I'm reading some of Thomas Merton's work again. This is from "Day of a Stranger."
"I am out of bed at two-fifteen in the morning when the night is darkest and most silent . . . I find myself in the primordial lostness of night, solitude, forest, peace, a mind awake in the dark, looking for a light . . . A light appears and in the light an ikon. There is now in the large darkness a small room of radiance with psalms in it . . .
The birds begin to wake. It will soon be dawn . . .
It is necessary for me to see the first point of light which begins to be dawn. It is necessary to be present alone at the resurrection of the Day, in that blank silence when the sun appears. In this completely neutral instant I receive from the Eastern woods, the tall oaks. the one word 'DAY,' which is never the same."
As the days go on and on, so much the same, with so little activity (we are of course still expected to stay in place as much as possible, so I only walk every day around the same two blocks), I awaken sometimes for two sometimes for three hours—and eventually arise to see the sun (which continues to appear each day now further south in the eastern sky), sometimes surrounded by clouds (and African dust) make a stunning appearance. A light appears and in the light an ikon with a psalm, to paraphrase Merton. Light, each day different, but still light amidst so much darkness.
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