My favorite post so far for it echoes my longings for my favorite places in this world, visited and imagined. Do visit and read on the soft green path.
Where monks walked a thousand years before, I stand. Lost in the baptism of the sky, I wait and wander. I kneel on padded rocks centuries moved and unmoving, disturbing nothing and no one but a solitary bee from his under-tree shelter. The trees and rocks are shrouded in green. I speak to long-dead monks and hear their answers in the moss and in the rain.
Flailing in helplessness, drops of rain move to resignation before landing with a finger tap on the thick cushions of lichen, which wait and catch and wait again. In this deluge of holy water from whence I dare not hide my head, the air smells green, the green of life, an Ireland green. It slips quietly into my nostrils, a fragrance for my God. I drink of the holy well; its moisture sounds in my spirit like the voice of Finnbarr: “Holy . …
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