orangeheart

i came home just now & the furnace was working (good because it was out all of yesterday, & last night we put on extra clothes & curled up under all the blankets in the house with cats on our feet & i fell asleep instantly with my throat aching strangely).

[space taken up by my not-ranting about the nobel peace prize going to the united nations this year although i guess if they can give it to henry kissinger they can give it to anyone at all]

soon it will get dark & i will walk to mass & pass all the lit-up houses on neil ave, & then walk past them again on my way home. one house is utterly blue-lit & spacey & strange, with little electric-blue grapefruit-sized spiky balls hanging from a puzzle tree, & i want to write the house a letter saying, "i like your blue-lit spacey strange deco," & slide it under the front door.

It is five years since I came to the monastery. It is the same kind of day, overcast. But now it is raining. I wish I knew how to begin to be grateful to God and to Our Lady for bringing me here.
Thomas Merton | December 10, 1946. Advent.