Today's chapter of the Rule is so moderate, so modest in its assumptions, so measured in its prescriptions. One can understand why those who have never tried to live according to its guidance can dismiss it as being "easy". Substitute something else for wine and it may become more challenging. Try applying Benedict's advice to your use of the internet or your ipod (or your golf clubs or your gun) and you'll see at once that the thoughtful moderation he recommends is a bit more demanding than at first appears.

I must have spent half an hour yesterday thinking about a subject for this week's podcast and actually recorded two, but they have been consigned to the digital rubbish bin for lack of inspiration. It isn't often that any of us admits to lacking inspiration. Lack of money to complete a project, maybe, but lack of inspiration? Scarcely ever. As regards our own inner world, how many of us are really modest about about what goes on in the space between our ears? A trip through the blogosphere reveals many a posting that might usefully have been trashed before being sent into cyberspace. Part of the problem is that we have become so accustomed to pouring out — our thoughts, opinions, prejudices — that we have forgotten that the root of the word inspiration has to do with taking in, is, in Christian terms, a work of the Holy Spirit breathing into us. This week we might try to allow the Spirit a little more room in our lives. When truly inspired we can ourselves become inspiring.

St Martin has a special place in the affections of all Benedictines because he was the first bishop in the west to live a monastic life. Everyone knows the story of the soldier-saint sharing his cloak with a beggar. It would have been so much easier simply to give the whole cloak; but to share, to make oneself look slightly ridiculous in order to spare the feelings of another, shows real delicacy and generosity of spirit. It is one of the ironies of history that today, as we commemorate St Martin, we also recall the Armistice which ninety years ago ended the fighting of World War I. Few, I think, could claim that it ended the war. Wars are ended with peace treaties, and there are few who would dispute that the seeds of World War II were sown in the humilating terms eventually imposed on Germany. Today I shall think of St Martin and his readiness to serve; I shall also think of the World War I battlefields — of Verdun, perhaps, and the terrible waste of lives produced by eight months of shelling (60,000,000shells!). If we do not learn the lessons of history, we shall surely be obliged to repeat them.

The feast of the Dedication of the Lateran yesterday was overshadowed, to all intents and purposes, by Remembrance Sunday, but the feast of St Leo the Great today turns our eyes towards Rome again. Doctrinally, liturgically and politically, his pontificate (440–461) was extremely important. Probably most of us think of him in connection with the Chalcedonian definition of the two natures in the Person of Christ, human and divine, or his arguments in defence of the primacy of Rome. Every Christmas we re-read his writings on the Incarnation which are models of clarity and theological insight (the two do not always go together). This morning, however, I was thinking about his success in turning back Attila the Hun from the very gates of Rome. A man who understood that jaw-jaw is always better than war-war, St Leo is a saint for our times. (No podcasts until the current round of coughs and splutters in community is over.)

The poppy is such an evocative symbol. Its fragility and beauty are a reminder of slain youth, and its ubiquity a testimony to the millions who have died on countless battlefields from 1914 onwards. Every family has its own memories of war and of those who have perished. For some the grief is so recent that even speaking about it makes one feel a sense of trespass. But during tomorrow's two minute silence, we can all pray: for the dead, that they may rest in peace; for the living, that we may learn to live at peace with one another. For myself, Remembrance Sunday is always tinged with mixed emotions. My grandfathers both survived the First World War, my father survived the Second; but two uncles died, for one there is not even a grave; and others have died since, in Iraq and Afghanistan. War, and the pity of war, seem never to have been very far away, because old soldiers and old sailors alike need to tell the story of "their" war. I think, too, of all those "maiden ladies" of my youth, whose sweethearts never returned from the trenches. Horrible children that we were, we sometimes poked fun at their poverty and dutifulness, but I can't help feeling that they gave us something precious: their kindness and their concern for those less fortunate. They too understood the value of sacrifice.

I spent much of yesterday saying "um" (usually only in my head). The western media focused almost exclusively on events in the U.S.A. To an outsider, accustomed to parliamentary democracy and an unwritten constitution, there is much about the U.S. system that makes its politics a bit of a mystery. In particular, the razzmatazz surrounding a presidential election is a little alien: we just don't do things that way here. Perhaps that is why I can't quite see the election of Barack Obama as the amazing event that some see it as being. I have never understood why the colour of a person's skin is "an issue"; the problems Mr Obama will face are enough to make anyone think twice about running for office so congratulations must be mingled with commiserations in his case. But that isn't why I spent my time saying "um". It was the contrast between western jubilation over Mr Obama's election and the sickening stories emerging from the Congo. Can the west party while people are being raped, mutilated and killed in such huge numbers? There is something not quite right about the contrast, something that points to a darkness here in the west that I find deeply troubling. Today's chapter of RB stresses the importance of every age and level of understanding receiving "appropriate treatment". Whatever our political beliefs, we cannot turn aside when a fellow human being is in need. The challenge for Barack Obama, as for all of us, is ensuring that everyone is treated with humanity and respect. When the party is over, the need will remain.

It was rash of us to talk of "normal service resuming" as there have been many hiccups in our Broadband service, but we would not want you to get the impression that the community has retired to a life of eremitical indignation. The work of trying to make the house a little warmer for everyone continues: yesterday we had some fresh insulation put down in the loft, and "Handynun" has been seen around the house with toolbox (and Duncan) in tow, fixing glazing and trying to draught-proof a few more corners. She seems to be especially proud of the double-glazing in the downstairs shower room and on the East landing, which is odd for a nun who has Aesthetic Opinions. Later this month we shall have another onslaught on the mould in the kitchen and hope to be able to redecorate both the kitchen and the dining room before Christmas. Sadly, the painting of the oratory must be left until next year as there is no way we can make time for it. There is a possibility that we may have a proper guest room in the New Year, so plans are being made and calculations being done to ensure that it is as comfortable as possible. In the garden too there are transformations. Thanks to much hard labour by our friend Damien the overgrown shrubbery next to the house is gradually being cleared so that we can replant it in more sensible (and colourful) fashion. The new compost bin (also made by Damien) is a work of art, while the levelling off of the kitchen garden has been a major achievement this year for which we are all profoundly grateful. Once the light improves, we shall have to take photos of these improvements. Needless to say, the ordinary work of the community, the unceasing round of prayer and study, continues, more or less indifferent to the smell of paint or the sound of hammering. A reminder that external change is never the whole story.

