Things change in the summertime, even in a monastery. In June, in particular, you can see how the seasons affect our lives. The community takes time away from the regular rounds of ministry to make its annual retreat together; the inner courtyard blooms quietly but riotously; the sisters spend more time walking in the woods and sitting together beside the lake at night watching sunsets. Some of us fish; some of us plant; some of us read in the sun. People we haven’t seen for the whole long winter reappear again; families begin to visit; the chapel and dining room are full of old friends and new visitors just passing through.

Clearly, June is the time for being in the world in new ways, for throwing off the cold and dark spots of life. Life is physically easier now and spiritually pregnant with possibility. Warmth becomes a way of life that makes us open to new people and new experiences; flowers confront us with our responsibility for beauty.

June is the month that calls us out of our houses, out of ourselves, to become one with nature. It sweeps us up into the noise of life, into the warmth of life, into the community of life. Sit on your doorstep; take an aimless walk down the street; plant a small flower in a small pot. Be a tribute to creation. Be a part of the chorus of life.

Or try saying this silently to everyone and everything you see for thirty days and see what happens to your own soul; “I wish you happiness now and whatever will bring happiness to you in the future.” If we said it to the sky, we would have to stop polluting; if we said it when we see the ponds and lakes and stream, we would have to stop using them as garbage dumps and sewers; if we said it to small children we would have to stop abusing them, even in the name of training; if we said it to people, we would have to stop stoking the fires of enmity around us. Beauty and human warmth would take root in us like a clear, hot June day. We would change.

—selections from A Monastery Almanac by Joan Chittister