Corvids

Imbolc                                  New (Bloodroot) Moon

Another image came to me last night.  The monks look like ravens, clothed in black with their beaks pointed backward (the cowl) and a human face where the back of the head would be.  Ravens and the corvids in general are the most intelligent of all birds, having demonstrated their cunning and their problem solving ability to anyone who knows them well.  They also have demonstrated self-awareness, something many humans can’t claim.

In that sense then this would be a rookery with the monks nesting in the long south wing and their guests in temporary nest to the west and north.

The longer I’m here the more I realize what a strong community exists among these 14 monks.  They have roads to plow, vehicles to maintain, building systems to repair and maintain, dishes to wash, the sick to care for, guests to accommodate, prayer services to attend and lead, worship and eucharist on Sundays for the Blue Cloud parish, clothing to make, linens to wash.  Ora et labora indeed.

The brotherhood and intentional community impresses me as does it long historical continuity dating back to the early centuries of the first millennium c.e.

A little weary today of the writing, but I plan to plow ahead anyhow.  That is, after all, why I’m here.

The Writer’s Table

Imbolc                         New (Bloodroot) Moon

My table at lunch had more monks.  Word had got around that I was working on a novel.

Brother Benet listed other writers who came from time to time to write, “John Hassler used to come here frequently, especially for his first 6 novels.”

Brother Sebastian, stone and wood sculptor and the Abbey’s tailor, said, “Yes, he’d have readings. ”

Great, I thought.

“Bill Holm came here, too,”  Brother Benet said.  “And Kathleen Norris.  She’s back in Honlulu, now.”

Father Michael added another, a guy who’s name they couldn’t remember, but “He’s an junior high English teacher and also works in a funeral home.”

The lively and the dead.  Sounds like a good title.

“Oh, yes,” Brother Benet said, “He got an MFA.  He wrote a book of short stories, all set in the funeral home.”

We all got a chuckle out of that.  Must be a quiet place to write, that sort of thing.

I admit I felt intimidated.  Bill Holm.  John Hassler.  Kathleen Norris.  Big names in serious literature and here I am writing a fantasy novel.

Father Michael, it turns out, reads fantasy.

I’m 25,000 words further along than when I got here and I think they’re pretty good pages.  Not great, but pretty good.  Having a long quiet time in isolation from the world is a great thing.  Wouldn’t want to stay from Kate and the dogs and the house like this too often, but it seems to be effective.  I might do it again.  Maybe when I’m finished and need to start revising.  Maybe then.

Oh, yeah.  Then there’s the fact that both Hassler and Holm are dead.

Hail, La Nina

Imbolc                                New (Bloodroot) Moon

A while back I asked John Harstad, then the naturalist at Cedar Creek Nature Center, a wonderful place run by the University of Minnesota and only about 15 miles from home, about first signs of spring.  His answer coincided with a local master gardener, “Bloodroot blooms.”  Since that should happen within the waxing and waning of this moon,  I’m choosing Bloodroot Moon for its name.

The snow began to come down this morning and has some legs.  The sky has turned sheet metal gray and the wind blows in from the northeast.  If I recall correctly, such wind direction can foretell deep snow.  Not predicted though.

This is the half-way point in my stay here at Blue Cloud.  I’m feeling it, too.  I’ve been working almost twice as long each day as I usually do when I write at home.  Though I love it, I’m getting tired.  Might be another 10 am nap coming on, too.

Conspirata, a novel about Cicero’s life, has been my casual reading.  I’ve finished 60% of it; I know this because the Kindle gives you a percent read number for each page since you don’t have the sense of the book’s length but its heft.

The other reading I’ve been doing is Livia Kohn’s introductory text on Taoism.  As with most things that interest me, I find as I get deeper into it that my opinion begins to change, split along certain lines where my own sensibilities face challenges.  In the instance of Taoism I find myself drawn more and more into the mystical, physical aspects:  the Dao, the exercises, meditation practices and pushed further away from the political implications, or wuwei (inaction) applied to political affairs.