Our BT Broadband connection has been as much off as on over the last few days, which has been frustrating but also given us an opportunity to reflect in more leisurely fashion on these two great feasts, All Saints and All Souls. All Saints is perhaps easier to grasp: a celebration of every saint, known and unknown, and of the whole People of God. For those of us struggling to live a good and holy life, it is a great encouragement, a foretaste of joy to come. All Souls is more sober: an opportunity to pray for those dear to us who have gone before and for all who have no one else to pray for them, but also an opportunity to reflect on our own future. Purgatory is not fashionable, but it is the destiny that most of us can look forward to. "Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God". If we have not attained purity of heart in this life, we may attain it in Purgatory and so be made ready for the Vision of God. In its own way, All Souls is a great comfort, just as much a feast for all of us as All Saints. Let us celebrate both feasts with joy and gladness.
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Today's chapter of RB is concerned with excommunication for less serious faults. To eat alone, to be deprived, quite literally, of companionship ("sharing bread with") is, in monastic terms, a reminder that one has in some way offended against the common good. This morning we learned that half of all women aged over 65 in the UK live alone, which must mean that for a high proportion, eating alone is a common, everyday occurrence. We are not talking here of an occasional solitary meal or freely choosing to eat alone at certain times (who would not opt for solitude at breakfast), but of a habitual state of affairs. Anyone who has ever lived alone knows that to cook for one can be an effort; and the idea of setting a proper table is simply too much trouble. Perhaps there is something here for all Benedictines and oblates to ponder, especially when we celebrate the Eucharist. When did we last invite an elderly or solitary person to share a meal with us? When did we last make the connection, so to say, between what we share at Mass and what we share at the dining table?

Normal service resumes today, or at least, we hope it will. The traveller has returned, full of admiration for the splendid hospitality of the English College, Valladolid, and babbling not so much of green fields as of blue skies and castilian cold. There were a few "oh dears" about the number of letters and emails awaiting attention, so if you have written recently and not received an answer, please bear with us as we sort out the post bag and inbox. Everything always takes a little longer than one expects it will.

By kind invitation of the Royal English College, Valladolid, and kind permission of Bishop Crispian, D. Catherine has abandoned us for a few days, to join in the celebrations attending publication of the College's first A.C.S.A. series volume, The Blackfan Annals, which she designed and saw through the press. We have been told that it is a very high-minded celebration, with academic lectures and a concert, and possibly a glass or two of gaseoso, but we suspect that there will be time for a little gentle sight-seeing and are preparing ourselves for "traveller's tales" on her return. (Never mind that Benedict strictly forbids anyone sent on a journey regaling the brethren with stories of what he has seen or heard!) One practical consequence is that we may not be able to keep this blog and the RB pages updated on a regular basis. We hope things will be back to normal by Monday at the latest, but at least you are forewarned.

To Kintbury today to give a talk at the St Cassian Centre about vocation, with instructions to "keep it general and include marriage and the priesthood." All this in under half an hour. I was beginning to panic until I remembered that today at Lisieux Louis and Zélie Martin, the parents of St Thérèse, will be beatified. We have very few married people among the official saints of the Church, so it will be good to be able to use that remarkable couple to illustrate some important points. It is strange how easily we forget that we are all called to holiness, whatever our state in life. The Martins faced all the difficulties most people face and, like their famous daughter, attained holiness through fidelity and generosity in the little things of life. Perhaps the little things aren't so little after all. There is only one way for any of us, male or female, married or single, priest or religious, to go to God: as a Bride of Christ. That is, quite literally, a tremendous vocation for us all. [Note for the curious. If you never normally look at anything on this site but Colophon, do take a peep at the addition to our Digital Books page.]

This morning, while walking the dog, we saw two stags walking along in a companionable kind of way; a red kite looping the loop over Harwell; and a beech tree turning red as autumn advances. Small miracles, but full of wonder. With the psalmist one is moved to exclaim, "How wonderful are your works, O Lord. In wisdom you have made them all." For the more this-worldly minded, there are some free offers on our Shop page which may be worth looking at. The technological carnage we have been suffering from may be of benefit to others: a high-end monitor, a SCSI scanner and a tired laptop are up for grabs. All we ask is that you collect them.

I have been submerged in proofs and other business for several days, but it is impossible not to be affected by the extraordinary events which have been shaking the world's financial institutions. Furrowed brows and glum faces are a reminder that economic meltdown is not a theoretical construct of the media: jobs are going, and along with them much else besides. No one is quite sure what to do any more in order to be financially prudent. Today's podcast (apologies for the delay) comes out of the present situation. While recording it, I was reminded of a small piece of card my father carried in his wallet. It contained a quotation from Juvenal, to the effect that the poor man can laugh when he goes among thieves. To have nothing in a society where little is needed to maintain life and all are ready to share the basic necessities is not really a problem. To have nothing in a society where everything, even the water we drink, must be bought and paid for is indeed a serious problem. But, however bad it gets, we in the west can laugh among thieves, while for those who truly have nothing, who depend on western aid for survival, there may be tears of despair.
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Catholics in England have not always prized their heritage as they might. It is good to see efforts being made to preserve for future generations some of what we have inherited from the past: the Mass stones carried by Recusant priests are moving in their simplicity and as testaments to quiet courage and fidelity; the missals and books of devotion, the bric-a-brac of Catholic life, all have a story to tell which is made poignant by association and familiar remembrance. Looking at the Bonham's sale catalogue of the latest offerings from Stanbrook, I was saddened to see lots of "old friends", including items from my own family (now, Wednesday, withdrawn after my sister and I contacted the community). This is what happens when a community makes certain decisions about itself. We cannot keep everything, it is true; but communities are stewards of the past for future generations. We need to remember that when much has been given on trust, much will also be demanded. (If you wish to view the online catalogue, see this We shall try to buy some of the church tiles for placement in our own church when that is built.)

No, not Hamlet but the Catholic Directory for England and Wales. We reached the final stage on Friday and since then the team at Gabriel and I have been proof-reading. Last year's edition ran to 980 closely printed pages, so you can imagine how tired one's eyes become. Any mistakes are ultimately my responsibility but one relies on the accuracy and completeness of the submissions made by diocesan officials and others, and just occasionally one wonders whether that might be a bit rash. For a few brief days one probably has an unparalleled "knowledge" of every parish and diocese in the country. I say "knowledge", but names and statistics do not reveal as much as we would like them to. Sometimes I stand back and look at the Directory as a historian might: the life of the Church is glimpsed in its pages but never completely revealed. Printer's ink cannot capture grace.

Today's gospel led to some very personal reflections on the priests, levites and Samaritans in my life. Leaving aside the priests and levites, who are important enough in their own eyes without anyone's singing their praises, here are a few memories of some of my own "Samaritan moments" : the boy who came and talked about his hamster during one of the more excruciating parties of childhood; the woman who translated my limping castellano into good Catalan when a booking clerk refused to sell me a ticket for the last train home; the tired librarian in a strange city who gave a brilliant smile and made me feel less lonely; the person (man? woman?) who rescued me when I was knocked off my bicycle; the person who sent groceries when our larder was bare (we never found out who); and the multitudinous acts of kindness and consideration one meets with every day without fully registering them. Samaritans all, with not a priest or levite among them. You can probably compile your own list and give thanks as I do for all those anonymous helpers along the way who reveal something to us of God's love and compassion.

