At precisely
2.15pm on 30th June 2013 I found myself standing alone on the front
deck of a Wightlink ferry as it pulled into Fishbourne Port, the Isle of
Wight. I had come to begin my gap year
in earnest by spending 60 days in a Roman Catholic monastery. Standing on that deck I tried to recall what
had prompted me to apply for a ‘monastic internship’ at Quarr Abbey in
the first place, but the exercise proved fruitless. Doubt and regret were setting in. What’s more, the whole docking had an ominous
waft of Saving Private Ryan about it;
perhaps I’d be gunned down by the Guestmaster or garrotted by a Postulant in
the bloody shadows of the Solent, before reaching dry land.
The life of an
intern would be like that of a monk in all but vows, habit, and tonsure. The programme had been designed by the
Benedictine community to provide young men not wishing to be monks, and who
were not necessarily even Catholic, with an opportunity to construct sturdy
foundations for future life. I’d recently
been emailed a daily timetable1 which differed considerably from that
of my typical summer vacation2.
The whole affair was attractive in theory, and yet I feared its practice
would prove repugnant.
Well, I live to
tell the tale, and whilst I won’t claim to have found Jesus in the vegetable
patch, I will say that it was one of the best experiences of my life. Here are some of the reasons why.
Silence
It turns out that
monastic communities are quite big on ‘silence’. Every night the 'great silence' began at the
close of Compline and continued through until the celebration of Mass the
following day. We quickly learned that this
silence was ‘great’ not so much in the ‘This
is so much fun!! #lovin’summer2k13’ sort of way, and more in the ‘This is an extremely solemn undertaking that
is not to be broken by any extra-liturgical chit-chat whatsoever’ sort of
way. It was therefore with more than a
little trepidation that I approached a breakfasting monk one morning, feeling
obliged to inform him that the monastery’s fence had been successfully negotiated
by an entire herd of cows, which was now making its way steadily towards the
Pilgrim Chapel. He did not berate me for
my impiety, but simply replied “Yes, that happens” before returning to his
cornflakes, and to his silence.
Outside 'the
great silence', conversation was permitted neither at lunch nor at dinner. As you might imagine, silent meals are, at
first, excruciatingly awkward. You feel
all eyes to be watching your every mouthful, and you become painfully aware of just
how noisily you chew. Crudités were the
stuff of the devil. Whilst the set
readings from The Rule and The Life of Saint Benedict might have
helped to mask the mastication, they also introduced another, far more deadly,
pitfall: the giggles. One evening, we
listened to an account of how the boy Benedict had made explode a water jar
with a sign of the cross. It’s safe to
say that we interns did not meet one another’s eye for the remainder of that
meal.
My relationship
with silence changed over the two months for several reasons. Firstly, I settled in, and realised the
brethren were not at all interested in eating habits (pun intended). Secondly, because we interns became
accustomed to The Life of Saint Benedict
(we hardly even looked up when the dragon arrived). Thirdly, because silence began to gain a depth
previously unknown. The sight of habited
monks, shrouded in silence, as they pass from shadow into light under the
rising sun is something I could watch for eternity. Only the Cantor could incense what was with
his words. Lord, open my lips. And my mouth will proclaim your praise. These men were living a daily
resurrection, and it was beautiful.
Silence was also
liberating. Conversation was no longer forced,
and I could just be, enjoying the
simple presence of others. During the
internship I took over 100 silent meals sitting next to the same monk. Despite our mutual silence, I feel we got to
know one another (I’ve heard similar stories about commuters who enjoy unspoken
friendships on the way to work). Silence
was allowing these men to live out ordinary life on an extraordinary plane.
Minutiae
With so much
time spent in the same routine, one’s attention inevitably turns to minutiae. My former self was known to praise all these little things, but alas, this is All
These Little Things- Round 2: Little Things That Make Me Want To Kill Myself. Essentially, when you leave behind life’s
more major worries (relationships, exams, money), some of the little things of
everyday life really start to get on your tits.
