From the diary of Saint Kevin of Glendalough
Doyle, Brian
THE LAST WORD FROM THE DIARY OF SAINT KEVIN OF GLENDA LOUGH Brian Doyle March 17, Saint Patrick's Day. Unbeh'eoable event this morning: I take my usual walk out into the woods, find a clearing,...
...Wonder if he had to spend four days on his knees in the mud with a bird in his hand...
...First time...
...Near thing, though...
...They didn't hatch, the bastards...
...have been feeling murderous...
...Spent the day staring at the eggs, trying to heat them with my eyes, no luck...
...I am an egg...
...March 23, Saint Turibius's Day...
...I love bird...
...I am a hawk now...
...We wouldn't be here without you, Kevin," bah...
...March 29, Saint Joseph of Arimethea...
...March 30, Saint John Climacus...
...Forgive me, Lord...
...Reached over and cupped right hand over eggs and bird like little roof...
...Drooled thinking of first meal...
...March 21, Saint Nicholas of Flue's Day...
...Cannot wait to have chat with brother monks about such things as general respect for saints...
...Decided against eggs...
...Rain...
...Doesn't anybody miss me...
...Hand looks like weathered leather...
...Spent her nights in constant prayer...
...I must go on...
...Hmph...
...Ditto...
...Good old Brother Brian...
...What did Mary say after the angel told her the news, though...
...Flame of hope in me: they'll hatch...
...Answer: huddle over eggs and get drenched...
...Let it be done to me as you say...
...March25, the Annunciation.Hardday...
...Got drenched...
...Very nearly dropped bird, eggs, and all when seized by sneezing fit...
...No comment...
...March 28: Saint Guntramnus...
...Bird and I spent hours staring at each other today...
...Bright yellow eyes, iridescent blue-black sheen, delicate fin-gery feet...
...Once there was a Kevin and then he went to the woods and died and they found him years later his bones in the moss...
...March 24, Saint Catherine of Sweden...
...Blessed the birds, including mother bird, who still eyes me warily...
...Am so thirsty I can barely spit, and at dusk today I was forced to answer the call of nature...
...March 18, Saint Cyril's Day...
...Considered reaching over suddenly and stuffing her whole in my mouth, crunching her little bones, and spitting out only her beak and toenails, but refrained after great struggle...
...Felt friendly toward the bird today...
...Unbeh'eoable event this morning: I take my usual walk out into the woods, find a clearing, kneel down, stretch out my arms in supplication to the Lord, and a blackbird lands in my left hand and lays a clutch of eggs...
...Thought about kneeling to thank Lord for four new Turduses, decided to stand and pray with arms rigidly by sides...
...Believe me, I've had a lot of time to look at them...
...Am also wondering where the hell the rest of the monks are...
...March 31, Saint Benjamin, martyr...
...I am the egg man...
...Eggs hatched...
...Story of old Kevin of Glendalough...
...Tried desperately to remember what I learned in old Brother Brian's science class...
...I really love bird...
...They're bluish-white, speckled and mottled, not unlovely...
...Sorry now that I used to mutter "what possible difference could knowing about Turdus merula ever make...
...He had the guts to ask for Christ's body...
...Feeling murderous again today...
...Exhausted, sick, starving, my robe is soiled, my hair is matted, the flies and mosquitoes are biting great chunks from me, my arms and legs are wooden, and I have this itch right in the middle of my back...
...March 20, Saint Wulfran's Day...
...Wul-fran famed for virtue in spite of the seductions of the world...
...Wet ugly birds struggled out of shell...
...Marchl9, Saint Joseph's Day...
...Eggs stirred today...
...I can't go on...
...my God, what if it's 112 to 115 days...
...I can tell them apart by the slightly different pattern of speckles as well as by their arrangement in my hand, nicely reflecting the four holy directions...
...Rose creakily to feet...
...March 26, Saint Margaret...
...Starting to wonder if Brother Brian was off a bit on incubation...
...Did little jig to get blood flowing again, and so invented Irish step-dancing...
...Brian Doyle is the editor of Portland magazine and, with his father, Jim Doyle, co-author of Two Voices (Liguori...
...I write this with my right hand, as night falls...
...At noon, I slowly let my hand down and lay the cup of their nest on the moss...
...Bird eyeing me suspiciously today...
...There are four eggs...
...Turdus merula, the Irish blackbird, incubation of eggs twelve to fifteen days...
...The blackbird spent all of today building a nest around the eggs, and now I am holding not only incipient birds but plant stems, grass, leaves, twigs, roots, and mud...
...Always wondered what birds do to protect their eggs in rain...
...Spent the day flying through the woods...
...Good thing I am on a slight rise, a kind of mossy hillock in this clearing...
...Persuaded her husband to join her in a perpetual vow of chastity, forgoing their lawful marital rights for the love of God...
...March 27, Saint Rupert, missionary...
...When I get back to the abbey I am going to make the dust fly...
...March 22, Saint Lea's Day...
...Am starving...
...Willingly exposed himself to the steaming climate of Peru," say the chronicles...
...Snow flurry in the morning...
...You're our leader, Kevin...
...Stumbled home to abbey...
...Possessed of good looks, wit, and merriment," say the chronicles, "and crushed to death under great weight...
...Moral dilemma for me: I detest blackbirds, but am constrained by my vow to love life in all creatures great and small...
...Rained all day...
...I vaguely remember my body...
...My arm is killing me...
...Nicholas was hermit, too, spent nineteen years without taking food or drink, lived only on the Eucharist...
...Have no choice but to remain still with arm outstretched...
...Tell me about it...
Vol. 124 • October 1997 • No. 17