St Thérèse is a good example of a saint who manages to inspire despite everything her devotees have done to her. Quite early on, there were attempts to cast her as a saint in the sickly sentimental mould. Carefully editing out those parts of her autobiography at odds with their own ideas of holiness, Thérèse was presented as destined for a halo from birth: brought up in a "perfect" Catholic family, cultivating a childlike simplicity and dying young, she exemplified an ideal of sanctity that seems to appeal especially, I'm sorry to say, to men. The truth about Thérèse is so much more thrilling. The Little Flower was indeed of her generation, and there are passages in her writings which strike today's reader as unbearably coy; but there is also in Thérèse a core of steel — a truthfulness and determination to make the less courageous blench. She was ruthlessly honest about her own faults, prepared to say things that today would land her in trouble (the desire to be a priest can be spiritualized away until we lose all sense of how unthinkable it would have been for her contemporaries), faced the terrors of apparent loss of faith, and through it all held fast to her understanding of holiness realized in the ordinary, everyday events of life. In truth, there is nothing little about the Little Flower except the name.

We have a strict rule in community, that this web site and blog receive attention only when other duties have been attended to. No wonder, then, that there have been a few blank days and the weekly podcast is likely to appear mid-week. What have we been up to? There have been two books to see through the press; some audio books to record and send out; shopping, gardening, cooking, cleaning and minor household repairs to deal with (isn't it always the way that minor repairs, once tackled, have a habit of becoming major undertakings?); visitors to welcome; accounts to be written up; committee meetings to attend; letters and emails to reply to; and the daily round of prayer and observance to maintain. It doesn't sound like much, put like that, does it? But that is what monastic life is like most of the time: ordinary and humdrum in much of its detail. There are occasional surprises. Yesterday we received an invitation to take part in one of Gordon Ramsey's "Cookalong" T.V. programmes. For one moment I had a vision of G.R. and camera crew trying to squeeze into our not-very-big kitchen and the great man being put out of countenance by our indifference to his famously expletive-ridden language. Good T.V. perhaps, but not necessarily good monasticism. Today we remember St Jerome, a curmudgeon with a soft spot for nuns (good), a tremendous love of holy scripture (better) and, despite all the truculence and violence of his opinions, an immense love of God and neighbour (best of all). His memoria reminds me that we still have not decided when we are going to adapt the revised Latin psalter in choir, a decision we have been contemplating for at least five years. All we have to do is find time for a chapter meeting . . .

At present a number of petitions are flying around cyberspace inviting people to attribute blame for the present economic turmoil to this group or that. Some church leaders have also joined in with fairly direct condemnations of Wall Street bankers in particular. Time, I think, to recall that one of the great glories of the Roman Catholic Church has been the development of Catholic social teaching since 1891 and the publication of Pope Leo XIII's Rerum Novarum (On the Condition of Labour). In 1931 Pope Pius XI condemned what he called "the international imperialism of money" and stressed the need for a social and economic order animated by justice (see Quadragesimo Anno, After Forty Years, 1931). John XXIII expanded on this in Mater et Magistra (Mother and Teacher, 1961) where he emphasized not only the State's obligation to consider the common good but urged the need for all to live as one community and reminded the Church of her duty to be a teacher and nurturing guardian of the poor and oppressed. In Pacem in Terris (Peace on Earth, 1963) he affirmed the human rights of every individual and the duties that follow from our having rights: "Since men are social by nature they are meant to live with others and to work for one another's welfare". In 1967 Paul VI issued his hard-hitting Populorum Progressio (The Development of Peoples), calling attention to the way in which the poor were becoming poorer, and stating quite unequivocally the Church's refusal to endorse capitalism (and indeed socialism): "It is unfortunate that on these new conditions of society a system has been constructed which considers profit as the key motive for economic progress, competition as the supreme law of economics, and private ownership of the means of production as an absolute right that has no limits and carries no corresponding social obligation." Powerful stuff, and in Octogesima Adveniens (A Call to Action, 1971), Paul VI reminded us that we are ALL responsible: "It is too easy to throw back on others the responsibility for injustice, if at the same time one does not realize how each one shares in it personally, and how personal conversion is needed first." John Paul II came back again and again to this question of the relationship between economic activity, social justice and the rights and responsibilities of the individual. In Laborem Exercens (On Human Work, 1981), he encouraged Christians everywhere to become involved in the transformation of society and to avoid simplistic solutions: "The church's constant teaching on the right to private property and ownership of the means of production differs radically from the collectivism proclaimed by Marxism, but also from the capitalism practiced by liberalism and the political systems inspired by it". In Solicitudo Rei Socialis (On Social Concern, 1987) John Paul II reflected on the "structures of sin" to be found in society. His comment "One may sin by greed and the desire for power, but one may also sin in these matters through fear, indecision, and cowardice!" makes especially uncomfortable reading today. I could go on, but I don't mean to lecture. My point is that denouncing any particular group is often a facile way of apportioning blame so that we ourselves don't feel the need to examine our own conduct. There is no doubt that some people have, by their actions, imperilled others. The pursuit of profit without thought for morality or truth is something the Church has never condoned. But we mustn't forget that much of the fragility of the global economy is the result of our all wanting more. The growth of unreal expectations about what we are entitled to, and the funding of those expectations by debt is something very few of us in the west can say we have had no part in. St Benedict had a highly developed sense of the common good and the renunciations necessary to sustain it. Perhaps monasticism has more to say to our present crisis than might at first appear. If the papal documents mentioned above are too complex and lengthy for the time you have available, you may find dipping into the Rule of St Benedict will challenge you constructively enough.

Indian Inspirations
Opening times: 11am-7pm, daily from 27 September to 7 October. Admission: Free. Venue: M. P. Birla Millennium Art Gallery, The Bhavan Centre, Institute of Indian Art and Culture, 4a Castletown Road, West Kensington, London W14 9HE. If you are in London in a few days' time, you can enjoy a feast of colour and drama in the paintings of three talented artists at the Bhavan Centre, details above. We enjoyed putting together the web site for Anjali D'Souza, so if you'd like to look at more of her work online, go to www.anjaliart.co.uk. As you can see, there's nothing gimmicky about our web site designs. We rely on content simply and straightforwardly presented. I think there's something inherently monastic about that kind of approach. Yes, of course we can do flash animations and so on if you want, but as we notoriously said to one client (who is now a great friend): "we ask you what you want, then tell you what you really want."

"Never refuse a kindness to anyone" says the author of Proverbs, but isn't it easy to do just that without a ripple on the surface of one's thoughts or emotions? Easy not to notice that someone wants the butter-dish at breakfast; easy not to notice that someone else (who may be older or more infirm than oneself) is making for the empty seat on the Tube or train; easy not to notice that the photocopier is out of paper when one has finished one's own task. I have to admit that "refusing a kindness" is just as easy in a monastery (and no, I'm not going to reveal the many forms that can take lest I be guilty of them all myself today!). Kindness is a virtue that, like humility, is attractive in other people but can be inconvenient to oneself. Perhaps heaven is worth a little inconvenience.