This doesn’t bother me as I’ve learned, quite a while ago, that I don’t have to swallow the whole message to be enlightened by a school of thought.  Part of the creation of dogma comes as an institutional base emerges around any school of thought.  The dogma supports the creation of certain organizational structures, then the structures become a conservative force clinging to the original dogma, thoughts most often far removed from what Max Weber called the original “charisma.”

Thus, by the time most of us enter into a body of religious or philosophical thought the original genius behind it is hidden by layers of defensive structure and dogma hardened over time, often hardened against the danger of the original charism.

And so forth. Time to pick up the tablet and get to work.  Bye for snowy now.

The Bishop’s Room

Imbolc                                     Waning Bridgit Moon

This room is the Bishop’s bedroom.  B-1 in the Bishop’s wing.  Which has only B-1 and B-2.  When the Bishop comes, he stays in this room, uses this pigeon-hole desk, which I find surprisingly user friendly, and has a whole sitting room for himself and his entourage.

(lined up to reserve this room. this first guy just couldn’t believe they’d let me in ahead of him.)

I imagine I have it because, since Tuesday, I’ve been the sole retreatant.  Just me and 14 monks.  By chance I stayed in B-2 during the Woolly Retreat in February, so I’ve completed a tour of the Bishop’s wing.  This room’s better.  It has this pigeon-hole desk while the other has a flat top desk that would look at home in a down-scale dormitory room at a community college.

The shower here has sliding doors and a plastic molded seat.  B-2 has a narrow stand-up shower almost under a window.  Here, I have a bookcase bed.  In B-2 it was just a bed.  There is also a small nightstand with four drawers and brass handle pulls.  I put my pajamas in there.   Oddly, the drawers all have a divider which makes them less, rather than more, useful.

Tonight, after I wrote in praise of silence, I discovered that the monks kick up their heels on Thursday night, dining in the guest dining area and, wait for it, talking during the whole meal!  I sat with Brother Paul and Brother Chris.  Father Tom joined us, too.

We talked bees.  Brother Paul and Brother Chris are bee-keepers here though they’ve not kept any bees for the last couple of years.  Sounds like they’re going to give it a go again this year.  They have large fields of clover, one of the best honey plants, and alfalfa.

Silenced

Imbolc                                          Waning Bridgit Moon

Today I took my nap at 10 am.  Slept for an hour.  Felt refreshed the rest of the day.  Strange.

At around 2 pm I grew stale in my writing so I went downstairs, strapped on my snowshoes and went for another aerobic adventure on the grounds here.  The Abbey has two lakes, though I saw only one, the one on which the agnosic psychiatrist lives.  She suffers from an inability to remember faces.

She told Father Tom that if she met in the mall in Sioux City, she wouldn’t recognize him until he spoke.  I’m not sure how long she’s been here, but it’s a while.  She lives here as a hermit in a small house provided by the Abbey.

Father Tom and I ate lunch together and he mused about women being “more relational.”  He quickly added that might be a bit of a generalization, but buttressed his point with a story about the every third meeting between Benedictine Abbots and Prioresses.

As a former Abbot, Father Tom, a short man with wiry white hair and an athlete’s nervous energy, was among the Abbots when they decided to begin meeting with the Prioresses.  The Prioresses, he said, wanted to meet every year, but the men said, “Noooo.  Every three years is plenty.”  Even on the third year, Father Tom went on, the Prioresses show up a day or two early and leave a day or two after the men.

I’m beginning to like the silence that really begins at supper at extends through breakfast.  It gives a time for renewal, meditation, contemplation or relaxation.  Woolly Bill Schmidt sent an e-mail suggesting that the reason for the silence might be found in these closing lines from Yogananda:

You can wander through the universe incognito;
You can make vassals of the gods;
You can be ever youthful;
You can walk on water and live in fire;
But control of the mind is better and more difficult.

As for me, I think it may be way to calm disputatious monks.  Like me, if I were a monk.

