Monks in their cells in the Middle Ages
rose before dawn to pray.
Instead, they walked that narrow room,
back and forth, back and forth, all day.
Some called this a sin,
this rocking in their stiff chairs,
the unwillingness to kneel, to pray.
The days of cloistering went on eternally, it seemed.
We've been sheltering for months,
the agitated monk inside us growing, growling,
longing to be free again.
Still he paces, frantic and passive.
Call it a sin.
Call it malaise, a fever.
Acedia has risen from the ashes
to mark this time.
Mary Elyn Bahlert