pieter Oomsdorf, in the nursing home with Alzheimers.

Put any of these in a story, and they come alive.

The door handle turned, and Kindle pushed his way in. Bria followed, closing the door quickly.

The small apartment was dim, and still cool from the morning. Mama had opened the windows early, when she left for work. Bria had closed every window when the sun came up. It was almost as good as air conditioning, Mama said. She was right. The air was cool against Bria’s face, damp with sweat after running all the way home from the cathedral.

Bria took a deep breath of the cool, familiar air. Then she stiffened.

"Wait, Kindle." Her voice was barely a whisper, but Kindle stopped, just short of the door to the living room. He looked at her, his blue eyes wide.

"Someone is here." Again the faint whisper. "I smell something."

Among the everyday smells of the apartment—the bleach Mama used to scrub the sink that morning, the cheap detergent smell on the pile of neatly folded laundry on the kitchen table, the comforting smell of toast that somehow lingered after breakfast—there was another smell. It too was familiar. But it did not belong here.

Without breathing, Bria moved toward the living room, her sneakers silent on the floor. The scent of a man’s cologne, mixed with the faint odor of alcohol, let her know what she would see before she actually saw it. The form stretched out on the sofa, the hand hanging down toward the floor, the bottle tipped onto the carpet, a wet stain beneath—these she had seen before, in other places.

"He found us again, Kindle." The words were just breathed.

They turned back to the front door. Neither said a word, but they moved together, quietly, hoping to reach the door before it was too late. Bria was afraid that her heart, beating wildly in her chest, was loud enough to hear.

But Kindle’s foot caught on one of the legs of the kitchen chairs. It hit the table edge with a cracking noise. Bria’s hand groped to find Kindle’s, to pull him with her toward the door. She reached for the door knob.
And then they heard the silken voice: "Ah, Kindle! and Bria, little bird! I’ve been waiting for you."

They turned. Their father was standing in the doorway to the living room.

"Hello, children," he said.

My daughters are gifted artists with the paint brush and chalk; they make things come alive on canvas. My canvas is the blank computer screen. Or a yellow legal pad, if I can find a really good pen.

I feel healthier, more alive, after writing. I think it has something to do with bringing life into the world. This year, I am praying for the discipline to do more.

Early this morning I drove my husband to the airport, and as I write he is nodding his head and dozing as he sits, cramped, in a Continental Airlines seat, headed for San Francisco.

He needs a break. He is worn out with mounting bills, a full teaching schedule (with trumpet students whose playing makes him put cotton in his ears), late payments and upkeep of ten rental units, and constant movement of boarders and adult children through our home. Worry wears him out. Irritation at other people wears him out. And, sometimes, marriage wears him out.

But mostly, worries about money wear him out.

So he is flying to California on a free ticket, picking up an economy rental car (my Christmas gift to him, along with gas money), and staying for free with various family members along the California coast--Santa Cruz, Santa Barbara, Santa Monica. He will float around for a week in balmy weather (please God), enjoy spectacular coastal scenery, play as much solitaire as he likes on his laptop, and try not to get irritated at all our relatives.

I am staying home, making meals for the students who board with us, cleaning toilets, sweeping floors, and meeting writing deadlines. We often vacation separately and shrug our shoulders at family and friends who look disapproving or suspicious. Yes, we like to get away together, but sometimes we just can't afford it. And the partings and reunitings are sweet.

However, when it's my husband's turn to vacation alone, I have to beg him not to worry. "What will it do for you? Can you name one benefit, one good thing your worrying will accomplish? All it will do is ruin your vacation, and not accomplish anything else. So let it go! Don't worry while you're out there!"

He will still worry, of course. He will sit overlooking the gentle Pacific, calm and blue and glistening in sunshine, stretching out to vast distance beyond eyesight and thought. He will look at this and worry about the cost of new furnaces and reroofing and plumbing repairs. And I will, in my weaker moments at home in the frozen Midwest, worry about his worrying. I worry that his worrying will rob him of well-earned pleasure and of being in the moment.

My Boss says simply, "Do not worry about your life. Period." Sometimes I think that I am better at listening to the Boss than my husband is. So I will give up, on the first day of this new year, worrying about my husband's tendency to worry. Instead, I will trust. I am being taken care of. He is being taken care of. I can see where worry and trust cannot go hand in hand. I choose trust. I pray that my husband will choose this also.

We can be together in that.