Last month I visited a monastery.
I'd wanted to visit Christ in the Desert (alert-it plays music) ever since I heard about it, and realized how close it was to Taos. I've gone to Taos for the Wool Festival almost every year since we moved here. What stopped me before was the caution about the road to the monastery. It's 13 miles of steep, narrow dirt, and almost impassable in bad weather. Last year I traded in my big sedan for a small SUV (so I can get to remote trailheads, and can carry a kayak out to the lake easily) so I decided to go for it.
I'm not sure what was drawing me there. I'm not Catholic. I don't take communion at my church. I'm not even sure I'd call myself Christian. But once I got there, and got used to the pace of life, I figured it out.
Time at the monastery is marked by prayer. The community gathers 7 times a day in church for prayers, starting at 4 in the morning and ending just before 8 in the evening. Between prayers is time for meals, work, study, and recreation. They are mostly silent during the day, and particularly silent between the last prayer of the day (compline) and first prayers in the morning (vigils). Guests are not required, but are encouraged to join in worship. And I did.
It took about a day and a half to get used to the pace, but once accustomed to it I felt a peace I hadn't realized was missing from my life. The day is divided into periods of roughly 45 minutes to 4 hours. And with no TV, radio, internet, phone, or nearby commercial sites, there was a limited number of activities. My list of options included showering and dressing, taking a walk, reading or writing in my journal, knitting, spinning, or helping with the work of the monastery. All these could be easily fit into blocks of time of 45 minutes to 4 hours. Simple, no? No distractions, no 'to do' list that was so long I couldn't make a dent in it, no empty hours of time that are so vast I can't figure out how to fill them and end up frittering them away.
I never felt that my religion, or lack thereof, was any issue. No one commented except a couple of other guests I got to know, who wanted to be sure I knew I could receive a blessing even if I wasn't taking communion. The main guesthouse was occupied that week by a group of Sufis on silent retreat. And during work one day, while shoveling gravel onto pathways washed out by rain, the discussion came around to holy books, and that the Koran is the book with the most complete account of Mary, mother of Jesus. And one monk mentioned his own family of Jewish refugees in South America, attending Catholic school and Catholic church services to avoid religious persecution.
And the setting, miles back in a high desert canyon, with a river running through it, invites one to slow down and appreciate its beauty. In the morning, in church during Lauds, I had the daily pleasure of watching the canyon walls appear out of the darkness as the sun came up. If God ever noticed I wasn't paying full attention to our praises, I hope s/he understood it was because I was so distracted by the majesty of his work.
I'd like to say I carried this peace of heart back home with me. I felt it slipping away over the first week I was home, until all that was left was a memory of what I no longer felt. So I'm trying to figure out, without much luck, what it was that made the difference.
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