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Andrew Birkhead
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Archive for March, 2009

Brother Cesare Bonizzi

Posted on March 24, 2009 in: life by Andrew Birkhead Tags:

I’ve been thinking about Brother Cesare Bonizzi, the heavy metal monk, since yesterday’s blog post. Yesterday’s post was titled ‘Mentoring’ for a reason. There’s a laundry list of things I’d like to learn from him. He’s fearless. Oh, I’m sure he has some fear. But how much fear can a 62 year old monk who performs heavy metal music ON STAGE have? He’s ageless. In our culture, most 62 year olds have bought the recliner that they intend to die in. Not only is Cesare listening to a genre of music that is almost exclusively enjoyed by youth… he’s SINGING it! He’s in integrity. Cesare’s work as a brother and his passion for metal seem to be in integrity. Here’s a type of music that is often judged to be evil, and he’s incorporating it into his life and work, making it holy.

“I do it to convert people to life, to understand life, to grab hold of life, to savour it and enjoy it. Full stop”

I want to be just like Brother Cesare when I grow up!

Found Images: From absurd to delightful.

Posted on March 24, 2009 in: Uncategorized by Andrew Birkhead

I found these gems here.


Posted on March 23, 2009 in: Uncategorized by Andrew Birkhead

When I grow up, I want to be just like Brother Bonizzi!


Posted on March 18, 2009 in: Uncategorized by Andrew Birkhead

My mission is to ‘Create a world of safety and wholeness with my loving compassion.’ This video makes me wonder if I’m doing enough.

Morning Poem

Posted on March 18, 2009 in: Uncategorized by Andrew Birkhead




All your worry

Has proved such an





Find a better



Posted on March 17, 2009 in: Uncategorized by Andrew Birkhead


by Carl Phillips March 23, 2009

There’s an art

to everything. How

the rain means

April and an ongoing-ness like

that of song until at last

it ends. A centuries-old

set of silver handbells that

once an altar boy swung,

processing . . . You’re the same

wilderness you’ve always

been, slashing through briars,

the bracken

of your invasive

self. So he said,

in a dream. But

the rest of it—all the rest—

was waking: more often

than not, to the next

extravagance. Two blackamoor

statues, each mirroring

the other, each hoisting

forever upward his burden of

hand-painted, carved-by-hand

peacock feathers. Don’t

you know it, don’t you know

I love you, he said. He was

shaking. He said,

I love you. There’s an art

to everything. What I’ve

done with this life,

what I’d meant not to do,

or would have meant, maybe, had I

understood, though I have

no regrets. Not the broken but

still flowering dogwood. Not

the honey locust, either. Not even

the ghost walnut with its

non-branches whose

every shadow is memory,

memory . . . As he said to me

once, That’s all garbage

down the river, now. Turning,

but as the utterly lost—

because addicted—do:

resigned all over again. It

only looked, it—

It must only look

like leaving. There’s an art

to everything. Even

turning away. How

eventually even hunger

can become a space

to live in. How they made

out of shamelessness something

beautiful, for as long as they could.

I found the poem here.