Trying to catch the wind
A photo blessing for all who search for beauty in the broken pieces. Helped by my six year old and Alzheimer's.
My dear fellow human,
I had meant to write to you last Sunday. With an re-introduction of The Cloister of sorts.
But the American way of Thanksgiving took up my whole mental load, a feast of giving thanks apparently, where families try to somehow survive the festivities and each other.
To my rescue came the wisdom of our six year old and Alzheimer.
Both of our mothers’ are living in different states of Alzheimer.
My husband’s mother still lives on her own in the American sunshine state we visited last week. Her Alzheimer has transformed her into a sweeter lady, often laughing and dancing. Which is nice, because when I got to know her, she was a tough southern lady with a black belt who could give looks which burn you to the ground. Now she is still a southern lady, still with a black belt, but who has melted into a less rigid and more loving version of herself. She now watches me cook while humming along with old music from the stereo.
When this happens, I give thanks.
Because these precious moments are part of what our lives are made from. Aren’t they?
Then there is my six-year-old. A gem who came to us when we stopped hoping. Sometimes, she drives us nuts. But she also gives us life. Her gift is to bring us back into the present moment when we need it the most.
Look mommy, look!
Spending Thanksgiving with her at the beach before driving down to my mother-in-law to celebrate a humble dinner with a grilled chicken we brought from the supermarket is a memory I still take strength from in these silent in-between days of waiting.
Days without words, but lightened by memories and pictures.
The secluded beach stumbled upon had been ravaged by the last Hurricane. And though much of the debris had been cleared, and new sand had been brought in, one could still spot the brokenness in the background.
Empty places where houses once stood. Broken rails and tree stumps where life once grew.
Sometimes beauty is a choice. We must look straight ahead, where the water meets the sky and where the sun melts into the ocean and not behind us where the debris from old storms still awaits us.
We must look where the birds greet the morning in choreographed formations, to open the heart of every one who dares to watch, a tiny crack — a crack where the bird song comes through.
We must look where morning dew mingles with the dawn of a new day, over the waves, and the lonely beach goer disappears into the early morning fog.
Morning has broken like the first morning
light from the light
which Eden once saw.
…
Still breaking,
still calling,
still asking us to watch.
And so, my dear friends,
out of my wordlessness I am sending you these pictures from daybreak
as a humble midweek blessing.
A foaming dawn filled with the cries of birds—
their voices melting into my memory,
saving me, even now, from despair.
May you find beauty in the broken pieces, dear friend,
even in the exhaustion of difficult family gatherings
or the bleakness of the daily news.May every daybreak invite you anew
to participate in the joy of life—
everlasting,
dancing over the debris
of our previous struggles.May you play again like a child in the sand
or in the fresh-fallen snow,
calling you back into the present moment,
waiting for you
with quiet delight.
Saying thanks
What is left to say? Thank you for being here with me, dear reader. Thank you for walking this path —through feast days, foggy days, and the frayed edges of the world.
Thank you for reading, for bringing your courage, your questions, your heart to this little cloistered space.
Thank you for keeping hope alive and tending truth even when the seams feel thin. Thank you for being yourself —for returning again and again to the ground of things and for keeping a child’s wonder, like a six-year-old collecting seashells.
Thank you for sharing your words of courage and hope and insistence and wisdom and vulnerability here with us.
Thank you for being here, dear esteemed reader, and thank you for supporting this soul ministry.
Thank you, indeed.
Yours, Almut (with Chuck and little one)
PS: Share what moved your heart, a word, a line, gratitude or sorrow, so we can hold it together.
Latest
🙏
Thank you for reading, sharing and supporting Cloister Notes, a letter for dancing monks, weary pilgrims and wounded healers in the intersection of psychology, philosophy and spirituality. Your support makes this labor of love possible.
If you enjoyed this writing feel free to share it with some one who might enjoy it also, by forwarding this letter or by sharing it in your social networks, and, if you are a substacker, by restacking or recommending :-)
🕯️ Join Us at The Cloister
» Moral Monday Circle
A small, intimate zoom gathering where we read, reflect, and speak truth together in the spirit of the old East German Friedensgebete — the moral prayers that sustained people through difficult times — and in the spirit of the American Moral Mondays movement calling the nation back to justice and courage.
Next meeting: Monday, December 8, 6:30 pm CT via zoom
Topic: Anne Applebaum’s “History Will Judge the Complicit” (The Atlantic, 2020)
We’ll explore the many ways people become co-opted into supporting systems they privately oppose — and how small accommodations quietly accumulate.
Come whether you’ve read the piece or not. (Reading time is about an hour — it’s beautifully written and gripping — but even if you don’t get to the whole thing, you’ll still be able to join the conversation.)
→ This circle is a small, protected space, so we hold it for paid subscribers who are walking this journey with us more closely. If you’re already a paid subscriber, you’ll see the checkmark — and you’re welcome to register below. If not, you can upgrade first and then join us.
» The 12 Days of Christmas Contemplations
For all who have waited: Yes, we will venture again.
Join us for a contemplative online pilgrimage to the deeper self — from Christmas to Epiphany. Each year we follow the star through these twelve sacred days, opening ourselves to the quiet, the mystery, and the deeper heart of Christmas.
Beware: this is not a pre-packaged retreat. These contemplations arrive one day at a time — sometimes brief, sometimes longer — written fresh as I walk alongside you.
Raw and dusty like the road to Bethlehem, they unfold step by step, never quite knowing the ending, except that it leads us toward the Divine dwelling place.
This offering especially reaches out to those who carry others through the season — clergy, mamas, counselors, helpers — and to all who long for a deeper, quieter Christmas path.
→ To walk the 12 Days with us, and to get on the list, simply become a paid subscriber to Cloister Notes here.
If you’re already on our list (yay!), you’re warmly invited to bring someone along who needs this kind of journey.
And if you’d like to look back, you can (re)visit our 12 Days Archive here.
I am so looking forward to walk with you through this sacred time!
"Sometimes beauty is a choice." Amen.
All of this was so beautiful. Thank you. Your photography is stunning.