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Welcome to my New Blog!
For my blog from May 2007 to now please go to The Middle Age Muse.
From the past- June 2007
I spent an interesting , if quiet, week at a Benedictine Monastery in Northern Virginia. Here's my diary:
“Come away... to a deserted place and rest a while.” Mark 6:31
Day One
Monday
June 4
It is not the first time that I have driven on Route 7 past Leesburg. It’s truly amazing how quickly the scenery turns from suburban to rural. I get to Snickersville and can see the mountains - all part of the Shenandoah Valley preservation area- this is one beautiful state. Anyway, it is too early to look for the monastery, the trip didn’t take very long from Arlington and check-in time doesn’t start until 3 pm. I continue down Route 7 and turn in to the Veramar Winery. I don’t want a “taste” so I just drive down the unpaved road to their gate, through a forest while Ottmar Liebert plays on my Ipod, perfect timing in my opinion. I take a quick look around, it’s nice, very European looking, and then backtrack on Route 7 to find the turnoff for the monastery.
The map shows the road to the monastery running along the Shenandoah River which is hard to miss. I find it quickly and about a mile down another forested road swarming with tufted titmice and redwing blackbirds, I find the driveway gate for the Holy Cross Abbey. Up that long driveway I see two gray buildings and a smaller building with a parking lot in front. Up to now, it had been a beautiful sunny day but all of a sudden (an omen?) torrential rain starts falling. I park in the the little lot waiting for the rain to subside and notice an “open” sign in the window. Turns out this is the monastery Gift Shop -my kind of place. When the rain fizzles to a drizzle I take out my “happy face” umbrella, walk in and tell the cloaked monk at the sales counter that I am here for my retreat. Oops, wrong place. I’m told to go further down the road to find the Retreat House. So I do as I am told. The Retreat House is a modern brick building in a T-shape (maybe it’s a cross, now that I think of it). No one is here to greet me so I just go in, look around and find an older man in worn-out khakis and a flannel shirt in the dining room. He introduces himself as Brother Benjamin; he has a hard time hearing me though because his hearing aid does not seem to work well. He finds his list of expected visitors (everyone comes on Monday) and there I am, right up on top. My room assignment is A3, he tells me and points down a dormitory-like hallway at the end of which is a door to a small simple chapel. Okay. The room doors remain open as each is yet unoccupied. My A3 room is clean and good-sized with cinder block walls and carpeted floors. The windows open and look out at the mountains. When I look at the map I realize that I must be looking at West Virginia because we are so close to the border. Like all the others, this room has a single bed, an armchair, two lamps and a built-in desk. There is also an ensuite bathroom complete with a shower and two towels. Brother Benjamin told me that I would find “instructions” in the room. I get my stuff out of the car and settle down to read the instructions. No radio, no cell phone, no musical instruments. And no newspapers or magazines. Breakfast anytime before 9.30 am, dinner at noon and supper at 6.25 pm. Promptly. For your spiritual needs, Vigils at 3.30 am (!!), Lauds (with Eucharist!) at 7 am, Midday Prayer at 2 pm, Vespers at 5.30 pm and Compline (what’s that?) at 7.30 pm. I read until dinner. I am prompt but just to be sure everyone is on time, Brother Benjamin walks down the dorm hallway ringing two bells. The tables in the dining room are placed in a horseshoe shape, set with placemats, napkins and silverware. I sit down because the only other occupant, a white haired man with one leg, is already sitting down. After Brother Benjamin’s bells have rung, the other guests, eight of them, all file in and stand behind their chairs. Brother Benjamin says something, his speech sounds garbled to me, and finally everyone (but me and the one legged man, we’re already sitting) sits down. One of the women guests (she must be an old-timer) takes it upon herself to pour the water for everyone. The supper is “serve yourself” which works especially well given the horseshoe shape. The menu... let’s just say, good thing I ate a big burrito at Moe’s for lunch. It’s what Brother Benjamin calls “Monday Night Soup.” You know what that means. Oh, yes and cheese slices and salad with “pour on your own” bottled dressing. While we eat, Brother Benjamin speaks. All I hear is near the end. We must try to keep silent. It’s more about discipline than virtue, he tells us. Just can’t have 4 or 5 people speaking across the dining room. Who would want that? I notice, too, that we do not look at each other -no eye contact. Supper ends in silence, eyes down. It’s 7.15. To fill up the time, I check out the guest list posted on the bulletin board. Of the nine guests, there are 3 women and 6 men. Of the 6 men, there’s a Father, a Brother and a Monsignor. Who knew? More news tomorrow.