Nice to have sun streaming through the East window at Mass this morning, and good to hear a sermon on the Pauline Year. The message of God's love and forgiveness is ever ancient, ever new. The trouble with us is, we can't quite believe in such a compassionate God and tend to create horrible travesties in our own image and likeness.
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Several distractions during prayer this morning: the dishwasher "died" last year, which is awkward when we have groups in; my laptop seems to be consumptive, or at any rate near its last gasp; the Broadband connection is as much off as on (though I can't say the same for the bill); and we have taken to praying to St Jude every time we look at the oil level. Otherwise, everything is fine, and the end-of-summer sunshine has lured us into the garden to plant pruple sprouting and other edibles while thinking about the readings for tomorrow. D. Teresa will post her podcast tomorrow morning while D. Catherine will again take to the airwaves of BBC Radio Berkshire at about eight o'clock. We have set the "um/er" monitor going . . .

"Meltdown Monday" and the current turmoil beg some urgent questions. What follows is a private rant but may spark some thoughts in you, too. The erosion of trust and confidence which is shaking the financial world to its foundations is surely not unconnected with the abandonment of virtue as a principle of both public and private life. The media get very excited when they discover that someone has been a hypocrite, publicly saying one thing and privately doing another; but they show much less enthusiasm for condemning the changing of the rules by which hypocrisy becomes impossible. Matthew Arnold, remember, defined hypocrisy as " the tribute vice pays to virtue." When no one believes that the rules have any validity, when one is no longer a hypocrite but merely unlucky to have been found out, the necessity of virtue itself disappears. And so, just when we have a global economy which means that something going wrong in America, for example, affects everywhere else; when we have weapons at our disposal that could destroy the world in which we live, we have lost the sense of right and wrong, have made ourselves rather than God or the common good the measure of all things. Virtue is necessary for survival. As Auden said, "we must love one another or die". I can't help thinking that this abandonment of virtue is linked with the abandonment of God at a deeper level than we have ever known before. For the saints and philosophers of old, virtuous living meant conforming to the demands of wisdom (or Wisdom). It meant self-discipline and sacrifice because it sought a good beyond itself — a good that we Christians know as God. But we seem to have forgotten that and are hell-bent on finding techniques to make reality conform to our wishes. Hell-bent. I wrote that unconsciously. Perhaps that is what we face: a choice between life and death, heaven and hell.

The last few days have been busier than expected. There is a carefully written podcast for the Triumph of the Cross which looks like a mince pie on 7 January, rather tired and unseasonal, so we'll recycle it next year, D. V. There is a huge pile of letters and emails to be answered, and if the grass gets any longer before being mown, we shall have to hack at it with machetes. I am therefore abandoning the keyboard for the garden. But in case any of you are gluttons for punishment, you can listen to Sunday morning's Clare Catford interview with D. Catherine either by using the BBC's local radio "Listen again" function or by following this link http://www.box.net/shared/uoumqmx9y2. I'm not sure how much you'll learn from it, but we must stop DC saying "um" and "er" so often!

We were taken to task recently for our use of the internet. Our critic thought that contemplative nuns should not have anything to do with what he clearly thought of as an instrument of Satan (this despite the fact that he seems to spend a lot of time surfing religious sites on the web and is himself a religious). It may seem paradoxical, but I think our use of the internet (web site, blog and forum) is actually a help in maintaining the seclusion important to a life of prayer. Many people are interested in monastic life, and having a web site, for example, enables people from all over the world to "drop in" on us without having to turn up at the front door. There are not many sites that link to us, so the fact that we have cybervisitors from America to Japan is a testimony to the power of search engines and the persistence of enquirers. So far the response of other Benedictine monasteries to our appeal for moderators for the Benedictine Forum has been disappointing and in marked contrast to the enthusiasm shown by oblates and associates. I wonder whether this ambivalence towards the internet is at the heart of things. Perhaps the knowledge that the pope has made an appearance on Xt3.com may provide a salutary jolt. Following the example of the Roman church was something Benedict was rather keen on liturgically. Might it not hold good in other areas as well?

Saw a heron making for the river with what looked like someone's ornamental carp in its beak, then some carrion crows picking over the remains of something small and furry and finally one solitary red kite, wheeling about in a desultory kind of way, hoping for a late breakfast. Makes one feel slightly less murderous about despatching slugs in the garden. The farmers are all looking very glum, with good reason. We have been spared the terrifically high winds and floods of other places, but the leaden skies and constant drip-drip of the rain are taking their toll. Personally, I love the sound of running water (provided it is not cascading through the roof or somewhere else it ought not to be) but am less enthusiastic about its effects in the vegetable plot. I am steeling my heart against shivering nuns and bedraggled-looking dogs: the heating is not going on for several weeks yet. Don't even think about it!

Have finally posted the first instalment of our FAQ (see here) and will now put a little tin hat on top of my veil. Tonight we provide the schola at Milton, so the podcast will have to be recorded tomorrow. What was it St Bernard said about the "busy leisure" of monastic life?

Celebrated our Foundation Day with Mass said by Fr Boniface Moran, Prior of Douai, who preached on holy disobedience (see the Gospel of the day for an explanation). While cooking the festive dinner, I wondered idly whether the concept of holy disobedience finds favour with any establishment, religious, political or what you will. So much of our lives are based on the premiss that life goes on in obedience to certain principles and laws. Next Wednesday CERN's Hadron Collider may push the frontiers of our knowledge a little further. I'm surely not alone in finding that, in the truest sense of the word, a wonderful prospect.

One of the (many) things I admire in St Gregory is his ability to write letters that express a great deal briefly and clearly. His letters to Augustine of Canterbury and other missionary bishops are a case in point. There is nothing superfluous, nothing particularly difficult to understand. How fortunate we are that he was chosen by God to be Apostle of the English and that his decisions concerning the nascent English church should have been marked by much pastoral sensitivity and wisdom. His feastday seems an appropriate day to let you have a glimpse of the Benedictine Forum to which we alluded in cryptic terms yesterday. It will remain in beta (i.e. not fully functional) until we have a full complement of Moderators and have received enough feedback to feel confident about its fully public launch. For a sneak peek go here. (Link opens in new window.) Facebook it ain't, but it has potential as a medium of exchange among those who are interested in Benedictine life.