I (heart) Religion

Imbolc                               Waning Bridget Moon

Some people like NASCAR, others quilting, some the middle ages, some middle age.  Tastes and attractions vary for often indiscernible reasons.  Me, I like religions.  Most of them anyhow.  Islam, Judaism, Christianity, Hinduism, Zoroastrianism, Shinto, Taoism, Celtic Faery Faith, ancient Greek, Roman and Egyptian, Voodoo, Native American, Mayan, Aztec, Hawai’ian, Tibetan Buddhism, Jain.  Buddhism, except for its practices like meditation, mindfulness, some how doesn’t attract me.  Don’t know why.

A part of me, a strong, even dominant part never left the young boy stage where why came out at every instance of anything.  Why do birds sing?  Why do dogs die?  Why is the sky blue?  Why is Dad grumpy?  Why did you make noise last night, Mom?

Philosophy suited me, fit me like a bespoke suit straight from Saville Row.  What is beauty?  Why do we love?  What is justice?  What is the nature of reality?  What is reality anyhow?

Religion is often a folk way of asking–and answering–these same questions.

Let me give you an example from breakfast.  I just experienced transubstantiation.  The folks who run the monastery think that happens at the eucharist as the wine and wafer transform themselves into the actual body and blood of Jesus.  I”m not sure about that.  But, I do know that this morning I ate an apple, a slice of bread with peanut butter and drank some tea.  They became me.

No.  I’m not saying I’m Jesus, far from it.  I am saying that the apple, the peanut butter, the bread and the tea did transform, through the miracle of my digestive tract and its millions, billions, of host organisms, into me.  Think about it.  After the big bang and the gradual cooling of the universe, gas clouds gathered, due to gravity and created stars from the initial elements, thinks like hydrogen, iron.  The stars themselves, in their fusion furnaces, then combined and transformed those basic elements into the familiar elements making up the periodic table.

Later still, as the gas clouds and chunks of matter surrounding each star coalesced those elements deposited themselves inside and on the newly born planets, comets and asteroids.  Those same elements, the very same elements, then, through more eons, at least here on earth, combined and recombined to form simple organisms like single celled animals and  plants. Long after that those simple organisms combined to form multi-celled life forms, among them humans.

This morning I–consider that I–the end point of a certain historic chain of events traceable to the creation of the universe ate.  In eating I took in the products of other organisms, the apple which grew in the air on a tree, wheat which grew in fields across these very plains and peanuts which grew beneath the soil.  I also drank water, the same water present on earth for eons, perhaps the same water drunk by dinosaurs.

And it is, even now, as I write, becoming me.  The apple, the wheat, the peanut are also, like me, the end point of a traceable (if we had the instruments and skill) chain from the moment before time until now.  So we recombine, sift and shift elements.  A miracle.

This is life.

Imbolc                                            Waning Bridgit Moon

Sunday night Kate and I went to St. Anthony Main, overlooking the Mississippi and St. Anthony Falls, for a Roots Music festival put on by KBEM, a local jazz station.  While we ate at the Aster Cafe and listened to a small group, Kate looked up at me and said, “Ah, the life of the retiree.”

I understood what she meant.  Free at last.  But….

I had another reaction too, “Yes, I know what you mean.  But, really.  This is life.  Not retired life, but life itself.”

In that moment I realized the category mistake everyone makes when speaking of retirement.  It is seen as special, different, unique, something to be fussed over and transitioned into when really it’s just life, life continuing.  Not different, not special, not unique, not to be fussed over.

Or, to say the same thing another way.  It is different, special, unique, to be fussed over because it is your life, your life, your one and only special and true life.  We have to want our life and lead our life before we work, while we work and after we work.  We do vacate the workplace, but we do not retire from our lives.

In fact, the fuss is too often that we’ve left our lives up to others.  Our boss, our clients, our patients, our corporation or agency.  The past times and activities that seem so necessary, but are really only the ideas of others.

So, the problem and the promise lies not within the change in our work, but with the change in ourselves.  If we have known what our life is, if  we have chosen activities and friends for their intrinsic value not their external rewards, well, then, on with your life.  If not, the issue is not the transition, but the need for self-examination, for honesty with the you that you bring to life as  you grow older.  No one else can do this work for you.  It’s up to you.