So many requests for the story of the end of my stay, so finally, here it is:
Day Two
Tuesday
June 5
I must admit, I slept well. Cheated a little with earphones to NPR half the night. I turned the air conditioning off and could hear the night sounds from the field outside. Just a little before 8 am (oops, missed Mass) I had to call home from my car. When I go outside, it’s that nice clean clear country air with lots of birds busy chirping. No one answers the phone at home.
I think I can get into this silence business -when I go back inside to have breakfast I don’t have to look at the little woman (the one who knew her way around last night at supper; for some reason, I already don’t care for her) who is the only other person in the dining room. The pickings are slim. Cereal, milk’s in the new little fridge also in the room, different kinds of packaged bread, apples and oranges, and the monastery’s own- produced creamed honey. Coffee and tea on the side. That’s it. It is sufficient.
Between breakfast and lunch (I mean dinner) a monk-priest (or is it a priest-monk) named Father Scott is available to guests for private half hour consultations. There is a sign-up sheet on the bulletin board; it’s all filled up for today. I sit and read in the library while the consultees come in and out of the little room. Father Scott, wearing full monk-ly garb, comes out looking for his next victim. He looks at me in the library (hah! eye contact) like Ricky Ricardo looked at Lucy when she tried to tell him she was expecting. I shake my head “no.” Luckily at that moment, Brother Robert realizes it is his turn and marches in after Father Scott. I hope they have a good session. I read my book.
The bells are ringing. Time for lunch, oops it’s dinner. It seems that there are three new guests, the “Guest Master” Brother Benjamin announces. But where are they? They don’t show up for lunch. Brother Benjamin has a sense of humor - “maybe they have fallen asleep, maybe they are too involved with something else or maybe they are not hungry,” he says. Evidently, the silence oath does not apply to him. He reads some passages about mysticism (I think, because his speech is still garbled to me) from a tattered paperback. He makes another joke about the letters after the author’s name - O.C. something, something. I don’t get it, but maybe that’s because, once again, I cannot understand him. While he reads, we line up around the horseshoe placed tables taking our turn to fill our plates. The food is getting really scary. Steamed slices of boneless ham with raisins and pineapple chunks, canned sweet potatoes “au jus” and cooked cabbage. No one says “Yuck.”
We can walk over to the “monk’s house” and main chapel just past the store. However, we cannot enter or go on the grounds around the big house. The chapel is open until 8 pm (from 3.30 am, I assume). Other than walking around, looking in the library and reading your own book, there is not much to do. Contemplate, I guess. Until supper time. Tonight we are served brown rice pilaf, broccoli and stewed apples. It tastes better than it sounds. Or maybe I am just getting really hungry. The three new guests show up. One woman (she has obviously been here before) and two men, one of whom seems a miniaturized version of Brother Robert next to whom he sits. Brother Benjamin reads something about friendship.
Day Three
Wednesday
June 6
I am up before the sound of birds but I wait until dawn (and the birds) to get out of bed, earphones connected to NPR. In the library I find a little pamphlet written by someone who spent six weeks on retreat. On silence, the author writes: “By the third day, I wrote in my journal that I had exhausted everything I had brought to do, and I still had five and a half weeks to go! I was going nuts.” So I am not alone. Turns out that the author is a priest to boot. He goes on to point out that there’s a big difference between keeping silent and being silent. Just don’t talk and you keep silent, I think, while if you are being silent you are better able to hear things. One thing I am not hearing is the telephone ringing and the radio (except with earphones). For me, this is bliss.
