Mural in the sisters' break room. I will try to get the name of the artist. It is about 6 feet wide and 4 feet high.
I woke up this morning in a monastery
It is the third time I've been here. It is a beautiful place-- once a farm along the river. The mural depicts the life of the sisters some year ago when they were probably food self sufficientand then some . That mural has been etched in my mind since the first time I saw it two years ago.
The first time I was here, fall 2005, one of the sisters led us on a tour along grounds and the nature trail that follows the river. I noticed there were small signs set into the woods about 20 feet from the trail. I went in and read the simple words-- paraphrased "He Came" "He Lived Among Us" .... I would walk along the trail and see another quiet, simple sign just in the woods. Leave the trail to see the sign. "He suffered" I'm not Catholic and didn't realize it was the 12 stations of the cross. "He died" I got then to the last sign along the river, in the quiet woods, right next to the monastery's cemetary and it read "He is risen." I don't know why (or maybe I do) I burst into tears. The walk, the peace, the absolute art of these stations of the cross set into the woods. Somehow it was so personal to me- it was the short, too short, walk I had with my daughter Milly who died. Yet at the end was hope.
We're here to inhabit the year 2050 and become more agile to COPE with all the futures in front of us. This is my job. Wow. This is the thought among the action. There was a lot of discussion about hope-- "even if there isn't hope we could act as if there is" (Gretchen). Look for "true hope" (Eddie)
Our faciliator, Brian Stenquist, wrote the poem in the "continue reading" link below
BESIDE THE CONVENT
by Brian Stenquist, November 2007
in crookston minnesota
a town known for its beets
and winter wind blown streets
there sits an unassuming convent
i was there for a workshop focused on the future
it was an experiment in exploration
by citizens passionate for life
dedicated to sustainability
community, possibility
my partner and i arrived early
we had time to freshen up before the work began
i walked outside for some fresh air
it was january in minnesota
snow on the ground
cold but not frigid
i walked down a small hill that sloped beside the convent
there was a stream at the bottom that ran along the convent’s western border
i slipped under the quiet winter trees and waited for my eyes to adjust and see
the winter stream channel come into view as a meandering depression
in the snow flowing between the bare trees
there it was - not very wide
maybe four to five feet when its flowing
ten to fifteen when its flooding
leaving a gentle meander
it was very quiet down there
no wind, no town noise, no talk,
just thoughts flowing through me under the trees
i remembered stephanie kaza’s work – she wrote a book about
communing with trees along the california coast
she was a green gulch zen buddhist
now she’s a teacher in vermont
these trees reminded
me of her trees
i stood still
listened
i approached one of the trees
it was leaning out over the frozen stream channel
i took off my glove and laid my hand on its smooth grooved bark
i noticed how many channels it had to catch rain water
how water must flow down its groovy bark
eventually falling to the ground
watering absorbent roots
dozens of streams
on every tree . . .
“winter-red setting-sun glowing-was the convent walls�
the workshop was going to begin soon
time to go back inside
leave this silence
exchange it for
two dozen
noisy
streams
of consciousness
eager to meander through landscapes of possibility
catching rain water ideas and dribbling them over absorbent community roots
