31. A Host of Angels

My guilt is mounting. How can I have possibly told all about my Brothers, their little faults, their big faults, my guarded dislike of Agnes, my abbot, and all on the World Wide Web! From the simple analytical service provided by the Blog computers, I mistakenly thought I had only a dozen regular readers from 3 or 4 states in the U.S. and an occasional reader from (of all places) The Kingdom of Tonga in the Pacific. I now realize I was not reading this report correctly. But in any event, I feel terrible sharing the information and my feelings with the great number of individuals reading the blog. On the other hand, I’ve come to realize that the Internet is really quite anonymous, even if you list your name and address as I did. And that’s because I didn’t think anyone believed me or was convinced they were reading a real person’s diary about a life in a real place!

Lord, I am an awful sinner.  First I consider leaving my vocation, then I entertain inappropriate thoughts about women,  then I start a Tell-All blog on the Internet, blabbing the business of my brothers to the universe.

I’ve learned to read the statistics for this blog and there are quite a few of you reading it.   It is so important to me that someone is listening when I write of the  fears I cannot always share with my brothers.  I can speak to them about some matters that plumb the very depths of my soul, but not my worries for our future, nor about the cross currents of anger and resentment I am beginning to see. To speak of these would be sewing seeds of  distrust, as well as propagating my fears.  That would be grossly unfair to my Brothers.

And yet I must share my worries and thoughts with other human beings who are listening.  As I was dropping off to sleep last night it occurred to me that I never worry about what I tell the Heavenly Host in my prayers.  In the first place He knows everything.  Second, he won’t ever  tell anyone.  My next thought was …. neither will you, my Internet Host of  Human Angels!   Why would you tell?  And what if you did?  Who would care?  Only my brothers.  And they will never meet you, nor know that you know.   And you will never tell them.  And I am free to write of those things that keep me in agony without heaping my worries upon my brothers. Does that rationale sound too convenient?

Beautiful Song - Beautiful Woman.  
Crystal Gale - Talking In Your Sleep

30. Rage

An awful thing happened after our meal last night.  I’m still shaking and, believe me, I’ve seen violence before … plenty of it in Africa years ago … but never among my brothers.

Our evening  Chapter of Faults, the tradition handed down to us across the centuries from the great Benedict,  is an opportunity for us to confess our individual misdeeds aloud in front of our brothers.   It’s a practice that helps each of us to own up to his shortcomings and remember to work on them.  We hold Chapter right after supper, a good time to offer an apology when necessary.   Terd and Agnes got into an argument tonight at the end of  Chapter.  It came close to becoming a fist fight.

“Are you not going to acknowledge your indiscretion at the hospital yesterday, Brother Theresa?” asked Agnes, looking over to Terd.  This was a public accusation and in our community such is unheard of, even from the Abbot.

“I know none that rise to the level of mentioning, Your Grace,” replied Terd.

“I am not “Your Grace” and you may stop your sarcastic and insulting nonsense, if you please,” said Agnes.  I was shocked at the sharp rebuke.

“By your leave, Your  Grace,” Terd replied.

“Not at all,” replied Agnes, “but by my lawful order as your Superior!” Agnes said with rising heat.

Terd stood so abruptly from his chair that it flipped over backward and clattered loudly on the floor behind him.  I heard him mumble, “my superior?”  and he stepped between the tables that loosely form our eating circle.  As he stomped toward Agnes,   Terd’s huge leg brushed the end of one table and bumped it a few feet to the side, knocking over water glasses and dumping plates on the floor.  The seated men sprang to their feet.  They immediately rushed up behind Terd and tried to grab his arms just as he reached Agnes.  The huge man  shrugged off the smaller Brothers.  Kickstart simply lost his grip, but Cat held on a second longer and was whipped through the air into another table where he cut his hand trying to stop himself from landing on the dishes.  I sat there stupefied, shocked into paralysis.  I’m too old for that crap anyway.

Terd came to a stop and stood glaring down at Agnes.  Then he bowed his head and said,  “I am truly sorry, my brother Agnes.”