I am finding out more about the Trappists and silence. It seems that between Compline (7.30 pm) and the close of Lauds (about 7.40 am) there is Grand Silence. During the day silence is generally expected but the hours of Grand Silence call for strict observance. I do not know what the punishment is but I found this quote:
Monks should diligently cultivate silence at all times, but especially at night... When all have assembled, they should pray Compline; and on leaving Compline, no one will be permitted to speak further. If anyone is found to transgress this rule of silence, he must be subjected to severe punishment.
-The Rule of St. Benedict (Founder of the Trappist Monks)
There are three pillars of Trappist spirituality:
Prayer
Manual Work
Prayerful reading of sacred writing (lectio divina) -and just to note: the author-priest I mention above considers J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban to fit this category.
Prayer, as is obvious, is built into the day with all the vigils, vespers, lauds and complines. And regarding manual work, these monks used to sell a product called “Monastery Bread” - I know because I used to buy it at my Safeway. Several years ago they had to give up that endeavor. I haven’t found out why yet. Now they make fruitcakes (samples to follow, I am sure everyone is excited about that) and creamed honey in various different flavors. It’s good.
The prayerful reading (lectio divina) as it turns out is what Brother Benjamin has been doing everyday at dinner (what we call lunch) while we eat in silence. “St. Benedict felt that this practice would help keep the brothers focused on their solitude at a time when they might otherwise be tempted to break silence.”
Lunch bells, I mean “dinner bells” are ringing. I can smell garlic, good sign. It is spaghetti, tomato sauce and garlic bread. Judging by some of the men’s portions, they are getting mighty hungry. Today, we learn, is Brother Benjamin’s day off. No lectio divina today, instead the middle aged woman who is the cook tells us she will put on music - Chopin, I believe. Nevertheless, Brother Benjamin is here, silently getting his own spaghetti, day off or not. One thing I have to say is that no food gets wasted. Take what you can eat, eat what you take. When you are finished eating and take up your plate for the dishwasher, it had better be empty because there’s no place to put waste left on your plate. And no one I have seen ever returns with any food on his plate anyway. Not even when I have thought “yuck.” There is a bit of levity at this meal (Brother Benjamin is not watching!). A retreatant (one of the new ones, I think) who is sitting at the end of the horseshoe passes around a post-it note saying “It’s too noisey (sic) in here!”. Halfway around when it gets to Father Alexander he gets up and turns off the Chopin, taking the note seriously. No one laughs. And now there’s no more music.
Carol (the phone answerer) presides over the supper. On the menu, carrots, green beans to make Julia Child proud (she hated crisp green beans and actually, I like them this way -a la Sholl’s Cafeteria) and scalloped potatoes. Canned fruit cocktail for dessert. Of the four women, two come late (not me) and one doesn’t come at all. Do they know something I don’t? Maybe. Here’s something I know: it is absolutely gorgeous outside and we are sitting inside in this room in total silence aside from the new age music Carol plays on the boombox. I finish and go outside thinking of picnics.
Day Four
Thursday
June 7
I take my breakfast outside. The cows are back in the pasture but at 7.50 they all start moving away in the same direction. I knew they came and went; I just never noticed that they knew how to tell time. There was one other guest in the dining room as I got my coffee. He asked me if this was my first time here. When I reply, he asks how I learned of this place. I tell him “from the nuns in Crozet” (which is true) and it ends the brief (illicit) conversation. Also, I notice a used McDonald’s cup in the trash -what’s this about? I’m a watchdog on the lookout for rule breakers.
Before lunch (dinner) I take a walk over to the Main Chapel. Inside Father Alexander is sitting in a pew all alone and leaves shortly after my arrival. A monk passes through, stops for a few seconds to pray and leaves by the opposite door. He’s wearing the official monk attire: long white robe with a hooded brown scarf around his neck. I cannot see his feet but I have read that there are special monk socks without toes which are held up by long garters attached to the underwear.
Dinner is chicken, stuffing and peas. Brother Benjamin is back but cannot remember where he left off in the book he was reading to us on Tuesday. He’s reminded that he read from the end of the book (about friendship) so he decides to start today at the beginning of the book. Once again I cannot understand what he’s reading but I am more polite than several of the other guests who leave while he is reading. One woman, it seems, has already left for good.
