Monks walk for peace,
people shot in street,
and the world is weary

I once believed noticing

the world made my

heart grow stronger.

If every appreciation is prayer,

every seashell is a story,

every rock holds a history.

The waves, when you lean in

to listen, play a slow song

that pushes past to present,

each roll a call to solid shore.

But now the heart falters.

I once talked to god

but now I shout to sky.

I throw my prayers to the night,

dare sleep and stars to dream me awake

then shake my fist and make demands:

find me, fix me, help me believe.

In the morning, I am already weary.

Still, the old song plays:

Let there be peace on earth

and let it begin with me.

So say the monks,

the walkers, the wishers,

the believers, the thinkers.

Does it take faith or folly

to sing a hopeful hymn?

If every step is prayer,

I offer my plea:

please, please, please.

— Drew Myron

The days feel heavy, weighted with cruelty and uncertainty. I envy the monks, their steadfast belief as they Walk for Peace across 2,300 miles in harsh weather.

“If we cannot walk peacefully within our own hearts,” the monks ask, “how can we truly walk peacefully in the world?”

In their daily effort, they remind us that every step forward is an act of faith in humanity, a prayer, a soft urgent plea.

Please keep on, friends.

With love,
Drew