Just to keep you up to date with a number of projects. First, this web site. The FAQ is almost ready to go up, although it will have to be a work-in-progress for ever as I'm sure people will continue to ask questions which are worth trying to post a public answer to. Be warned, some of the questions may make you smile (though we fervently hope none of the answers will make you weep.) The projected pages on the Rule of St Benedict and contemplative prayer are growing unwieldy so will need some pruning before they go up (yes, we do edit our outpourings occasionally). There are just too many experts in this community. Colophon has been producing technical headaches for the webmaster as the number of entries has increased, so it looks as though we shall have to migrate the blog to Wordpress sometime before Christmas. When we do, we'll look again at some features. Another web site we're working on is in beta and we hope to be able to complete the testing over the next few weeks. We are very excited about this and think you'll like what we've come up with . . . Think interactive. Think communication. I'm tempted to say also, think Christian. God's word is always creative, which is why human speech/communication should also be positive, something that builds up, not tears down. Something to remember as one send the next email.

Apparently stained glass purifies the air in church. As light passes through a window there is an ionizing effect caused by the tiny particles of gold in the glass. That's true of medieval stained glass, but is it true of modern? Church-going for the sake of one's physical health, as well as one's spiritual health? Now there's a thought.

It's notable that the Church keeps the birthday of St John the Baptist as a Solemnity and his martyrdom as a humble Memoria, but it seems to fit the Baptist's life and work. He is the forerunner, and once the Lord is present, he must decrease, so that even his death (or as we would say, his entrance into Life) is, as it were, muted. (Freudian turn of phrase: wasn't John the Voice crying in the wilderness who condemned Herod's sin, which is why he had to be silenced, ever the response of totalitarian regimes to those who speak out fearlessly against lies and injustice.) Later this morning we'll have Mass in the medieval chapel of St Amand and St John the Baptist. I suspect my thoughts will stray to another, more ancient church on the Aventine for, according to the old calendar, this is also the feast of St Sabina and as readers of this blog will know, I love the basilica of Sta Sabina. I was trying to find a good photograph but find I have none, and the Dominicans, who have their Generalate there, don't seem to, either. Another surprising example of humility!

Yesterday we kept the feast of St Monica, today that of her son, St Augustine, and for once I feel too daunted to write about either. It must be the weather. There is a good summary of Augustine's life and work here. For us as Benedictines, of course, the short work known as the Rule of St Augustine is an important source for the Rule of St Benedict, but my guess is that most people know Augustine from his "Confessions" or short extracts in the Divine Office. The two works which fascinate me most are "The City of God", which I read for the first time during Tripos (a distraction), and "De Trinitate", which only began to make sense when I encountered modern physics. That is the problem with Augustine: he is one of the most difficult as he is one of the easiest early Christian writers. Had he lived in this century, no doubt he would be constantly popping up on radio and television to give thoughtful and eloquent responses to questions of the day.

One just never knows what is going to turn up next. We were telephoned by Radio Berkshire yesterday and asked if we'd do an over-the-phone interview about an Italian priest's idea of holding a nuns' beauty pageant on the web ( I kid you not, but it is the Silly Season). On the grounds that nuns don't often feature in the "God slot" of British broadcasting, we agreed, and we'll post the clip on our web site in due course, provided the BBC gives permission. The interesting question for me was, where does the idea of nuns being rather stern, disapproving people come from? Many people expect us to be very austere and are immensely disapproving of any suggestion that life in the monastery may have its lighter moments (they drink wine on Christmas day, how shocking!) or are subject to the same stresses and strains as themselves (she may have been up 36 hours nursing a sick member of the community but how dare she snap at me!). I think they're making a false equation between asceticism and joylessness. The renunciations of monastic life are real enough, but because they tend to make us freer, they make us more joyful, too. If there's no joy here at Hendred, we might as well give up.

The opening psalm at Vigils on Tuesdays often passes in, not a blur exactly, but, shall we say, in less than sharp focus. How wise Benedict was to insist that Vigils should begin slowly! Yet there are a couple of lines which sometimes emerge from the mist with peculiar force, partly because they are lovely in themselves, partly because they express a very poignant emotion:
". . . your servants love her very stones,
are moved with pity even for her dust." (Ps 101.15)
The psalmist was singing of Sion, remembered in exile as a place of holiness and beauty, but the sentiments are familiar to every adult. Nostalgia for what we have lost, for the land of childhood or the scenes of youth perhaps, afflicts everyone at some time or other (even cloistered nuns). This most adult of emotions need not be negative. It can inspire heroic effort or great art, lead to the achievement of something really worthwhile, be truly creative. My own thoughts often turn to the church at Stanbrook on a summer's evening, when the western sun shimmers and shines through the choir, illuminating the tabernacle with a shaft of bright light: a reminder that the Lord alone is unchanging. For as the psalmist also says, speaking of the heavens and the earth,
"They will perish but you will remain . . .
. . . you neither change nor have an end." (Ps 101. 27, 28)

The short reading from Romans at Mass today is a great favourite. There is so much to wonder at, in ourselves and in the world about us, so much that allows us glimpses of God. We live close to Harwell, where researchers are contantly pushing the boundaries of our knowledge and understanding . . . but, as the author of The Cloud of Unknowing reminds us, God cannnot be grasped by thought alone. It is love which unites us to Him. I've always liked George Herbert's calling prayer "the heart in pilgrimage". Somehow the idea of prayer as a "research lab" doesn't have quite the same ring to it. Can anyone suggest a contemporary image that would be helpful in expressing the inexpressible?
Podcast

Lay awake last night listening to the sound of a farmer working into the small hours in an effort to get the harvest in. Spent the time thinking about all sorts of irrelevant things (although the thought of the farmer's weariness was perhaps not irrelevant). I hadn't expected the post on St Bernard to spark so much interest, although I am very gruntled to find it so. St Bernard is one of my heroes and largely responsible for the fact that I am a nun. As a Ph.D student, I had to read his collected works as "background" (four hefty volumes in Migne) and was entranced by his use of language: Bernard's Latin is extraordinarily supple and dynamic, although my old Latin teacher would NOT have approved. It "sowed the seed", so to say. As to the Ribalta, some may remember that it was included in an exhibition of Spanish painting of the Golden Age held in London in the 1970s, where it was hung very effectively and had a huge imapact. When I lived in Madrid I used to go and look at it most Sunday mornings in the Prado. Those shadowy figures, the angel and the young man in the foreground, are deeply mysterious, half-revealing, half-concealing a very private experience. The iconography of St Bernard is a fascinating subject in itself. For a definitive study of every known medieval image, I cannot recommend too highly James France's learned and immensely readable Medieval Images of St Bernard of Clairvaux, Cistercian Studies 210 (Kalamazoo, 2007) which is accompanied by a disk of the images referred to in his book. (The fact that our copy is inscribed by James with engaging humility as "from a fellow-devotee of St Bernard" has nothing whatsoever to do with my opinion, which is utterly objective and disinterested. Ed.)

I had five minutes to spare after Lauds today, so I've added a custom search engine to our homepage and to Colophon. You can use it to search this web site alone. It should help if you are trying to find a particular blog entry, or all the comments on a subject such as vocation. If you find it useful, please let us know. We are still at work on the FAQ section. If there are any questions you would like to see included, do please email them. No promises, but we'd like the section to be genuinely "helpful".