There’s room for 15 guests at the horseshoe in the dining room with two extra chairs on the side. Fifteen is the Retreat limit but there are actually 16 guest rooms. Fifteen for those expected and one extra for a stranger passing by in need of shelter. I like that. By now all these guests are recognizable to me although I only know their names from the bulletin board list -and I don’t know whose name belongs to whom. There are three women including me left, two men who look Indian (one is Father Alexander), two bald men (one one-legged and one with a white walrus mustache), two muscular men (one is Brother Robert, the other is short) and finally, four nondescript middle-aged white males.
This afternoon I take a ride around. Surrounding the monastery are several roads marked as scenic byways. Most are gravel and the main one goes to West Virginia just a couple of miles to the north. I see corn and Christmas trees, little churches and a house here and there. I am always surprised by all the dirt roads we still have in Virginia. I do not see another human being just a lot of birds, a woodchuck and a little brown animal that looks like a squirrel without a tail.
We do not have meat at supper; it has always been vegetarian. Tonight is no different; it’s red beans with corn, rice and kale. Although there is a kitchen (a regular house kind of kitchen) just off the dining room, I believe they prepare this food at the big house and bring it over already cooked because I never see any preparation going on. The cook leaves before supper and Brother Benjamin has to put the food out and in the warming trays. I want to believe that this is monk food. One more guest is gone. Brother Benjamin reads a story about two priests from Ireland who are transferred to California. And I can understand him.
Day Five
Friday
June 8
“So, Mom, what did you learn this week?”
Why I hate cocktail parties: this week there’s been no wine, just water; no fancy hors d’oeuvres, just beans and mushy veggies; no small talk, just silence.
Some people can pray (a lot).
Monks are not hermits. They know how to “be alone together.”
I like silence.
My problems won’t disappear but thinking about nothing is good.
Cows can be noisy.
And like one of the Brothers here said, I have “no regrets, no complaints, only thanks... (but) it is time to go home.”
PS: So just before leaving I say “good bye” and “thank you” to Brother Benjamin and, I just can’t resist it, “sorry we didn’t get to talk more.”
From the past- June 2007
I spent an interesting , if quiet, week at a Benedictine Monastery in Northern Virginia. Here's my diary:
“Come away... to a deserted place and rest a while.” Mark 6:31
Day One
Monday
June 4
It is not the first time that I have driven on Route 7 past Leesburg. It’s truly amazing how quickly the scenery turns from suburban to rural. I get to Snickersville and can see the mountains - all part of the Shenandoah Valley preservation area- this is one beautiful state. Anyway, it is too early to look for the monastery, the trip didn’t take very long from Arlington and check-in time doesn’t start until 3 pm. I continue down Route 7 and turn in to the Veramar Winery. I don’t want a “taste” so I just drive down the unpaved road to their gate, through a forest while Ottmar Liebert plays on my Ipod, perfect timing in my opinion. I take a quick look around, it’s nice, very European looking, and then backtrack on Route 7 to find the turnoff for the monastery.
