its kinda funny to me. my movement into monastic practice came with stories of and the rule of Saint Benedict. lately i've found myself loving stories of his sister, Saint Scholastica. this is a fav.
One winter night, Benedict's sister, Scholastica, was awakened by a song bird. How can this be, she thought, and she lookd out the window of her cell. Three naked men were dancing in the monastery garden by the light of the moon. One whistled like a bird and made her laugh. The men were fair to look at, Scholastica thought, but she knew she needed more rest before the prayers of the day.
Kneeling by her bed, she closed her eyes and sleepily said a prayer for the men – if they were men – that they might find shelter, clothing, and rest for their dancing feet, and if (as she suspected) they were demons, that they might return from where they came.
When she awoke, her cell was filled with the scent of roses. Where the men had been dancing a rose bush had sprung up and was blooming in the snow. It bloomed all that winter and blooms to this day.
