Hunger

A hungry person does not inquire as to the recipe of the soup, nor does the thirsty person question the molecular composition of the water that slakes thirst. Rather the hungry know their hunger, the thirsty know their thirst. They gratefully receive what is offered – soup, bread, water, the sustenance of life...

Currently I am, and have been for a while, working toward a theology degree. My second, in fact. But my hunger is not for theology. It is for God. However study and information and ideas and analysis can sometimes cause one to forget one’s hunger. One begins asking about ingredients, and recipes, and things of the mind rather than the real spiritual hunger that leads us to God, and that draws us together around a hearth in a community of those who hunger.

The ingredients of the soup, the composition of the water can be a refuge for those who have forgotten their hunger, who no longer feel their thirst. Then the “recipes” – whether Christological, Eucharistic, Biblical, or other – can become recipes for criticism and comparison.

They can also distract us from our true hunger, and thus our true poverty. And yet our own emptiness is the birthplace of true knowledge, of true compassion, of true community.

I hope that in addition to sitting at the living room hearth with a book in hand, that I always sit even longer at the kitchen hearth - aware of my emptiness, receiving God's fullness, and sharing God's bounty with others - understanding that the 'recipe' is one I will never understand. Because true grace, true gift, is beyond understanding. My limited understanding, my words, cannot capture or contain the height and breadth of the Eternal Word. Nor can the understanding or words of the person next to me at the hearth. Our shared spiritual hunger brings us together to the hearth of blessing. May other, lesser, hungers not pull us apart.

"Three": the answer to two age-old questions…

If you were wondering how many monastery employees it takes to change a light bulb, well the answer is three. That is if the light is oh, say, 70 feet in the air and weighs oh, say, 70 pounds, and is oh, say, in need of more than just a bulb change but actually needs a bit of rewiring, re-coaxing, and reminding how to shine, and oh, say, needs to be completed by Vespers. Oh and by the way requires three levels of scaffolding to reach.

And if you are wondering how many Sisters it takes to herd a cat it is oh, say, three. That is if Kitty B, an outdoor cat, makes a mad dash through an open door after supper into Ottilia Hall and is miraculously confined in a parlor by a closed door before she has access to all three floors of Ottilia, the dining room, and so many other connected areas that we might not find her until tomorrow.

This was just what happened after supper tonight (which followed the well-lit Vespers). Three Sisters gathered in the parlor to try to catch, coax, entice, or otherwise lead Kitty B into the waiting arms of her most favorite of all her favorite Sisters. But she was resistant to coaxing, as cats will be.

Eventually the three Sisters, with the help of 13 coherent and 1 incoherent text messages along the way, were able herd Kitty B untouched out the back door of Ottilia Hall. Imagine a pass rush of three linebackers against one scrambling quarterback who eventually gets run out of bounds. It was kind of like that.

So if you are wondering about the answer to these age-old questions of ‘how many…’, the answer is three, at least for today and tonight here at the monastery where the lights shine brightly, the cat runs free, and good humor prevails.



Postscript - Yes, I will take responsibility for having let Kitty B in! Sister Emilie and I spent a good long stretch after supper sitting on the back porch of Ottilia, just talking together and watching the sky grow dark until it felt like time to come in. Well, Kitty B came in too. Argh!

While visiting on the porch Sister Emilie and I watched Sisters Treva, Regina, and Jane return from a post-dinner walk, Sister Tonette and later Sister Mary Adrian head down to the wood-working and pottery studio, Sister Eileen start out on a walk, Sister Magdalena come out and feed Kitty B, and Sister Bernadette take a stroll down to the pond for some quiet moments of water-side solitude. We watched the light go on, and then off, in the sacristy, and then on, and then off, in the dish room as various Sisters tended to evening duties.

It was a lovely, quiet evening of monastic life unfolding in the best way possible - together.

Data cable

When I needed a data cable earlier this evening, I knew just where to go – to the shelves next to a shower. Probably in no other setting would this make any kind of sense. But in a monastery the time frame is one of generations, and the use of rooms and furnishings unfolds and refolds over decades. The gradual juxtaposition of seemingly incongruous objects makes a strange kind of sense here.

When I first entered the monastery (11 years ago yesterday), I was told that the laundry soap was in the mail room. I accepted this strange fact with equanimity. But then I learned that the bananas were kept in the laundry room, along with the pecans and our old computers. At this, the other eyebrow got raised.

There were also some seeming misnomers in monastery place names – the cookie room that contained no cookies (shucks!)…the flower room with no flowers, but that did have a closet full of seasonal decorations…the Blue Room in which nothing was blue except the chair fabric…the pealing porch that was, O silly me, actually the peeling porch for peeling vegetables, not the place for handbell practice…the kitchen carts that were called “sparkies” although no one currently living had any clue why...and, well, you get the picture.

