St. Mary & St. Moses Abbey Midnight Praises (Tasbeha), recorded August 2025

Conclusion of the Adam Psalis (Loipon)

15th Part of the Sunday Theotokia (Aven Piarshi)

Greek Psali Watos for The Three Saintly Children (Aripsaleen)

Third Canticle (Esmo Epchoics Only)

7th Part of the Sunday Theotokia (Shere ne Maria & Cemonti)

Psali Watos for The Three Saintly Children (Tennowh Ensok)

10th Part of the Sunday Theotokia (Long Teoi Enhikanos)

Introduction to the Midnight Praises (Long Tenthino)

You are matter, as they are.
See how perfectly it can be done.
Hold, one day more, what is asked.

One can easily hear a domestic silence
Which was afraid of bothering the broom
I’m lost again. I lost my common sense.
Hello, room. Did you keep the light for us?

I meet my name in the mirror of glass,
motes drift, small planets in a patient mass.
A spider plant leans like a green-bowed priest,
roots in a jar where the sun breaks east.
Pebbles on the sill, cold verses of stone,
each one a pocket where I once felt known.
Toy saints line up with their painted vows,
tin-sized halos and bent plastic brows.

Windowsill monastery, vows in light;
we keep them softly, morning to night.

Cup with a crack and a dandelion stem,
water remembers the hand that held them.
Sticker-flaked frame with a seaside sky,
I press my cheek to the glass and try.
Who am I here in the hush of this place?
A moth with a map made of dust and grace.
Why am I here in this wide, bright frame?
To practice the sunshine and say my name.

Windowsill monastery, quiet and clear;
we lay down our smallness and call it “dear.”

Clock with no battery still keeping a prayer,
hands held together like they’re learning to care.
Books breathing softly, their spines like ribs,
pages are lanterns with whispering fibs.
Pebble rosary, six stones across,
counting the patience that outlives loss.
I set one word upon each round face:
mercy, marrow, mystery, place.

Toy saint of Courage has a scuffed-off crown,
she stands by the succulent, never sits down.
Saint of Small Sleep with a felt-tip smile,
guards the night window from thought’s long mile.
If I am a question the daylight wrote,
then you are the margin that keeps it afloat.
If I am a seed, then the sill is soil,
name me with sunlight, soften my toil.

Who am I?
A lamp in the leaf.
Why am I here?
To learn gentle belief.
How do I start?
Put your palm in the sun.
Breathe like a bell till the breathing is done.

Windowsill monastery, plant, stone, saint;
we practice staying when the heart feels faint.
Windowsill monastery, simple and bright;
we trade our hurry for a thread of light.

I came back older than the dust I see,
I came back lighter than the loss in me.
Pebbles remember the roads we crossed,
Leaves keep the hymns that the winter lost.
I drink the silence by windowsill glass,
I taste the hours the shadows pass.
Who… am… I… here… / Why… am… I… here…
Answer: this light that arrives sincere.

Windowsill monastery, ours for a while;
we let the room rename us child.
Windowsill monastery, nothing to prove;
we lean toward sun and learn to move.

I’ll keep the pebbles where the warm comes in.
I’ll keep the questions. We’ll begin again.

windowsill monastery

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And We, too, Who are sojourners in this place, keep us in Your faith, and grant us Your peace unto the end. - The Divine Liturgy of Saint Basil

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