The map shows the road to the monastery running along the Shenandoah River which is hard to miss. I find it quickly and about a mile down another forested road swarming with tufted titmice and redwing blackbirds, I find the driveway gate for the Holy Cross Abbey. Up that long driveway I see two gray buildings and a smaller building with a parking lot in front. Up to now, it had been a beautiful sunny day but all of a sudden (an omen?) torrential rain starts falling. I park in the the little lot waiting for the rain to subside and notice an “open” sign in the window. Turns out this is the monastery Gift Shop -my kind of place. When the rain fizzles to a drizzle I take out my “happy face” umbrella, walk in and tell the cloaked monk at the sales counter that I am here for my retreat. Oops, wrong place. I’m told to go further down the road to find the Retreat House. So I do as I am told. The Retreat House is a modern brick building in a T-shape (maybe it’s a cross, now that I think of it). No one is here to greet me so I just go in, look around and find an older man in worn-out khakis and a flannel shirt in the dining room. He introduces himself as Brother Benjamin; he has a hard time hearing me though because his hearing aid does not seem to work well. He finds his list of expected visitors (everyone comes on Monday) and there I am, right up on top. My room assignment is A3, he tells me and points down a dormitory-like hallway at the end of which is a door to a small simple chapel. Okay. The room doors remain open as each is yet unoccupied. My A3 room is clean and good-sized with cinder block walls and carpeted floors. The windows open and look out at the mountains. When I look at the map I realize that I must be looking at West Virginia because we are so close to the border. Like all the others, this room has a single bed, an armchair, two lamps and a built-in desk. There is also an ensuite bathroom complete with a shower and two towels. Brother Benjamin told me that I would find “instructions” in the room. I get my stuff out of the car and settle down to read the instructions. No radio, no cell phone, no musical instruments. And no newspapers or magazines. Breakfast anytime before 9.30 am, dinner at noon and supper at 6.25 pm. Promptly. For your spiritual needs, Vigils at 3.30 am (!!), Lauds (with Eucharist!) at 7 am, Midday Prayer at 2 pm, Vespers at 5.30 pm and Compline (what’s that?) at 7.30 pm. I read until dinner. I am prompt but just to be sure everyone is on time, Brother Benjamin walks down the dorm hallway ringing two bells. The tables in the dining room are placed in a horseshoe shape, set with placemats, napkins and silverware. I sit down because the only other occupant, a white haired man with one leg, is already sitting down. After Brother Benjamin’s bells have rung, the other guests, eight of them, all file in and stand behind their chairs. Brother Benjamin says something, his speech sounds garbled to me, and finally everyone (but me and the one legged man, we’re already sitting) sits down. One of the women guests (she must be an old-timer) takes it upon herself to pour the water for everyone. The supper is “serve yourself” which works especially well given the horseshoe shape. The menu... let’s just say, good thing I ate a big burrito at Moe’s for lunch. It’s what Brother Benjamin calls “Monday Night Soup.” You know what that means. Oh, yes and cheese slices and salad with “pour on your own” bottled dressing. While we eat, Brother Benjamin speaks. All I hear is near the end. We must try to keep silent. It’s more about discipline than virtue, he tells us. Just can’t have 4 or 5 people speaking across the dining room. Who would want that? I notice, too, that we do not look at each other -no eye contact. Supper ends in silence, eyes down. It’s 7.15. To fill up the time, I check out the guest list posted on the bulletin board. Of the nine guests, there are 3 women and 6 men. Of the 6 men, there’s a Father, a Brother and a Monsignor. Who knew? More news tomorrow.
So many requests for the story of the end of my stay, so finally, here it is:
Day Two
Tuesday
June 5
I must admit, I slept well. Cheated a little with earphones to NPR half the night. I turned the air conditioning off and could hear the night sounds from the field outside. Just a little before 8 am (oops, missed Mass) I had to call home from my car. When I go outside, it’s that nice clean clear country air with lots of birds busy chirping. No one answers the phone at home.
I think I can get into this silence business -when I go back inside to have breakfast I don’t have to look at the little woman (the one who knew her way around last night at supper; for some reason, I already don’t care for her) who is the only other person in the dining room. The pickings are slim. Cereal, milk’s in the new little fridge also in the room, different kinds of packaged bread, apples and oranges, and the monastery’s own- produced creamed honey. Coffee and tea on the side. That’s it. It is sufficient.
Between breakfast and lunch (I mean dinner) a monk-priest (or is it a priest-monk) named Father Scott is available to guests for private half hour consultations. There is a sign-up sheet on the bulletin board; it’s all filled up for today. I sit and read in the library while the consultees come in and out of the little room. Father Scott, wearing full monk-ly garb, comes out looking for his next victim. He looks at me in the library (hah! eye contact) like Ricky Ricardo looked at Lucy when she tried to tell him she was expecting. I shake my head “no.” Luckily at that moment, Brother Robert realizes it is his turn and marches in after Father Scott. I hope they have a good session. I read my book.