Today's first reading at Mass, from the prophet Isaiah, seems singularly appropriate for us at Hendred. Today is the 143rd anniversary of the dedication of the parish church, built by the Eyston family (descendants of St Thomas More), and the anniversary of the death of D. Gertrude More, the saint's great-great-granddaughter, one of the founders of the Cambrai community. D. Gertrude's life is an inspiration to every novice or nun, especially in apparently hopeless moments when prayer seems to dry up and God seems far away. She wasn't terribly keen on being a nun at first; witty and mischievous, she was given to speaking first and thinking after; she made fun of the saintly Vicarius of the Cambrai community, Fr Augustine Baker, and was filled with mounting despair when, by God's grace, she suffered a conversion, found with Fr Baker's help the way of contemplative prayer and died in the odour of (genuine) sanctity at the age of twenty-eight. The "Life of D. Gertrude More" shows the effect of Fr Baker's teaching, the sanity and humanity of the English contemplative tradition, and the wise and generous roots of post-Reformation Benedictine life in England. We can forgive D. Gertrude her weakness for expressing herself in endless doggerel. Liker her mentor, she too is someone who can teach us to be joyful in God's house of prayer.

I've just finished rereading Gijs van Hensbergen's excellent biography of Antoni Gaudí. There is something almost medieval about his strange genius. I wonder if there is any architect alive today whose work is so completely suffused with Faith; and if there is any bishop employing an architect of such rare quality! (Note: No podcast today as we put up a video on Thursday and may release another sometime this coming week.)

Tomorrow we celebrate the solemnity of the Assumption of Our Lady with real coffee for breakfast (oh bliss, oh joy, oh rapture) and some wonderful chants in choir (oh bliss, oh joy and . . . hard work). D. Teresa is now feeling much better, so she has been coaxed into sharing some reflections on the theology of the feast. We would have liked to have included all the Alleluia from the Mass but it was too long for the video, so there is just a snippet at the end — enough, however, to express the joy and gladness of the Church that Mary has been assumed, body and soul, into heaven.

Some people thrive on routine; some people don't. Monastic life has a large element of routine built into it (fixed times for prayer and meals, for example) which are sometimes experienced as liberation, sometimes the opposite. But it also has an innate flexibility about some of the detail. Benedict is well aware that the demands of hospitality are unpredictable, and he sees such importance in the person of the guest that he allows the abbot to break his fast so that the guest may be properly entertained. We had a number of visitors to the monastery yesterday, and in each case we tried to be welcoming. For some, there was just coffee and biscuits and a few minutes' talk; for others, there were shared meals and a longer time spent answering questions and trying to explain those elements of our life which are particularly difficult for an outsider to understand; there was time spent answering emails and letters — all this on top of the normal round of prayer, work and study. But the point is, of course, that welcoming others to the monastery IS part of the normal round. It's what we try to do with this web site and blog. And we gain so much from those who come, even if, at times, we feel pressurized or convinced that we are making a hash of things. Perhaps we concentrate too much on giving answers instead of asking questions of those who come. Among our visitors yesterday were two delightful boys from the village with a rather portly bulldog in tow. They didn't ask any questions, but they shared their friendship and pride of ownership in the dog. The young have something to teach us all.

Am I alone in thinking that war in Georgia at the same time as the Olympic Games is a terrible irony? There does seem to be a contradiction between proclaiming peace at the Olympics and aiming bullets and bombs at one another. The Benedictine motto is "pax" or "peace", surrounded by a crown of thorns — a reminder that true peace is only attainable if we are prepared to suffer for it.

The weather is less muggy this morning, so I thought I would devote a few minutes to analyzing our web site and seeing if I could track down some coding errors that I know exist but have not yet put right. The search terms used to find us are always fascinating. There are more spellings for "monastery" than I would have thought possible, but most people have no difficulty with "nun", except for one confused soul who put "nunk" (I sympathize, believe me.) Someone googled "new potatoes" and found us. That must have been unexpected, to say the least. Someone else navigated to us via a most unlikely link about political gossip in Washington D.C., which makes one wonder whether the Pentagon is interested in our emails (answer, probably: not much escapes surveillance these days). But it was when printing out the email requests for prayer that I was brought up short. I always find them moving, but this morning there was one that wrung my heart. At the end the writer asked the Lord "to forgive my sins of poverty". It is an evocative phrase which can be understood in many ways. Monastic "poverty" can be beautiful: an absence of clutter and the uglier artefacts of our age, but that is not what the writer meant. St Clare of Assisi, whose feast we keep today, knew poverty as a joyful freedom; but that is not how most people experience it. The "sins of poverty" can be ugly and brutal, and only those who know what it is like to be hungry or diseased or enslaved really understand. Fortunately, we have the psalms. They are the cry of the poor to the heart of God. When we pray the psalms in community, we are articulating the prayer of Christ to the Father, "who does not despise the poverty of the poor" and who has cancelled our debts by his death on the cross. It is a great and humbling vocation.

I have to confess that I dozed through the homily at Mass this morning; I can't remember a single word of the book I was reading; and I have an awkward feeling that prayer this afternoon was spent in what we call "the prayer of gentle drift." Before people start emailing about the dreadful laxity of nuns nowadays, I suggest everyone takes a second look at today's reading from I Kings. God isn't always to be found where we expect, nor is he always expected where he is to be found. I had to spend part of today doing something I heartliy dislike, and to my shame, I did so with much interior grumbling and resentment; but if I can claim to have met God at all today, it was in that unwelcome task. God was so gracious and I so ungrateful, but part of me is immensely glad to have been reminded that the search for God is always a response to something he has begun. The opening words of the Rule of St Benedict command us to "listen" and "bend close the ear of the heart". When we're really straining to hear, a whisper is all that is needed, no matter how great the din that surrounds us.
Podcast

Can a philosopher become a saint? Can love of wisdom lead to love of Wisdom? Today's feast shows that the answer to both questions is a resounding "yes". I was going to recommend the work of our friend Joanne Mosley, but many people are blogging about St Teresa Benedicta today so this post will concentrate on something nearer home. Yesterday Jane Curley celebrated her 100th birthday by joining us for Midday Prayer and then having a party in the parish Meeting Rooms. It was a squash trying to get everyone in as our oratory is small, but people cheerfully lined the corridor; and the celebratory lunch afterwards was a nice blend of "parish" and "village". Photos will be going up on the parish web site at www.catholichendredandilsley.org.uk, but here is a view of Jane getting down to the serious business of cutting her cake . . . and another of Duncan setting off in search of a stray sausage or two.

