There is an old Abbey in France where ordered souls sing
ordered songs. I love the stillness, the sheer harmony.
Yet, I hate worn stones that tigers no longer prowl upon.
Where is the horse shit? Where the sounds of geese
arguing? Why aren't there wild young girls running out of
doors at the soulful sounds of monk's chants to weep out
their hopes and griefs in the fields?

Children should bring flowers here: pile them in
mountainous heaps in the middle space between heavy, cold
stones and the luminous windows. There should be milk
here, and good wine set on long tables for a love feast in
the sanctuary of man becoming God's body.

The four halls of the cloister should ring around a garden
of sunflowers, figs and lemon trees. Yellow angels would
sing in one hall; blue/green angels weep in another. And
in the red hall and the black one, secrets and passions
would fly upward to God.

I've heard of an Abbey Master who once ran naked into a
snow storm shouting Hallelujahs unto the night sky. They
ought to bring his burning body back to teach this choir
how to weave a stringent and whimsical chaos of dreams
in and out of their ancient chant melodies.