Posted by rjhmoore at 8:05 PM 0 comments
Monday, September 15, 2008
About twenty, wrinkly, balding, stooped men gather here seven times a day, most all over seventy years of age. They have serene, friendly faces, not the stern, overbearing glare of a high and mighty priest, which you might expect. The cylindrical room reminds me of a long log out in the middle of this vast valley. It’s eerily empty and quiet here; the hall could hold fifty monks, yet only eighteen survive today. It’s so simple: two sets of angular wooden benches line each wall, with stubby stools for kneeling in prayer. The solitary stained-glass window, emblazoned with the vibrant image of Christ, presides over the room. Light streams down through high windows at the top of the log with the exception of two lonely light bulbs, each shedding a beam of warm light onto the sets of seats. Silence hangs in the room, almost dead-like; then there resounds a magnificently strident bell, a rude awakening for those that have dozed off. But the sound does not seem shrill or obnoxious. Rather, the clear ring issues a soothing, bracing, perhaps reassuring sensation. One hardly notices the gracefully hushed monks entering the room. Only when the last clang fades away do you notice the soft shuffling of feet on the smooth floor.
All is calm, yet a nervous stench fills the air. The monks stand facing the powerful glass window. Then one begins to chant. His voice, oh how enchanting, how nourishing, how enveloping, curls around you like a slow growing vine. The perfect pitch reaches your ears with reverberating confidence and respect you can feel spilling forth from the worshiping man. You want to close your eyes and sway to the steady rhythm of the echo, yet they open wide at this awesome spectacle. Then all the rest join in, creating a heavenly chorus and continuing the verse in perfect harmony. What an experience, the sound filling the log abbey, repeating slowly as it bounces around the room. It washes over you and fills your ears, like sinking beneath the lapping waves of a sparkling mountain lake. They go on and on, one verse after another, prayer after prayer. Occasionally they turn and bow reverently to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, still singing their gentle words, a few balding heads gleaming in the feeble evening light. They seem to glow, these men, and not just from the light of the sun or the single bulbs from above. Something from the inner folds of their coarse, white robes illuminates their faces. None produces a smile, but from the evident twinkle in their eyes, it is plain to see that these men live happily.
The mantra stops. The mighty bell resumes its paced tolling. The service has ended and the monks have already discreetly started to leave. Then they disappear. Where to, only they know, but a definite presence still hangs in the air, a vague calmness, a peaceful scent. You have been bathed, scrubbed gently and persistently, until all that remains is your being. The outside world cannot touch you.
*Please feel free to leave your thoughts. Thanks!
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