Tracks in the Snow

Imbolc                                       Waning Bridgit Moon

Whew.  Just got back from snowshoeing to the ridge crest, leaving from from a side door in the Monastery’s east side.  Along the way I came upon other tracks, rabbit and deer I recognized, but one large tubbs-snowshoes-altitude-36_280609708106print I did not.  Can’t imagine what it could have been though it looked like bear to me.

I used to snowshoe every morning for my aerobic workout, a few years ago now.  In fact, I worked at it so hard that I ripped a boot mount off the base of the snowshoe.  That stopped me that year.  I’ve never really gotten back to it.  Felt good.

So far today about 4,300 words.  A better than normal day at home, by about a factor of two, so I think this concentrated time will pay off.  I’m learning how to work away from home.  Not expert at it yet by any means.  I left two chapters at home, late ones.  I don’t know how I missed them, but I’m working around that just fine.

Working on the yellow pad is less stressful on the arms than using the keyboard on my knees.  That’s a plus.  So is the quiet and the lack of interruption.  On the downside.  No Kate.  No dogs.  Not my bed.

It has already got me back in the traces.  What I wanted.

Writing on Yellow Pads

Imbolc                                Waning Bridgit Moon

After all the effort last night to acquire a new keyboard, I decided this morning to start writing on yellow pads.  I’ve never written a book this way, but I wanted to try it.  Don’t know how many words, but I filled 4 and a half pages this morning.

I’m not sure there’s much difference for me since I type as fast as I write, but it is easier with this chair that I have here.  Much better on the back and eyes.

Breakfast and dinner are in silence.   I asked Brother Benet about the rationale for silence.  He thought for a while, “Tradition.”  He said they used to read at lunch, too, but stopped that a while ago.  We talked about monastics for a while.

He mentioned getting over to Aberdeen.  I might just do that.  It’s about 80 miles he said.  Have to see how the writing goes.

The computer gets turned off now.  I have to nap, yes, but more than that the electricity will be turned for half an hour, Brother  Paul said, “At least that’s what I’m expecting.”

Breakfast in Silence

Imbolc                                  Waning Bridgit Moon

The monks and individual retreatants like me all eat together in a long, tiled room.  There are six long wooden tables, a blond wood reflecting the era when the Abbey was built.  These tables sit at a slight diagonal to the western wall, mostly below ground level, only narrow windows above letting in light.

Trays, the blue plastic kind familiar to me from Alexandria Elementary School over 55 years ago, come up first with the silvered racks for tableware above them.  A steam table is next, roughly the size of the one Kam Wong’s Chinese restaurant has for its afternoon crowd in Andover.  Butted up against the steam table is another long wooden table on which sat this morning plastic bags of bread baked here in the monastery.

I picked up some creamed wheat–makes me think of the bear opening the creamed wheat crates in the Art Institutes American collection–brown bread, spread the bread with a little peanut butter, a tangerine and took my tray to the retreatants table.  After putting some milk in my cereal and getting some tea, all along the southern wall, I returned to the the table, eating my second meal here in silence.

Monks came in and out, some dressed in black robes, others in jeans and work shirts.

While eating, I looked up from time to time.  Above my chair was a painted crucifix with the words, God Rules from a Tree.  On the eastern wall, above the steam table, there is a long panel that contains the four symbols of the gospels:  Ox, Eagle, Lion and Angel.  In between each symbol is a graphic and words like:  Happy is he who is hungry.

We ate, the monks and I, in quiet, the only sounds an occasional chair scuffing the floor or silver ware against plastic.  The mood invited mindfulness so I imagined the field in which the wheat for bread and the cereal had grown.  The fall day on which it was harvested.  A barn full of Holsteins, water vapor steaming off them in the warm barn while they were milked.  The sunny vineyard in California where these grapes had grown fat and full of the water dried from them now.  Maybe a sugar beet field along the Red River or a sugar cane field in Hawai’i for the sugar.  I didn’t get as far as the tangerine and the tea and the peanut butter as my mind drifted, no longer mindful.

Now I’m warming up for the morning’s work, writing this piece.

From the Benedictine Monastery, Blue Cloud Abbey, near Marvin, South Dakota.