I found myself getting irritated if a priest were to repeatedly use a
fractionally-longer version of the Eucharistic prayer at Mass. Whilst sweeping the cloister, I was really
quite angry to see that the wind had retraced my steps in dust. And no amount of ‘mood-lighting’ could have
calmed my nerves after finding that a greasy film had formed on top of my first
brew of the day. I knew full well that
this was all very silly, that none of it mattered, and yet, when in the
confines of a monastery, perspective slips through your grasping fingers.
So why was this a
good experience? Because I started to
see how easily I could morph from being perfectly happy to being in a foul
mood; I started to see just how enslaved I was to emotion; and I started to
realise that I didn’t want to live like that.
The monastery is a perfect environment for implementing personal change. When you find that a greasy film has formed
on your cup of tea, you make a wilful effort to stay calm, and to control the
irrational voice in your head that’s telling you to upturn it over Brother
Simon. And if you should fail, that’s
ok, because you can try again tomorrow, and Brother Simon will have been given
an exercise in patience. I am certainly
not saying that self-mastery was a fruit of my internship, but I am more aware
of what’s going on within. I imagine
that after a lifetime of monastic internal war waging, the battles fought are
less those of tea and dust, and more those of life and God.
Otherness
There was one
episode in particular when monastic ‘otherness’ hung heavy in the air. We interns had gone to St Cecelia’s Abbey to meet a real life nun belonging to a real life contemplative religious
community. Think Sister Act,
pre-Whoopi. It was with some
apprehension that we were led by a laywoman into one of the Abbey’s meeting
chambers. This apprehension was considerably
heightened when we were greeted by a set of sturdy iron bars running from one
side of the room to the other, separating us from an empty chair. We took our seats and waited. One of us was trying to break the tension by
musing on how best to fabricate a ‘Do Not Feed The Nuns’ sign, when suddenly a
door beyond the bars opened, and in she came.
She was every bit a Bride of Christ.
Her eyes beamed at us from her night-black habit as she shook each of our
hands in turn through the grill. And so
we sat and talked and laughed. It was
surreal. Here we were, laughing with a
woman who would never step beyond these bars again. What’s more, we interns were sipping tea and
nibbling biscuits, neither of which had been provided for the Sister. At first, I thought myself a captor, teasing
his captive with the fruits of freedom.
But then I realised that the fire in her eyes was not Hobnob-hunger. It was joy.
I don’t mean a vacuous joy, nor do I mean hysterical happiness; but here
was a woman who would never again leave the Abbey, who had absolutely nothing
to her name, who did little else each day than work and pray, and yet she
seemed to be more alive than I was. She
was no captive, and I, no captor. She
was free in the fullest sense.
God
For an article
on monastic life I haven’t said much about God, nor do I intend to as it ain’t that
kind of blog. What I will say is that
when you lead a monastic routine, even for two months, it’s no longer possible to
hide spiritual laziness behind business; many preconceived notions about God
and religion (be they orthodox, or less so) are obliged to change; and
questions which are normally appeased by Facebook and chocolate might just emerge to
look you in the eye.
I’m not sure
I’ll ever be able to fully articulate what I lived at Quarr, nor do I feel the
need to. I’m just extremely grateful to
have been afforded time with these men as they try to live heaven on
earth.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am, of course, indebted to the community of Quarr Abbey, as well as to Nathan, Laurie, and Tommy, who were my fellow interns.
I am, of course, indebted to the community of Quarr Abbey, as well as to Nathan, Laurie, and Tommy, who were my fellow interns.
1.
5.30am Vigils (Service)
6.15am Breakfast
7am Lauds (Service)
9am Mass
10am Outdoor Work
12pm Lecture
1pm Terce (Service)
1.15pm Lunch
2pm Tea-Time
2.30pm Outdoor Work
4.30pm Tea-Time
5pm Vespers (Service)
7pm Dinner
8pm Compline (Service)
8.15pm The Great Silence
2.
11.30am Brunch
12.30pm Loose
Women
7pm Dinner
12am Bed