The bells are ringing. Time for lunch, oops it’s dinner. It seems that there are three new guests, the “Guest Master” Brother Benjamin announces. But where are they? They don’t show up for lunch. Brother Benjamin has a sense of humor - “maybe they have fallen asleep, maybe they are too involved with something else or maybe they are not hungry,” he says. Evidently, the silence oath does not apply to him. He reads some passages about mysticism (I think, because his speech is still garbled to me) from a tattered paperback. He makes another joke about the letters after the author’s name - O.C. something, something. I don’t get it, but maybe that’s because, once again, I cannot understand him. While he reads, we line up around the horseshoe placed tables taking our turn to fill our plates. The food is getting really scary. Steamed slices of boneless ham with raisins and pineapple chunks, canned sweet potatoes “au jus” and cooked cabbage. No one says “Yuck.”
We can walk over to the “monk’s house” and main chapel just past the store. However, we cannot enter or go on the grounds around the big house. The chapel is open until 8 pm (from 3.30 am, I assume). Other than walking around, looking in the library and reading your own book, there is not much to do. Contemplate, I guess. Until supper time. Tonight we are served brown rice pilaf, broccoli and stewed apples. It tastes better than it sounds. Or maybe I am just getting really hungry. The three new guests show up. One woman (she has obviously been here before) and two men, one of whom seems a miniaturized version of Brother Robert next to whom he sits. Brother Benjamin reads something about friendship.
Day Three
Wednesday
June 6
I am up before the sound of birds but I wait until dawn (and the birds) to get out of bed, earphones connected to NPR. In the library I find a little pamphlet written by someone who spent six weeks on retreat. On silence, the author writes: “By the third day, I wrote in my journal that I had exhausted everything I had brought to do, and I still had five and a half weeks to go! I was going nuts.” So I am not alone. Turns out that the author is a priest to boot. He goes on to point out that there’s a big difference between keeping silent and being silent. Just don’t talk and you keep silent, I think, while if you are being silent you are better able to hear things. One thing I am not hearing is the telephone ringing and the radio (except with earphones). For me, this is bliss.
I am finding out more about the Trappists and silence. It seems that between Compline (7.30 pm) and the close of Lauds (about 7.40 am) there is Grand Silence. During the day silence is generally expected but the hours of Grand Silence call for strict observance. I do not know what the punishment is but I found this quote:
Monks should diligently cultivate silence at all times, but especially at night... When all have assembled, they should pray Compline; and on leaving Compline, no one will be permitted to speak further. If anyone is found to transgress this rule of silence, he must be subjected to severe punishment.
-The Rule of St. Benedict (Founder of the Trappist Monks)
There are three pillars of Trappist spirituality:
Prayer
Manual Work
Prayerful reading of sacred writing (lectio divina) -and just to note: the author-priest I mention above considers J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban to fit this category.
Prayer, as is obvious, is built into the day with all the vigils, vespers, lauds and complines. And regarding manual work, these monks used to sell a product called “Monastery Bread” - I know because I used to buy it at my Safeway. Several years ago they had to give up that endeavor. I haven’t found out why yet. Now they make fruitcakes (samples to follow, I am sure everyone is excited about that) and creamed honey in various different flavors. It’s good.
The prayerful reading (lectio divina) as it turns out is what Brother Benjamin has been doing everyday at dinner (what we call lunch) while we eat in silence. “St. Benedict felt that this practice would help keep the brothers focused on their solitude at a time when they might otherwise be tempted to break silence.”
Lunch bells, I mean “dinner bells” are ringing. I can smell garlic, good sign. It is spaghetti, tomato sauce and garlic bread. Judging by some of the men’s portions, they are getting mighty hungry. Today, we learn, is Brother Benjamin’s day off. No lectio divina today, instead the middle aged woman who is the cook tells us she will put on music - Chopin, I believe. Nevertheless, Brother Benjamin is here, silently getting his own spaghetti, day off or not. One thing I have to say is that no food gets wasted. Take what you can eat, eat what you take. When you are finished eating and take up your plate for the dishwasher, it had better be empty because there’s no place to put waste left on your plate. And no one I have seen ever returns with any food on his plate anyway. Not even when I have thought “yuck.” There is a bit of levity at this meal (Brother Benjamin is not watching!). A retreatant (one of the new ones, I think) who is sitting at the end of the horseshoe passes around a post-it note saying “It’s too noisey (sic) in here!”. Halfway around when it gets to Father Alexander he gets up and turns off the Chopin, taking the note seriously. No one laughs. And now there’s no more music.
