Bountiful Bliss

Yesterday afternoon Earle, Shawn, and I spent three blissful hours touring around a local monastery with a friend and her daughter. As it turns out, the monastery is right over the hill from us and we never knew it was there. Tucked away up a side road the monks lead a life of raising sheep and keeping bees while devoting their days to God's service: body, mind, and spirit. We trekked up a long drive to the women's guest quarters. Leaving the men folk under a tree outside, Gretchen, Deborah, and I toured the guest rooms and common areas of the house. It is truly lovely with its antique furniture, soft floral wallpaper and bedding, and simplicity of decor. Out every window are vistas of long-grassed meadows rimmed with wildflowers and a-buzz with bees and butterflies. It was like therapy being in that house. I could envision spending a quiet weekend retreat there reading and drawing the local scenery.

After strolling through a cemetery on the premises we encountered a small flock of sheep grazing in a field, so consumed with devouring grass they were almost oblivious to our presence. The tall, rectangular boxes of bee hives shared a corner of the grazing field with the sheep. As we descended the hill we could see the larger flocks of sheep and the barns on the opposite hill ahead of us. The views were breathtaking. My gaze constantly went from looking down at a plant or butterfly to looking up admiring the view. But, it wasn't too much to take in. It was serene, not overwhelming; the kind of place that makes cell phones unnecessary and televisions obsolete.

Next we wandered through the book store selecting a jar of homemade quince jam, a beeswax candle crafted by the monks, and a lovely little brass and enamel sign to screw to my door frame which says: Peace to all who enter here.

Leaving our bags of goodies on the sidewalk, we ventured into the circular chapel for the three o'clock singing of the psalms. The male voices of the monks in their work clothes fresh from the fields blended beautifully with the single peaceful guitar. The rhythmic, monotonous melody paid tribute to the true star of the show, the words. On our way out one of the older gentlemen suggested we descend the stairs into the crypt. There, under the chapel, stood a beautiful marble statue of Mary with the baby Jesus in her arms. Several lit candles encircled the pair in the darkness of the space. Around them stood small altars in cubbyholes, each with its own set of stained glass windows. A time-worn book placed on the candle table described in detail the meaning of the symbols in the stained glass. It surely was a place one could spend and hour or so matching up meanings with sunlit windows.

Now that I know the monastery is there I will be back to visit and perhaps to stay for a day or two. The peacefulness I carried home with me lingers into today.