The Porch of His Presence

THE MONK'S JOURNAL

The Self-Made Monk

He has never taken formal vows. There was no great ceremony, no laying on of hands, no monastery that welcomed him within ancient walls. And yet, in the quiet corners of his heart, he knows he is a monk.

A self-made monk, some might say. But not self-made in pride — rather, in longing. In choice.

He wears simple robes, not to impress, but to remind himself of humility and quiet purpose. His days are shaped by rhythms older than any clock: he rises before the sun, while the air still whispers with the breath of night, and retires shortly after the last golden light fades beyond the trees.

He loves nature deeply — not as an end, but as a window. The soft bend of a wildflower, the silent unfolding of ferns, the call of distant birds — these are glimpses, not gods. They point beyond themselves. He does not worship the creation, but the One who made it — the Creator whose fingerprints are everywhere.

He gathers small offerings from his walks — leaves, petals, pressed flowers — and preserves them with gentle hands. Each is a quiet act of worship, a prayer of stillness, offered not to the flower, but to the One who designed its beauty.

In his small satchel he carries a worn journal. In it are brief reflections — some only a sentence or two — glimpses of grace noticed in quiet hours. The words are not written for others, but for the shaping of his own soul.

At dusk or dawn, he lifts his violin and draws out quiet melodies — not performances, but prayers in sound. The notes rise into the morning mist or settle into the evening breeze. Music becomes liturgy. The rising of steam from his simple tea becomes liturgy. The tending of small meals — bread, fruit, a handful of garden vegetables — becomes liturgy.

He reads from Scripture. From the ancient fathers. From poets and naturalists who also saw God's hand in wind and water — not as objects of worship, but as signs pointing always back to Him.

He embraces wabi-sabi — the quiet beauty found in imperfection, in impermanence, in the worn edges of life. He does not fear age or weathering. He welcomes them, knowing that the Creator’s hand shapes all things for His purpose.

The world continues its noise beyond the edges of his chosen life. But he has not rejected the world in anger. He has simply longed for something more still, more simple, more present.

And so he walks quietly.
He sees deeply.
He loves gently.
He trusts fully.

A monk, though no order claims him.
A brother of the quiet path.
A keeper of silence.
A student of light.
A worshiper of the One who made all that is seen and unseen.