Carol (the phone answerer) presides over the supper. On the menu, carrots, green beans to make Julia Child proud (she hated crisp green beans and actually, I like them this way -a la Sholl’s Cafeteria) and scalloped potatoes. Canned fruit cocktail for dessert. Of the four women, two come late (not me) and one doesn’t come at all. Do they know something I don’t? Maybe. Here’s something I know: it is absolutely gorgeous outside and we are sitting inside in this room in total silence aside from the new age music Carol plays on the boombox. I finish and go outside thinking of picnics.
Day Four
Thursday
June 7
I take my breakfast outside. The cows are back in the pasture but at 7.50 they all start moving away in the same direction. I knew they came and went; I just never noticed that they knew how to tell time. There was one other guest in the dining room as I got my coffee. He asked me if this was my first time here. When I reply, he asks how I learned of this place. I tell him “from the nuns in Crozet” (which is true) and it ends the brief (illicit) conversation. Also, I notice a used McDonald’s cup in the trash -what’s this about? I’m a watchdog on the lookout for rule breakers.
Before lunch (dinner) I take a walk over to the Main Chapel. Inside Father Alexander is sitting in a pew all alone and leaves shortly after my arrival. A monk passes through, stops for a few seconds to pray and leaves by the opposite door. He’s wearing the official monk attire: long white robe with a hooded brown scarf around his neck. I cannot see his feet but I have read that there are special monk socks without toes which are held up by long garters attached to the underwear.
Dinner is chicken, stuffing and peas. Brother Benjamin is back but cannot remember where he left off in the book he was reading to us on Tuesday. He’s reminded that he read from the end of the book (about friendship) so he decides to start today at the beginning of the book. Once again I cannot understand what he’s reading but I am more polite than several of the other guests who leave while he is reading. One woman, it seems, has already left for good.
There’s room for 15 guests at the horseshoe in the dining room with two extra chairs on the side. Fifteen is the Retreat limit but there are actually 16 guest rooms. Fifteen for those expected and one extra for a stranger passing by in need of shelter. I like that. By now all these guests are recognizable to me although I only know their names from the bulletin board list -and I don’t know whose name belongs to whom. There are three women including me left, two men who look Indian (one is Father Alexander), two bald men (one one-legged and one with a white walrus mustache), two muscular men (one is Brother Robert, the other is short) and finally, four nondescript middle-aged white males.
This afternoon I take a ride around. Surrounding the monastery are several roads marked as scenic byways. Most are gravel and the main one goes to West Virginia just a couple of miles to the north. I see corn and Christmas trees, little churches and a house here and there. I am always surprised by all the dirt roads we still have in Virginia. I do not see another human being just a lot of birds, a woodchuck and a little brown animal that looks like a squirrel without a tail.
We do not have meat at supper; it has always been vegetarian. Tonight is no different; it’s red beans with corn, rice and kale. Although there is a kitchen (a regular house kind of kitchen) just off the dining room, I believe they prepare this food at the big house and bring it over already cooked because I never see any preparation going on. The cook leaves before supper and Brother Benjamin has to put the food out and in the warming trays. I want to believe that this is monk food. One more guest is gone. Brother Benjamin reads a story about two priests from Ireland who are transferred to California. And I can understand him.
Day Five
Friday
June 8
“So, Mom, what did you learn this week?”
Why I hate cocktail parties: this week there’s been no wine, just water; no fancy hors d’oeuvres, just beans and mushy veggies; no small talk, just silence.
Some people can pray (a lot).
Monks are not hermits. They know how to “be alone together.”
I like silence.
My problems won’t disappear but thinking about nothing is good.
Cows can be noisy.
And like one of the Brothers here said, I have “no regrets, no complaints, only thanks... (but) it is time to go home.”
PS: So just before leaving I say “good bye” and “thank you” to Brother Benjamin and, I just can’t resist it, “sorry we didn’t get to talk more.”
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