Monastic Getaway KICKIN' IT WITH THE BROTHERS OVER WINTER BREAK by Jynne Dilling graphic by Scott Herman "Lord, grant us a restful sleep and a peaceful death." I am in a room with 22 monks. The only light is a candle in the corner, but because of the high ceiling and the dim flame, I can distinguish only their dark forms, bent in prayer. I cannot see their faces. They have just finished a half-hour of chanting, and now we all sit in silence as the chapel bell rings, in a slow deliberate peal, two dozen times. It is the only sound for miles, save the rush of the Shenandoah River and the occasional groan of a cow. Monday, 7:22 p.m. Brother Stephen remembered that I'd been here a year ago, which was nice. Holy Cross Abbey is a Cistercian Trappist monastery (i.e., the order of Catholic monks who adhere very strictly to monastic rules and have little contact with the outside world, hence the name "Trappist") in northwest Virginia. The monks own twelve hundred acres along the Shenandoah River, several dozen cows, two cats, and a guest house. The guest house is just down the road from the monks' house and is fully equipped with kitchen, dining room, sitting room, well-stocked library, and porches overlooking the mountains. Since I am not a monk, this is, of course, where I stayed. I spent a week here over winter break last year and, upon returning to the university, wrote an article for the Dec about my experiences there. I returned to the monastery this winter, and this article is a sort of reprise or sequel. Tuesday, 12:53 a.m. The sky tonight, expansive, not sinister: a warm, soft, large half-moon, my favorite sort of sparse cumulus clouds moving rapidly past. Am having my second cup of tea for the night. I have no plans to become an ascetic, I am not even Catholic, but my two visits to the monastery have been some of the most precious weeks of my life. Any explanations I give tend to be rife with clichés: how peaceful, how idyllic it is to wander along the river at night with my tea, the cows asleep in the fields, phrases of the sparse minor songs ("upon the lion and the viper you shall tread") sung several hours ago still lingering in my head. I go there to read, to write, to think, to rest, to sing, and to pray. I go there out of a strange fascination with monastic life, the idea of giving your whole existence over to a daily rhythmic recognition of impossible questions. A monk's day is divided into periods of work, meditation, and song. Verses and minutes alike mark the passing time; the crosses marking the graves of deceased monks stand along the side of their house, a quiet reminder that we will all eventually die. Wednesday, 2:55 a.m. "Caught ya!" -- Brother Stephen, poking his head into the library, where I have been sitting and reading. "I saw the light on, I was just checking," he replied to my grin, and shuffled away. The monks actually go to bed at eight p.m. and get up at three a.m., which, since I'm a college student, is around the time that I'm just getting ready for bed. My late hours earned a comment from Brother Stephen the next day: as he passed me on the road, he shook his head at me and said, "The hours you keep!" Wednesday, 12:50 p.m. Brother Maurice is hilarious, told many great stories at lunch today ... At every meal, a monk either reads aloud or tells stories. The reading varies from meditative poems to the whimsical anecdotes of Robert Fulghum, and I am always intrigued and amused by what the monks select to read. My favorite meals, however, are the ones where they just tell us stories. Wednesday was Brother Maurice's turn, and he told us about his years living with Thomas Merton. For all non-Catholics and non-religious studies majors, Merton is the most famous Catholic monk of this century. He wrote numerous books on monastic life and comparative studies of Catholic monasticism and Eastern monasticism, and met the Dalai Lama at a peace conference in the 1960s. When Maurice first became a monk, Merton was his appointed "novice master," an older monk who teaches and trains the novice. "Everyone always says to me how it must have been so great to live with Thomas Merton. Ha!" He began to laugh. "It's just like those people who say, oh, it would've been so great to be alive when Jesus was alive, to know him and hear his teachings. No way! Jesus would drive you up a wall! I would make just as many dumb mistakes as all his disciples made and then some! People like Jesus or Merton, you don't enjoy living with them -- they are too insightful and demand just as much of you as they demand of themselves. It was challenging. I'll leave it at that." He told us about how Merton used to interview people who were interested in joining the monastery. "The people had no idea it was Thomas Merton that they were talking to; he'd ask them if they'd read anything about monasticism and of course they'd name some of his books. Then he'd say, 'Merton? You can't believe anything that guy writes. He completely romanticizes the whole thing.'" Wednesday, 6:59 p.m. It is pouring rain, so I think I'll skip out on the evening service, as much as I love the singing. Talked to Brother James this afternoon ... Brother James is one of the oldest monks at the abbey, but in his younger days he would walk the fields after they'd been plowed and pick up arrowheads. He found some dating back as far as 8500 B.C., all of which are on display inside the monks' house. We discussed how beautiful it is, out in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and he told me how wonderful it had been to spend his years out there at the monastery. Laughing, he said that a friend of his had come to visit once, and had been astounded at the beauty of the place. "James, you live in one of the most beautiful parts of the world, you have a beautiful house, great friends who will take care of you when you are old, and all you had to give up was sex!" He found her comment quite funny: "I tried to explain to her that it was a little more complicated than that," he said. Thursday, 3:34 a.m. Went out for a walk with a glass of orange juice. Clouds still course across the sky. Dichotomy of raining/not raining has long ceased to have any meaning. It's wet. Both cats are out. "God cannot be remembered. God can only be discovered." I read that somewhere earlier today ... Thursday, 1:50 a.m. Talked to Maurice about whether it is tedious to have to make fruitcake all the time to help support the monastery. He told me the monks have a lot of jokes about how awful fruitcake is. "We got a Christmas card last week, it said THE FOUR WISEMEN and then showed the fourth one being turned away because his gift to the Baby Jesus was a fruitcake. That was so funny." He then went on to say that, just as anyone would, he struggles with things being tedious, with boredom, impatience, selfishness. "I'm just as human as the next guy." Friday, 9:34 a.m. Thunder on all horizons. The river is the widest I have ever seen it from all the rain, at least three times the size it was two days ago. Oh, that I could stay here all the time! Truly this is ecstasy. The sky is fantastically heavy with blue black clouds!

back to Decweb main