All things seem manageable in the daytime.
As I learned from my travels in Alaska, the best way to handle silence is to go hiking. The monastery was situated in mountainous terrain (by my humble standards) or at the very least, rolling plateaus. The grounds were lovely and well-kept, particularly since one of the monks was a renowned horticulturist and planted thin stalks of bamboo surrounding small ponds. I counted at least six different species of butterflies and admired the circular wonders of spider webs, rivulets of water clinging like diamonds. Cows grazed every which way; the monks rented out their land to several nearby livestock farmers.
The very best, by far, was the Shenadoah River. It was some distance from the retreat house, where the paved roads ended and a narrow path led past an abandoned barn and a windmill-like structure to the riverbank. There was an abundance of trees and the area was wonderfully shaded, since mid-Virginia in mid-July is hot and stifling. Armed with a backpack, water bottle, plenty of sunscreen, paperback Bible, and my ubiquitous fedora hat, I explored the grounds with relish. At particularly scenic stretches of the river, I would pull out my Bible and read aloud.
It was pure harmony: my voice, streaming water, and rustling winds. The sun sought me in every angle, bathing me in golden light despite my determination to avoid sunburn. As a seeker, I found my faith here. As a writer, I found my inspiration here. As a lost soul, I found my authentic self here.
And the cows found me.
From afar, I regarded them with fascination. Some were lying lazily in the ponds or at work chewing in a green patch of meadow. They were constantly chewing, and I remembered someone telling me cows have four stomachs, and that they swallow grass whole, regurgitate it, and ingest it again until it passes through the multiplicity of stomachs. Yes, I happened upon the word cud somewhere in the Bible and triggered this very interesting stream of consciousness.
So I was happily hiking and daydreaming along the riverside, when I chanced upon a long trail of cow dung. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one seeking shade. I looked up and sure enough, at least fifteen cows were arrayed several yards away, blocking the only route back to the path. I came closer slowly, not making any sudden movements as they began to look at me suspiciously. A mother cow was nursing her two calves, and she paused to stare at me, a territorial glint in her eyes. I remembered how ferocious animals could be when their young were threatened. She snorted and moved her hoof, ready to charge.
I ran. In my haste, I splattered mud on myself from the marshy, moist soil touching the water. I jumped for dear salvation, right into the middle of brambles and burly weeds. I suffered all varieties of insect bites that night. Later, I discovered that cows aren’t all that bright. Brother Barnabas told me they had a greater chance of falling and being trapped on their side than chasing me.
So what was the lesson? (Besides the fact that I must be incredibly bright to be running from not-too-bright creatures). You project your fears and insecurities onto others, including harmless cows. Because I was afraid, I assumed they were going to charge at me. I acted out of panic. Fear and anxiety had been my primary motivations throughout life. I had reacted to the “belligerent” environment.
And I have the thorns, bristles, and scars to prove it.
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