Get all 8 Abbey of the Arts releases available on Bandcamp and save 20%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of The Love of Thousands: Singing with Angels, Saints, and Ancestors, Sound and Stillness II: An audio collection of poems by Christine Valters Paintner, Birthing the Holy: Singing with Mary and the Sacred Feminine, Monk in the World: Songs for Contemplative Living, Sound and Stillness: An audio collection of poems by Christine Valters Paintner, Earth, Our Original Monastery: Singing Our Way to the Sacred, The Soul's Slow Ripening: Songs for Celtic Seekers, and Singing with Monks and Mystics.
1. |
Dreaming of Stones
01:45
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Dreaming of Stones
In the world before waking
I meet a winged one,
feathered, untethered,
who presses in my palm
three precious stones,
like St. Ita in her dream,
but similarities end there,
her with saintliness and certainty,
me asking questions in the dark.
All I know is
I am not crafted from
patience of rock or gravity of earth,
nor flow of river,
I am not otter with
her hours devoted to play.
I am none of these.
At least not yet.
The stones will still be singing
centuries from now,
made smooth by
all kinds of weather.
If I strike them together,
they spark and kindle.
Do I store them as treasures
to secretly admire
on storm-soaked days?
Or wear them as an amulet
around my neck?
When the angel returns to me
in the harsh truth of last morning,
will she ask
what have I endured,
treasured, and sparked?
Will she ask what have I hidden away
and what made visible?
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection Dreaming of Stones (Paraclete Press)
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2. |
Connemara Illuminated
01:37
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Connemara Illuminated
A poem is being scribed this morning
across the thick brown bog and
over the gashed granite folds of mountain,
written in spires of gold descending
from the wide bowl of sky
across the breathing heather.
You have to pause to read it,
long enough to hear beneath the relentless
moan of wind
where centuries of voices have whispered
their seeking, feasting, fasting, loving.
You know your singular aloneness
and your place in a communion of stone and sea.
Even as the kestrel’s wings vibrate into the night
sending quills into the damp air,
even as the skylarks and stonechats
attend each day’s awakening
like eager midwives,
this empire of longing writes its script
in fox tracks and memory.
If your life could be just a fraction of this poem
you would never need to utter another word.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection Dreaming of Stones (Paraclete Press)
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3. |
How to Be a Pilgrim
02:20
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How to Be a Pilgrim
Air travel is like
ancient pilgrims walking on their
knees, flight delays and narrow seats
offer their own kind of penance.
You jettison excess baggage,
leaving behind the heavy makeup case,
knowing the rain will
wash you free of artifice.
Books you wanted to carry left too,
no more outside words needed,
then go old beliefs which keep
you taut and twisted inside.
Blistered feet stumble over rocky
fields covered with wildflowers and you
realize this is your life,
full of sharp stones and color.
Red-breasted robins call forth
the song already inside,
a hundred griefs break open under
dark clouds and downpour.
Rise and fall of elation and exhaustion,
the tides a calendar of unfolding,
a bright star rises and you remember
a loved one waiting miles away.
A new hunger is kindled by the sight of
cows nursing calves in a field,
spying a spotted pony, you forget
the weight and seriousness of things.
Salmon swim across the Atlantic,
up the River Corrib’s rapids to the
wide lake, and you wonder if you have
also been called here for death and birth.
This is why we journey:
to retrieve our lost intimacy with the world,
every creature a herald of poems
that sleep in streams and stones.
‘Missing you’ scrawled on a postcard sent home,
but you don't follow with
‘wish you were here.’
This is a voyage best made alone.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection Dreaming of Stones (Paraclete Press)
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4. |
St. Teresa's Ecstasy
01:34
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St. Teresa’s Ecstasy
You must have felt it
once or twice yourself
an early winter morning
as the sun tilts slowly
above the vale of earth
bird wings flap fiercely
slicing the sky as it turns
from lavender to blue
your heart a moth
fluttering in a jar
and for a moment you are
so in love with this world
everything is possible
your skin no longer barrier
but portal to communion
like St. Teresa in her moment
of ecstasy, Seraphim with a
golden spear clearing her out
for love, feet bare, head tilted back,
a moan escapes her lips,
rhapsody, relish, swoon
even when the angel recedes
as her tasks call her back
she can still taste bliss in her
pomegranate mouth
and there are glimpses of paradise
even on rain-soaked days
a sun still gleams
among the half-cut lemons,
the egg yolk, my wedding band.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection Dreaming of Stones (Paraclete Press)
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5. |
Take My Hand
01:10
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Take My Hand
Please don’t plant me
neat rows of rosebushes
and tulips at attention,
no manicured gardens
or crystal vases of cut stems.
