As soon as we entered
the grounds of the monastery, I could feel the pull of life outside slipping
away. Silence is a living thing at the
Abbey, even outside the hours of the Great Silence of the night hours. There is something about it that demands at
once both attention and quiet.
Even so, I am always surprised at how long it takes me to
get back into the rhythms of monastic life, how long it takes me to slow my
pace. I am taken aback by the measured
way in which the prayers are prayed and the long, silences between them. I love it, but even as I love it, it is so
unfamiliar that it takes a conscious effort of will to slow my breath, slow my
speech, drink in the stillness of the beautiful church between chants. It’s only early May and already the Abbey
church is hot and sticky in the evening.
It’s warm enough that there were trickles of sweat between my shoulder
blades and running down my face, stinging my eyes and tempting me to fan myself
with the laminated card that holds Zachariah’s song and Mary’s. I held out as long as I could, but succumbed
toward the end—then felt immediately guilty because even that small sound startled my heart, and probably
the others around me as well. I’ll have
to offer that sweat up for the poor souls in Purgatory.
They prayed for the repose of Father Malachy’s soul at
Vespers. Steve photographed him for the Hands of Servants project and he is a
friend of one of our Irish priests. When
I heard his name, the image of him holding onto his cane, worn, knobby hands
resting one on the other came to mind.
He was kind to us with a twinkle in his eyes. I shall miss him even though we could not
have passed more than ten minutes together over the past two years.
He fell, they say, always dangerous for a man of his age,
rallied a bit, then died in the infirmary in the company of his brothers who
will now lay him to rest with the others within the cloister. When I was here for the profession of vows of
another monk-friend in January, he commented that he now knew where he would be
buried. Somewhere not far from Malachy,
I suppose, though it should be many years and there will be others who precede
him; the cemetery is not large.
After Vespers was dinner, simple fare. We eat such rich and complicated food so
often, it takes coming to a place like this to eat plainly again to remember
how good food tastes without adornment.
Tonight was soup, sweet Vidalia onions in vegetable broth, and salad if
we wished: lettuce, tomatoes, olives, onions, chickpeas, beets, sunflower
seeds, and dressings in packets. And
cheese and bread.
I made a sandwich of a slice of cheddar and soft, wheat
bread, dressed only with butter. The
sweetness of the bread and butter offset the vaguely earthy, aromatic taste of
the broth and it was so very good. Why
do I never just serve simple soup and bread for dinner? I used to, back when we were first married
and poor. Scraps from the week’s meals
went into a pot on the stove and soup was ready by the weekend. Life has gotten so busy these days that I
cook less often than I used to, heat up ready-made meals and eat out more than
I should. If life has gotten too busy
for me to make even leftovers soup, it has gotten too busy.
We eat together in silence, robbing the social act of eating
of the verbal discourse that usually binds us.
Over the next two days we will learn how to share not only the meal but
also ourselves in that silence, to communicate with a nod or a glance, to offer
small kindnesses, like refilling a glass, without asking or being asked. It has already started. When I brought a sliver of apple pie to end
my meal, my groom managed to remind me, pointing at my pie and gesticulating,
that there was cheese for it at the salad bar.
He never indulges himself, but he remembered that my motto is apple pie
without some cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze.
Not much is left over from the meals. I think we are mindful of the gift that is
given us in this place and the hospitality of these men and we are respectful and
grateful in ways that we might not be elsewhere. There’s a pan for scraps at the bussing
station, but not much goes in. I even
ate the dry outer edges of the piecrust—something I might leave behind at home
but could not here. I made myself pay
attention to the taste and feel of it and I washed it down with cold lemonade.
Between supper and compline, we met as a group for the first
time. James, who is leading the retreat,
embodies the great stillness of this place.
Even his manner of speaking is slow—not the languid slowness of the
lazy, or the drawn out speech of the native Southerner, or the dissociated
ramblings of the unprepared and inattentive, but the considered speech of a man
who takes the time to drink in the moment.
He encouraged us to slow ourselves down, to take the time to find God in
each other and ourselves and in the images we will take, and then to recreate
this place for ourselves wherever we find ourselves when we leave. A monastery, it seems, is not just a place but
also a state of being.
Compline sent us to bed with the Abbot’s blessing; we filed
by him on our way back to the retreat house and he sprinkled us with holy
water. The chants of the monks were
still fresh on the ear as the Great Silence began. I should be in bed, for the chapel bell will
rouse me at 3:45 to be ready for Vigils at 4.
Shaking the circadian patterns of daily life is harder than entering
into silence and here I sit, writing, rather than sleeping.
It is still light outside—perhaps it is the child in me that
refuses to go to sleep before the sun does.
I’m not sure that is what Jesus meant when he said we must become like
little children to enter the kingdom, but at present it is the best I can do. After all, if James is right, God is in the
computer just as He is in the church. If
I am quiet and attentive, I will encounter Him.
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