After a while, I got the hang of what was where and the place names soon shifted from odd to endearing. I learned about Sr. Mary Ann, a baker, and the shelves that she used to fill with cookies…about the Schaffer sisters and the flower arrangements they created in the deep sinks of what became known as the flower room, and which still contained of much of our dining room decor...about the temperature and humidity in the laundry that was perfect for bananas at certain times of the year...and, well, you get the picture. I learned that this was a life lived in generations, over decades that fold and refold over themselves forming a kind of spiritual strata of work and prayer in a kind of spiritual geology of place, and of home. As the stability that is a hallmark of Benedictine life forms us as individuals and as a community, we, too, form the place. We form it into a monastic home in which our desire for God can flourish.

With our big renovation project of a few years ago, some of our endearing place names got lost in the shuffle. But we still have some, and when I went to the shelves next to a shower to get a data cable, I couldn’t help but smile with gratitude over the new strata continually forming as decades of work and prayer fold and unfold and refold in this endearing and enduring place that is our monastic home.

A loaves and fishes kind of day

For three of us in our monastic community, the Visitation is our Feast Day. You might think that a feast divided by three would diminish the cumulative individual ‘feast-ness’ of the day. But somehow, with three of us, the feast-ness multiplies exponentially such that the festivity quotient is far higher than it would have been with just one single individual celebrating her solitary feast.

It is really kind of a marvel. One divided by three becomes one multiplied by three and then “pressed down, shaken together, running over…” (cf. Lk 6:38)...three multiplied exponentially to the nth power by the shared joy of sisterly camaraderie.

It brings to mind loaves and fishes, blossoming deserts, and the kind of fecundity that comes from the capacity to share, to make room for the other, to let go of what you have and let it become more than it is.

Land of Next / Land of Now

Perhaps, if you are anything like me, you have some moments in which you are absent from the present because you are present to what is absent, already handling the next thing on your agenda instead of dwelling in the one precious amazing moment that is here right now before you. You have stepped out of the Land of Now and straight on into the Land of Next even as the present moment is tugging at your sleeve for some attention.

It happened to me again (for at least the gagillionth time) during Lauds this morning. I happened to be the one whose turn it was to lead our closing prayers. But as I got to the oh-so-familiar, no-notes-needed closing lines, I could not find the words because my mind had already moved on. I had left the Land of Now. I was in the Land of Next. A prompt from a Sister was required to bring me back to the present moment and the present words.

Today, the Feast of the Visitation of the Virgin Mary, is a good time to remember to be present to the precious and amazing moment that is the present moment. Somewhere, somehow, God is in this moment, a visitation from on High over which we can leap with joy, or which we can leap straight over with distraction, or ambition, or frustration, or anticipation, or whatever beckons us away from the place and time and person and task or no-task which is before us.

Whatever comes next will come soon enough. But for now, I pray I can be present to the Dawn from on High that shines upon me in this very moment.

The Visitation

This morning’s Benedictus antiphon: This is the day the Lord has made. Let us be glad and rejoice in it!

The Lord gives us this day, and we rejoice. But isn’t there also a sense in which God gives us to this day? Does the day rejoice in our presence in it? Does the day say something like, “This is the person the Lord has made. Let us be glad and rejoice in this one created by the Lord!”?

The Lord made this day. The Lord made each of us. May our words and deeds, our silence and prayer, give the day cause to rejoice, just as the gift of the day leads us to rejoice. May we be a blessing to the day as the day is a blessing to us. May it be like a Visitation, like an embrace, two of God’s creations – this day and us – rejoicing in each other, and together giving glory to our Creator.

This is us

Tonight I stepped outside for the simplest of errands - to take a bit of cardboard to our recycle bin.

Along the way I found a prayer book left in a windowsill by a Sister who I knew would soon miss it. I stepped into the kitchen and called her floor. “Oh, my,” she said. I got the book back to her.

I then stepped into a guest area to turn off some lights after the last-departing guest. I picked up the key left behind along with the note of gratitude left on the desk.

With the guest area empty, I experimented a bit with nightlights. Which type shines best in a darkened night-time hall?

I then stepped around to the back of Ottilia Hall – our home – and saw across the building a bank of lights like a sky of stars…a building awake and asleep with the inhalation and exhalation of a life lived at work and at rest, at prayer and at play.

I know who lives in every room. One of the rooms is mine. The lights are darkened there now, but will soon be on, wakeful, and then at rest.

This is us. Awake, asleep. At work, at rest. Fully and joyfully alive with the inhalation and exhalation of a life lived to give glory to God through the simplest of gestures and the grandest of efforts and the most earnest fidelity in a most serious and sacred of intention.

This is us. A community brought together through the call of God, each sister a light plucked from the night sky and placed here to be a light in the darkness, to shine like a guide in a darkened night-time hall.

I finally made it to the recycle bin with my bit of cardboard, but not before having wandered through a hallway where I found a book, the kitchen where I made a call, a guest area where I picked up a key and adjusted some lights, and then the backyard, where my heart filled with gratitude for the community that we are, in our simplicity and our complexity, our inhalation and exhalation of effort and rest, the rhythms of prayer and work, of solitude and community...

This is us, living this monastic life. With fidelity. With joy.