Instead, take my hand,
lead me onto
rain-softened grass
which undulates like a boat
on a summer lake,
lie down with me
in a quilt of sunlight and shadows
among yellow petals, violet trumpets,
a feast for hares and bees,
let’s linger and forget ourselves
until even the tiled sky above
is cracked open by stars
and all that is restless and wild
within us can roam the heavens
howling the moon aloft.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection Dreaming of Stones (Paraclete Press)
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6. |
Vespers
01:04
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Vespers
The sun slides down
the gap between houses
its amber reach crosses the grass
toward me, shadow of the elder tree
has grown long and I remember
under the mulberry spectacle of sky
how everything I love must end:
this cup of tea with steam ascending,
the dog curled right against me,
your warm hands over mine,
how this sweet leaving of day
makes me draw the world
as close as possible.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection Dreaming of Stones (Paraclete Press)
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7. |
Aubade
00:48
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Aubade
The day opens its white page,
spreading herself like so much possibility,
you take your pen, pausing
before you begin so you can hear
the jackdaw caw high above
your tiny shadow and the snowdrop’s
insistent blooming, somewhere
is the knowing glance of badger,
each unafraid to write their stories
on wind and soil and you see they
offer ink for your pen in
a hundred different colors.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection The Wisdom of Wild Grace (Paraclete Press)
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8. |
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Things I Didn’t Know I Loved
(after Nazim Hikmet)
I never knew how much I loved
heavy rain on a Sunday morning
curled in bed with coffee
a Morse code tapping the windows
telling me I have no reason to leave.
I didn’t realize how much I adored
peonies until one May afternoon
I spent four hours photographing
the bouquet (you brought me
for no reason) on our dining table.
I never knew how much I cherished
the alchemy taking place in kitchens
until I mixed wheat and yeast together,
felt it sticky in my hands,
and from the oven emerged bread.
I didn’t know how much I loved
this sagging body of mine,
until one day the mirror showed
me not scars and marks, but a story
of what it means to endure.
I never knew how much I loved
the forest until I walked so far
and so long my arms were coated
with moss and my life became
a fairy tale written in the snow.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection The Wisdom of Wild Grace (Paraclete Press)
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9. |
Nocturne
01:02
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Nocturne
Sometimes I awaken at night
although still in a dream
and the air around me is violet.
Here in the heart of the forest
I am elegance of swan,
fierceness of bear,
sweetness of squirrel,
I am all these things under
night’s generous embrace,
how the moon, a broken dinner plate
has the courage to soar
how my prayers for the world grow
more intense and I wonder
what of this grace will still
be left by morning?
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection The Wisdom of Wild Grace (Paraclete Press)
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10. |
Once
01:33
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Once
my hands were made of silver,
delicate, refined, needing to be polished
daily, glinting on sun-heavy days
until I made my way into the woods
listened for long while, ear pressed to soft earth
thirsty for the song I heard
among roots and moss, rumors
that spring was coming, could even hear
the magnolia bud rumbling.
I stayed that way for years, prone,
breathing in scent of fur and feather
until everything silver fell away
until flesh rose back up my arms
pink covered me like the promise
of that song I heard, now I’m eager
for callouses and blisters,
to mottle my fingers with ink,
to touch the world as if for the first time.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection The Wisdom of Wild Grace (Paraclete Press)
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11. |
What She Does Not Know
01:44
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What She Does Not Know
(for unsuspecting Selkies everywhere)
She does not know there is a reason
she always feels out of place
her life rigid and small, like living in a doll's house
a marriage more trap than longing
and when she chokes on courtesy and convention
the salt which burns her throat is not just tears.
She does not know that when she stands
on the sea’s wild edge and can finally
breathe, dream, weep,
her body strains forward
seawater in her veins, barnacles behind her knees
waves lap her ankles, thighs, torso, her cold breasts.
She does not know that when she swims
in that wide expanse and the swell
pulls her under, she does not need to struggle,
the sea has been longing for her as well –
everyone onshore aghast –
her daughter will grieve and wail and awaken
from dreams of the deep dark water
calling her name also.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection The Wisdom of Wild Grace (Paraclete Press)
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12. |
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Praise be the nurses and doctors, every medical staff bent over flesh to offer care, for lives saved and lives lost, for showing up either way,
Praise for the farmers, tilling soil, planting seeds so food can grow, an act of hope if ever there was,
Praise be the janitors and garbage collectors, the grocery store clerks, and the truck drivers barreling through long quiet nights,
Give thanks for bus drivers, delivery persons, postal workers, and all those keeping an eye on water, gas, and electricity,
Blessings on our leaders, making hard choices for the common good, offering words of assurance,
Celebrate the scientists, working away to understand the thing that plagues us, to find an antidote, all the medicine makers, praise be the journalists keeping us informed,
Praise be the teachers, finding new ways to educate children from afar, and blessings on parents holding it together for them,
Blessed are the elderly and those with weakened immune systems, all those who worry for their health, praise for those who stay at home to protect them,
Blessed are the domestic violence victims, on lock down with abusers, the homeless and refugees,
Praise for the poets and artists, the singers and storytellers, all those who nourish with words and sound and color,
Blessed are the ministers and therapists of every kind, bringing words of comfort,
Blessed are the ones whose jobs are lost, who have no savings, who feel fear of the unknown gnawing,
Blessed are those in grief, especially who mourn alone, blessed are those who have passed into the Great Night,
Praise for police and firefighters, paramedics, and all who work to keep us safe, praise for all the workers and caregivers of every kind,
Praise for the sound of notifications, messages from friends reaching across the distance, give thanks for laughter and kindness,
Praise be our four-footed companions, with no forethought or anxiety, responding only in love,
Praise for the seas and rivers, forests and stones who teach us to endure,
Give thanks for your ancestors, for the wars and plagues they endured and survived, their resilience is in your bones, your blood,
Blessed is the water that flows over our hands and the soap that helps keep them clean, each time a baptism,
Praise every moment of stillness and silence, so new voices can be heard, praise the chance at slowness,
Praise be the birds who continue to sing the sky awake each day, praise for the primrose poking yellow petals from dark earth, blessed is the air clearing overhead so one day we can breathe deeply again,
And when this has passed may we say that love spread more quickly than any virus ever could, may we say this was not just an ending but also a place to begin.