The symmetry of today's date seems fitting for the feast of St Dominic — such an engaging saint, with both an orderly mind and a warm personality. Benedictines and Cistercians like to gloss over his critique of the monastic mediocrity of his day and concentrate on finding links with themselves. Not difficult in the case of S. Domingo de Silos. But there is, I think, a deeper affinity between the followers of St Dominic and the followers of St Benedict. Our ways of doing theology may differ in some respects, but we agree that love of God and love of learning are two aspects of one quest. So, greetings and good wishes to all our Dominican friends and prayers for their flourishing. May they continue to be true hounds of God!

Long ago, when trying to revitalise the press at Stanbrook, I experimented with eBooks. Not the "Get Rich Quick" kind you can download from a thousand dodgy sites on the web, but books that were artistically and typographically interesting: electronic Fine Printing, if you like, at a supremely affordable price. Since moving to Hendred I haven't had time to carry the experiment further, but I regularly use Issuu for the parish newsletter so I thought we might do the same on this web site. Therefore, drumroll, our first offering is a little booklet we printed a couple of years ago in honour of Our Lady and as a small gift for Friends and Benefactors. I was first alerted to the classical beauty of Robert Slimbach's typefaces by John Dreyfus, who was generous in giving encouragement although he never saw this particular booklet and might have smiled at one or two elements, especially the retro features of the design. But we work with what we have, not what we don't. The printer's flowers used here and there bear no comparison with the wonderful variety and quality to be found in letterpress, nor are the swashed letters all that might be desired. Electronic printing is still in its infancy, however, and I'm sure we'll see great things in the future. To view Lady Flower, follow this link.

The feast of the Transfiguration, always a great favourite in the monastery, coincides with the annual beanfeast: broad beans, runner beans, French beans, the garden is full of them. Inevitably, our dinner plates are full of them, too. Any little mumblings from those not keen on beans twice a day are quelled by the reminder that the great abbot Hugh of Cluny took his turn in the kitchen and cooked . . . beans. (Contrary to poular belief, the everyday diet at Cluny, at least during the earlier period, was mainly bread and beans.) This historical nugget will be useful today as the Transfiguration is in origin a Cluniac feast and the festive dinner is going to feature, yes, BEANS! (Perhaps some summer squash and spinach as well so that there is no "justifiable grumbling". Fortunately, the liturgy will be splendid even if the dinner isn't.)

We have had to buy a new telephone system as the old one was experiencing too much interference. It took two nuns a whole hour to digest the operating instructions (not a good sign) and a further thirteen hours to charge the handsets. All should be perfect, and in a way it is, though not as the manufacturers intended. The new handsets look very handsome and illuminate in different ways according to the kind of call being made. The only problem is, all incoming calls are being diverted to the answerphone and we have so far failed to retrieve the messages. I fear another hour with the instruction manual may be required.

Reading this morning's section of the Rule has made me examine my conscience again. I spent all my "free" time yesterday trying to catch up with correspondence, but I seem to have made barely a dent in it, and I know some people will be thinking I/we don't care or regard their requests as trivial. No request made in good faith is trivial, but the urgent is always displacing the important and one inevitably feels a bit guilty about it. That is part of the "problem" with Benedictine hospitality. We try to be a warm and welcoming community, but there are times when tiredness or illness or the need to do something make it difficult to respond to others as we (and they) would wish. I'm sure it must be the same for all overworked mums and dads, busy carers and just about everyone else on the planet. St Benedict says that Christ is welcomed in the person of the guest. Undoubtedly. But perhaps we could get rid of some unnecessary feelings of guilt and failure if we remembered that it is Christ who does the welcoming, too.

I like Sundays. They are always special: filled with special sights and sounds, special tastes, and if we are lucky enough to have Mass in the oratory as distinct from the parish church, special smells, too (incense, in case you are wondering). There was once a Jewish rabbi who spent the whole week preparing for the Sabbath. If a good book came his way, he put it aside to be enjoyed on the Sabbath; if some good food or wine arrived, he stored it for the Sabbath. I suppose we do something similar. The parts of the Office that we chant on weekdays are sung on Sundays; we try to make space for more prayer and reading and keep household tasks to a minimum (bad planning on my part means I am always Sunday cook!) But this delicate balance is easily upset. Our 24/7 culture means that people are quite likely to want to transact business on a Sunday, or call in "on the off-chance" to discuss some project or other, and it can be difficult not to let one's disappointment or irritation show. One of the hardest things about Sunday is trying to keep it holy, so no wonder God made a commandment about it.

Today's chapter, about praying the Divine Office wherever one happens to be on a journey, made me reflect. Muslims are much less inhibited than many Christians about praying in public. I have not quite been reduced to slipping my Office book into lurid covers like the priest in "The Power and the Glory", but I admit to doing a rather embarrassed shuffle sometimes. Perhaps it is only the British fear of drawing attention to oneself. What we're really doing, of course, is drawing attention to God; so why should anyone be reluctant to do that?

D. Teresa came home today. Fortunately, we had finished tidying away most of the remains of the Garden Party, so the house looked fairly civilized when she arrived; but of course, that is not what really matters. "Coming home" means a feeling of ease and familiarity, of knowing one's place, of accepting and being accepted. A monastery ought to give that sense of belonging to all its members. The big challenge for monastic communities is, how far that sense of welcome, of being at home, can be shared with others without making the monastery less of a home for the monks or nuns who live there. The practice of enclosure is fundamental, but as a discipline it is often misunderstood and sometimes misused. It would be so much easier if we didn't feel the need for private space!

The name of this feast varies. Some celebrate St Martha only and give gloomy little homilies on the necessity of hard work, with a nod in the direction of the contemplative life, which is all right for monks and nuns but has nothing to do with anyone else (sic). Some celebrate St Mary as well, and give rather more upbeat homilies, recognizing with St Bernard that Mary and Martha are sisters and equally necessary to the life of the Church. They tend to exalt the contemplative life, with the result that anyone leading a normally busy existence (even in a monastery) may be left feeling vaguely inferior, as though they hadn't quite made the grade. Benedictines of course know that there are no second-class citizens in the Kingdom of God, and never overlook the opportunity of gaining friends in high places. So we celebrate Mary, Martha AND Lazarus and keep the feast as a feast of friendship, a Little Easter in the desert of Ordinary Time, with its promise of resurrection and new life. We may not have it in us to be a Martha or a Mary, but we can surely all imitate Lazarus. Jesus was his friend and saw his need. Lazarus did nothing, simply allowed the Lord to act and was transformed. A reminder, if we need one, that God's ideas are so much bigger than our own.

We all have days when we feel completely overwhelmed and grumble at God or our nearest and dearest because we can't possibly meet all the demands being made upon us. On days like that it is good to recall the words of St Catherine of Siena, "God doesn't ask a perfect work, only perfect desire." Or if we are suffering from ennui, there's always St Teresa of Avila, who was quite happy to admit there were times when she couldn't swat a fly for the love of God. Two great mystics and Doctors of the Church with a keen understanding of human weakness. Does the fact that both were women have something to do with it?

