Merton enters the Trappist monastery for the first time . . .
The driver of the car did not go to the bell rope by the heavy wooden
door. Instead he went over and scratched on one of the windows and called,
in a low voice:
“Brother! Brother!”
I could hear someone stirring inside.
Presently the key turned in the door. I passed inside. The door closed
quietly behind me. I was out of the world.
The effect of that big, moonlit court, the heavy stone building with all
those dark and silent windows, was overpowering. I could hardly answer
the Brother’s whispered questions.
I looked at his clear eyes, his greying, pointed beard.
When I told him I came from St. Bonaventure’s, he said drily:
“I was a Franciscan once.”
We crossed the court, climbed some steps, entered a high, dark hall. I
hesitated on the brink of a polished, slippery floor, while the Brother groped
for the light switch. Then, above another heavy door, I saw the words: “God
alone.”
“Have you come here to stay?” said the Brother.
The question terrified me. It sounded too much like the voice of my own
conscience.
“Oh, no!” I said. “Oh, no!” And I heard my whisper echoing around the
hall and vanishing up the indefinite, mysterious heights of a dark and empty
stair-well above our heads. The place smelled frighteningly clean: old and
clean, an ancient house, polished and swept and repainted and repainted
over and over, year after year.
“What’s the matter? Why can’t you stay? Are you married or
something?” said the Brother.
“No,” I said lamely, “I have a job...”
We began to climb the wide stairs. Our steps echoed in the empty
darkness. One flight and then another and a third and a fourth. There was an
immense distance between floors; it was a building with great high ceilings.
Finally we came to the top floor, and the Brother opened the door into a
wide room, and put down my bag, and left me.
I heard his steps crossing the yard below, to the gate house.
And I felt the deep, deep silence of the night, and of peace, and of
holiness enfold me like love, like safety.
The embrace of it, the silence! I had entered into a solitude that was an
impregnable fortress. And the silence that enfolded me, spoke to me, and
spoke louder and more eloquently than any voice, and in the middle of that
quiet, clean-smelling room, with the moon pouring its peacefulness in
through the open window, with the warm night air, I realized truly whose
house that was, O glorious Mother of God!
I love Merton's description of the peace he feels when he first experiences the silence of the Abbey of Gethsemani. There is something holy in the absence of sound, especially when a person is used to constant aural stimulation--traffic and voices and slamming doors and such. People noise. When that distraction is removed, you can hear other things that are normally drowned out--inner things. Call it conscience, id, superego, the voice of God, or, in Merton's case, the Virgin Mary.
Yes, I am still alive. No, I have not given up on blogging or forgotten all of my disciples (who's numbers are rapidly dwindling because of my recent long absences). In the week since I last posted, I have been working on other things--new poems, special events for the library, and final grading for the summer semester at the university. I have also experienced moment in my personal family life that caught me a little off guard. Not something bad. Just surprising. And I'm still sort of adjusting. (If that's too vague for you, I'm sorry. It's not my place to talk about this event. My place is simply to trust in God and love.)
Currently, I'm at the Kalahari Resort in the Wisconsin Dells. A much needed vacation brought about by a request from my daughter. Since Sunday, I have experienced two water parks, an amusement park, and an arcade the size of a small midwestern town. I've also eaten at Cracker Barrel, Pizza Ranch, Qdoba, and Outback Steakhouse.
None of this helped me experience the kind of silence and peace that Merton describes in the passage above. My ears are still hearing the screams, bells, horns, and beeps of the arcade. And it sounds as though there is a small herd of moose on the floor above our hotel room. Yet, I have found some peace these last few days.
I love being with my family. Love sitting at a table eating dinner with them, talking and joking. And I love making my kids happy. For me, it's one of the greatest pleasures of my life. My son went swimming with a virtual whale this afternoon. (The whale was courtesy of special underwater VR goggles.) My daughter and her boyfriend collected over 3,000 tickets at the arcade these past two days. With their winnings, they purchased a board game, a computer something-or-other, and a Bob Ross gummi maker.
Now, everyone is asleep or almost asleep, and I'm typing this post in bed. Tomorrow, we pack up and return to life and work and school. All the struggles I left behind these last few days. They're waiting for my return. Merton's troubles didn't disappear when he walked through the gate of the monastery. They were transformed, became smaller, less significant.
I'm not experiencing that kind of diminishment. Not yet, anyway. But, thanks to my daughter, I have been reminded of the power of love to overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles. This past week, she has restored my faith in the goodness of the world a little.
And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.
