OF YOU MY HEART HAS SPOKEN

    “From the womb before the dawn I begot you…” (Psalm 110)   Maura Monson, Andrew Molloy, Eamonn Monson, Rosaleen Monson & Noreen Carr A Sunday morning sky of two parts. To the West an ominous deep blue grey, to the East the astonishing unfolding of dawn. Hundreds of screeching, swirling seagulls are black against the emerging light and strangely luminous against the dark clouds. I’ve been up since shortly after 3am, waking as I often do now in the fourth watch of the night – that period between 3 and 6am that’s spoken of in the Bible. It was during this watch that Jacob wrestled with God and during this watch that Jesus walked on water. I was born during this watch at 3.30am and for many years I could not sleep until after that time, my nights being a constant battle, a time of conflict and injury. Now I tend to sleep early and wake up during the fourth watch and it is a quiet, peaceful, blessed experience. Perhaps I am being brought to new birth. We’re told that i...

Home alone in the tranquility of Ceannt Avenue on a cold, early January morning.  Spotify spontaneously throws up George Michael singing Jesus to a Child, a song that Maura loved. It’s immediately followed by Françoise Hardy with whom Maura is associated in our family. It's all about Maura.  And going through an old diary from 20 years ago I came on this poem (below) that I wrote in stages following her death.  Divine Providence brings all these things to my attention right now for some reason. Perhaps one person who needs it will stumble upon this post. And though the thought of her still brings tears of love to my eyes,  I bear no sorrow for myself but pray for anyone struggling long with grief. i Some people are great At telling you how To grieve  Or not Not this long anyway  Only the Swan Of the damaged wing And attentive eye Would ever allow this Length of time  These years But she allows it This ageing grief That will not Let go completely  ...

“You have been trusted to look after something precious. Guard it with the help of the Holy Spirit who lives in us.” (2 Timothy 1:14) The Miraculous Icon of the Black Madonna of Częstochowa is very precious to the people of Poland where it has been venerated for about 600 years. One theory about its origin says that it was painted by St. Luke on a pine tabletop that came from the house of the Holy Family in Nazareth. Since today is their feast day, I’m staying with this connection to their home. In early November my friend of almost 50 years, Father John Fitzpatrick entrusted his precious copy of the famous icon to me and in his honour I have brought it lovingly back to my home in Hastings where I pray before it every day. It’s not a print but has been painted onto a piece of timber that resembles a small door. It is signed and dated 1979 which is the year after St. John Paul II became Pope. Like millions of Poles he went on pilgrimage to the original Icon, even doing so secretly durin...

  My body clock has altered significantly in the past few weeks. For most of my life I have found it difficult to fall asleep, often lying awake until three or four in the morning and then finding it very hard to get up when I need to. Now sleep comes more easily and I’m wide awake around 4am. By five I’m having breakfast and then a very calm movement into the day. It gives me five hours of solitude and it seems like a deepening solitude is what God is giving at this time. Sunday morning brought me down to Rock-a-Nore in the hope of seeing the sun rise and after an hour of waiting, it obliged beautifully. A prophecy, a prelude to the more wonderful dawning that visits us from on high at Christmas.   The wind was incredibly bitter, so I took shelter behind the Southern Water pumping station for a time, taking photographs, praying, pondering. Thinking about dear friends who are bearing serious illness; thinking about the little baby whose funeral I had on Friday; feeling ...

In the past I understood AI in relation to farming and the person making it happen was sometimes referred to as “the bull”, but now AI has another meaning – artificial intelligence – and I have used it to alter photos, removing bits that I don’t like. Sometimes with serious intent and other times just doing it for fun. As I approach another milestone in my life I am naturally looking back over the years I have lived out in this world and part of me would like to alter some of what has taken place. If I could, I would delete aspects of my personal history – the embarrassing things, things of which I am ashamed. And I would also like to delete evidence of my vanity, much of which is public in both photos and writing – and I could, even might delete some of these, especially the writings. Such an amount of vanity and self in them! Then, last Monday, I thought – so what! So what if I am vain! It would be better not to be, but deleting the evidence of my vanity would be dishonest becaus...

  Sometimes I have to haul myself up out of the pit of my body – with great effort – in order to keep going and do what must be done. It was like that at Mass on Sunday and my voice felt raw, deep, and oddly too strong. Too loud. This morning it seems like I have no voice at all. And I need it. But sorrow seems to have sucked it out of me. In the end it was all right, as it often is, though it still demanded that I dig deep. But it was all right. The funeral was remarkably tranquil. Dignified and heartfelt. Perhaps we all felt that his time had come. His time for rest. Many years ago, someone told me that animals have an instinct for good people, even for what is Godly in them. It must have been like that to a near perfect degree with St. Francis. Simon had a way with dogs – the wounded and the strong. They were safe with him and, perhaps, he with them. The first time we met, about thirty-five years ago, there opened up in my heart a special place for him. His mother aske...