—-Christine Valters Paintner
Published originally at AbbeyoftheArts.com
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13. |
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St. Columba and His Horse
The old man hobbles down the road
toward the monastery gate,
rests on a roadside stone,
hears clip-clopping of hooves approach
and his faithful companion arrive.
The horse nuzzles Columba’s shoulder,
shudders all down his white length
eyes glisten round and brown,
great teardrops pool and drop
sounding like rainfall.
Columba rests his forehead
against the horse’s broad skull,
closes his eyes and each imagines
the other, galloping together across
heather and buttercups.
The horse knows his dear friend
will soon be leaving and mourns
this coming loss, his hoof
scrapes the ground, tries to write
a word of goodbye,
then takes wildflowers in his teeth,
extends them to the saint, as if to say
his life was full of beauty and color,
but the petals are already wilting
in the summer sun.
The wisdom of the old sages rings,
“remember you will die” and on another day
this would prompt Columba to celebrate
the gift of a new morning, but today
death is as close as the horse’s warm nostrils,
he knows everything must
come to an end, even this love.
Columba rests there a long while
lets his cloak be soaked with tears,
breathing in scent of fur and fields.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection The Wisdom of Wild Grace (Paraclete Press)
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14. |
Phases
02:29
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Phases (Song Lyrics)
The moon is a poem
ivory carved to a sliver
then gone three days later,
gleaming quartz
appears again
among points of silver fire, circling the sky
slowly like a white cow
in a fragrant summer meadow.
The moon is a poem
full in my mouth
summer’s first berry
served as communion
dissolving on the tongue
sometimes she’s gone
and I gulp at the air
thirsty for darkness
on a fragrant summer evening.
The moon is a poem.
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15. |
Requiem for Myself
03:13
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Requiem for Myself (song lyrics)
When I die, when I die
Plant a pinwheel in the field
So we can both be healed
By the power of the wind.
Then one afternoon
You can stumble through the rain
To meet me once again
when your world no longer spins.
You are soaked from tears and storms
Kinship with the darkest sky
I am rainbow axis whirling
Joyful, me oh my!
You, inspired, then
Tumble gleefully
Across the grass from me—
For a moment you have found
Respite from
The burden of your grief
And I’m the happy thief,
A pinwheel in the ground.
Knowing that the world will be
With you now for years to come,
You can pirouette so free
‘Cause love can’t be undone.
Knowing that the world will be
With you now for years on end,
You can pirouette so free
‘Cause time is still your friend.
Never think this brief sojourn was
Wasted as you head back home.
There’s a fire waiting there
For you, my precious love.
When I die, when I die
Plant a pinwheel in the field
So all can be revealed
All will be revealed
When I die, when I die
When I die, when I die
When I die, when I die, when I die.
Requiem for Myself (original poem)
When I die
plant a pinwheel
in an open field
where winter’s wind
and rain march forcefully
across in battalions,
and you can stumble
out there to meet me
one late afternoon
when you feel the world
must surely be ending.
You, soaked
from tears and storms,
kinship with dark sky.
Me, rainbow axis whirling,
an orbit of
joyful defiance.
You then, inspired,
tumble gleefully
across grass, pirouette,
forgetting for a moment
grief’s burden,
knowing the world
will be with you
for many years to come.
Never think
this brief sojourn wasted
as you head back
to the fire waiting at home,
laughing to yourself
the whole way.
---Christine Valters Paintner
From the poetry collection Dreaming of Stones (Paraclete Press)
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Abbey of the Arts Galway, Ireland
Abbey of the Arts, in partnership with The Dancing Word, produces albums to inspire soulful connection to ancient monks and mystics, to Celtic practice and tradition, to the sacred feminine, and to Earth and her creatures.
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