But I’m sure it was not an apology.  And Terd did not call Agnes his Abbot.  I think Terd meant to say, “leave me alone.”

This is just terrible.  None of us can live in a group where there is bad feeling.  It attacks the soul and festers into resentment and eventual revenge.  It is like the toll of a bell heard across the valley in the mid morning that can only mean a funeral has been prepared.  My stomach is churning so badly.  Why do these two men have to ruin everything for the rest of us?  Whatever there is about Agnes that enrages Terd cannot be that bad.

29. Tapioca

Most of the Brothers believe the monastery dog we call Tapioca to be an overly friendly retriever.  I think she’s the Devil incarnate.  She steals my socks and constantly begs for food.  Not just any food or the garbage, but the food on my plate, while I’m trying to eat it.  When I finish mopping and waxing the fine wooden floor of our refectory, she’ll come crashing through the door and slide across the beautiful oak boards, digging her nails in to stop herself, leaving long scratches across the new shine.  She sheds hair in great fistfuls, yet never seems to go bald.  In fact, she grows hair so fast she needs a haircut almost monthly.  Guess who is assigned the task?  Giving Tapioca a haircut is like trying to paint an unguided missile in flight.  You have to get hold of her around the neck and drag her into bathroom and flop her into the tub.  And if you want her to stay, you have to get in with her.  To top it all off, her breath stinks.  I’m reminded of it each time she wakes me up in the morning by barking in my face.

“If the Devil wanted to make a mess of things for us here,”  I said to Kickstart (Brother Winifred) one afternoon while we were changing the brake pads on the SUV, “in what form do you think he would appear on our doorstep?”

“There is no Devil,”  said Kickstart. “Fulton Sheen banished him.”

“There is evil, and you know it,” I replied.

“Yes, but no Devil,” said Kickstart.

“OK,” I said, “if there WERE a Devil.”

“As a beautiful woman,” he replied “who would tempt us and fool us and turn us all against each other and then run up credit card bills and have us paint the chapter house pink.”

“Kickstart,” I said, “you’re a misogynist.”

“No,” he replied, “I’m a bachelor.”

“I think the Devil would appear as a friendly dog,” I said.

“Tapioca colored?”  he asked.

“Maybe,” I said, “but certainly friendly and panting.  Following me around and jumping on my lap and getting up close to me while I eat my supper, sitting on the floor at my feet and rubbing up against my leg. 

“Yes, yes” he said enthusiastically, “and she can have all the credit cards she wants!”

“No, I meant …”

“Pink isn’t all that bad a color,” he interjected.

“Kickstart!  I’m talking about the Devil appearing as a dog!”

“He’d never do that,” said Kickstart, “He’d have to put up with you.”

28. High Voltage

I hope you didn’t think that during college I alternated between playing in a rock and roll band and studying my bible.  I lost my intense religiosity halfway through high school and never regained it.  To this day I am not religious, nor are my brothers here at Our Lady's at  West Saugerties.  Neither are we necessarily zealots for any given set of finely constructed beliefs.  (Those are the folks we call “Jesuits.”)   We are simply men who have been chosen by a God with a sense of humor to lead a life of prayer and contemplation.  And in doing so we discover our relationship with him … or her, if you want.  Many people have been given their beliefs.  Mine were a gift with  strings attached.  I gave them back years ago and now I have to work hard to discover my own faith.  It’s a job.  That’s why I call it a vocation.

A true vocation is seldom brought about by proper schooling or cultural immersion or uncles who were priests and aunts who are nuns.  A real vocation is like your psyche sticking its hand in an empty light bulb socket and getting the shock of its life.  It’s like you were standing in the checkout line at your local supermarket and were suddenly struck by a stupendous insight, followed by an insanely terrific desire to go home and pack your bag and move to a monastery to spend your days in prayer, contemplation and manual labor.  The process isn’t that simple, of course, but the psychic change is exactly that simple.  It is a calling to live a different life from  a God who has bought your soul and all your dance tickets and will run the rest of your life for you.  It’s his plan from now on, not yours.  As Bouncer  (Brother Bilhild of Thuringia) says of his vocation, “I sure as hell didn’t come up with this idea.”