I don't know why so many people persist in thinking of Mary Magdalene as a notorious sinner. The gospels portray her as a woman of great character and resolve whose experience of being healed by the Lord Jesus was utterly transforming. But perhaps the popular view of Mary as a penitent is useful to us in the twenty-first century, who so rarely accept that we are sinners in need of repentance. We must acknowledge God's love and forgiveness rather than dwell on our own shocking ingratitude, but we must not pretend that sin is of no consequence. There are some lines of Phineas Fletcher (1580–1650) that I've always loved. The poet asks that his tear-filled eyes may become the way in which the Lord sees sin. There is a prayer in the paradox.
Drop, drop, slow tears
And bathe those beauteous feet
Which brought from heaven
The news and Prince of Peace;
Cease not, wet eyes,
His mercy to entreat;
To cry for vengeance
Sin doth never cease.
In your deep floods
Drown all my faults and fears;
Nor let His eye
See sin, but through my tears.

Recently we have had several vocation enquiries, some of which required considerable thought and prayer before answering. We always try to be helpful, even when it is clear that our community would not be suitable (e.g. the enquirer does not speak English). Some of the questions and responses will eventually be incorporated into our FAQ section, but I must admit to being fascinated by the "shopping lists" of requirements the community, rather than the applicant, is sometimes expected to fulfil. Such lists may be tinged with a little romanticism or nostalgia for a Catholicism that never was (nothing wrong with that, religion shouldn't be dreary, though the cynic in me wonders how well a theoretical enthusiasm for fasting and long hours in choir will stand up to the reality) or a tendency to assume that we must be terribly lax here because our current timetable subsumes all the Little Hours into one lengthy office of Midday Prayer (come and see, O doubting Thomasina). Some enquirers want to know exactly how "traditional" we are. I never know how to answer that until I know how the enquirer herself understands tradition. Benedictine monasticism, like Catholicism itself, is inherently traditional, and I like to think St Benedict would recognize us as true disciples; but there is an understanding of tradition which is fundamentally un-Catholic, preferring private judgement to the Magisterium, and very narrow in its sympathies. If there's anything narrow about us, good Lord, deliver us!

I was walking the dog in the interval between Vigils and Lauds. He was thinking deep thoughts about rabbits and hares and I was thinking deep thoughts about nothing in particular when we both stopped. There on the path lay two cherries, flawless in the morning light. Some earlier walker must have dropped them, and by some strange chance the local birds had failed to discover them. Duncan was puzzled, and sat down with furrowed brow to consider the question; while he pondered, I was suddenly transported to another morning many years ago, when snow lay thick on the ground, and I walked from King's into Clare and was surprised by cherry blossom scattered on the glistening whiteness. The fleeting beauty of that memory and the radiant beauty of the present made me think. The blossom must fade, if there is to be fruit; and the fruit must fall and break open if there is to be a future tree. Only we human beings seem to resent the process of growing older, of change and decay. Duncan sniffed delicately and looked up, recalling me to the present. We left the cherries where they lay. Even a dog and a nun can give life a chance.

There's an interesting InterFaith meeting going on in Madrid at the moment (the traditional home of Three Faiths debate). The sponsor is the King of Saudi Arabia, which is astonishing, given the reputation of Wahabi Islam for intolerance. Let's pray that this is one conference that actually produces a worthwhile result, though I suspect it will be a long time before freedom to practise their religion is extended to Christians in Saudi. In bleaker moments, given the hostility towards Christianity in some parts of Britain, I wonder whether the same might one day be true here.

Life is very hectic at the moment as the round trip to visit D. Teresa takes three hours, so no time for Chapter talks or podcasts, alas. If there were, I'd like to say something about St Swithun. Instead I'll have to point people in the direction of Michael Lapidge's excellent "The Cult of St Swithun". I daresay all the local children will be reciting the old rhyme about rain on St Swithun's day and looking anxiously at the skies, but I wonder how many, confronted by the image of a bishop holding a bridge and with broken eggs at his feet, will realise that it is a representation of St Swithun or recall the miracle it purports to recall? Odd that in an age when the visual is so important, Catholicism has lost much of its ability to read the language of symbols. Perhaps that is why the monastic life we share with St Swithun is incomprehensible to so many. It is, in the fullest possible sense, "symbolic".

Nice to see the sun shining for the feast of St Benedict! This is, of course, the "lesser" feast; the one that Benedictines celebrate with most solemnity is that of the Transitus on 21 March. But St Benedict's day is St Benedict's day, so there will be much rejoicing and thanksgiving. We send greetings and good wishes to all our Associates and Friends, especially those who are in hospital or recovering from a stay in hospital. We moved D. Teresa last night from the Nuffield Hospital to the Millhouse Care Home in Witney, where she will be a for a few days. She has taken her first steps and we hope she will now make a speedy recovery. Visiting hours are open and she would be pleased to see any of her friends. Meanwhile, back at the monastery, we had hoped to put up our new web site section about St Benedict and the Rule but the events of the last few weeks have delayed us. Perhaps it will be all the better for having to "mature". I wonder if St Benedict would appreciate being likened to vintage claret?

What is it about wet weather in summer that brings out the worst in people (including nuns)? Found myself being carved up on the A34 yesterday and thinking uncharitable thoughts about the carver-uper (which, as everybody knows, nuns are not allowed to think). Then I thought even more uncharitable thoughts about a long series of unnecessary telephone calls (always distrust people who begin, "I was wondering if you could just . . ." and then go on with a list of demands which makes the Labours of Hercules look like a quick trip to the corner shop). I even thought uncharitable thoughts about a bundle of wet dog deciding that I was his best friend ever and needed a display of doggy affection. Hopeless. I'm just a grumpy nun.

Someone asked a good question yesterday, "Are you founded or are you still founding?" I think what the questioner probably meant was, "Is the process of foundation (of the monastery) complete?" Canonically, of course, everything is in place, and we have done all that the civil law requires, but can any monastery ever really be called "complete"? Communities are always changing in some way as new members enter, old members die, and the rest become more determinedly middle-aged. Buildings are altered, furnishings changed, the very landscape may look different. Even the so-called unchanging elements of monastic life and liturgy take on a different cast: we do not sing the salicus now as it was sung in the earlier twentieth century, and that one small change has quite transformed some pieces of chant. And yet, if one stands in the choir at Romsey and thinks back to all those nuns who lived there generation after generation from Anglo-Saxon times onwards, one has no difficulty in recognizing the continuities between their lives and ours. Being a Benedictine is a constant process of becoming.

We are reading the Book of Job at Vigils. Sometimes it sends shivers down one's spine — too much drama for six in the morning! The dialogue between God and Satan is full of humour, but menace too; the catastrophes that fall upon Job are both comic and pathetic. I suppose much of life is like that. Comedy and tragedy are so often mixed and there can be undertones in the most ordinary of conversations. Job is someone with whom we can all sympathize. He refuses to accept the glib certainti