Bobbie

Too much silence can be exhausting...

Apparently, the only way to take a hiatus from the stillness was to volunteer in the bakery. The bakery was the monastery's primary means of income, producing delectable goods such as fruitcake, chocolate-covered fruit cake slices called fraters (I bought 4 boxes of these), and creamed honey in the savory varieties of rum and cinnamon.

After 3 days of silence, I entered the bakery amid the whirling and swirling of machines, loud instructions of the volunteer manager, and laughter of the volunteers. They joked, sang, shared confidences, and emerged changed somehow, knowing that they made a difference in someone else's life. I took my place on the assembly line.

That was where I met Bobbie. I had seen her during our meals together (we had communal meals), and felt a kinship for her since she was the only other female who seemed to belong to the laity. The other participants of the retreat were priests, one of whom I was acquainted with, a certain Fr. Frank who was a charming, motorcycle-wielding mechanic before joining the clergy.

Bobbie was a beautiful African-American woman in her early thirties from the DC area. She was sensuous, not in the commercial sense, but she positively glowed with a vibrancy that came from embracing life. She told me about the Peace Corp, how she spent several years serving in a remote village in South Africa. She learned how to celebrate from them, from those devastatingly poor folks who extracted every gem of happiness from their arduous lives. They celebrated for days. In a nation where time was a commodity, they always took their time. They did things deliberately.

There was an inter-village bus called a Kombi, which never had a departure time. They would merely wait until the bus was full, and then proceed on the journey. If you were lucky, you were the last one everyone was waiting for. If not, it may be 5 hours before the bus engine was turned on.

Hailing from the fast-paced city of Chicago, Bobbie learned the lesson of patience from South Africa. "What else did you learn?" I inquired.

"Before I came to South Africa, I only knew my own faith. Jesus. It was very clearly delineated in my mind who was right and who was wrong. Those who were saved and those who were destined for Hell. In the context of a foreign country and alien beliefs, I learned that love knows no bounds and God is not limited to one name. Light exists in many souls, in many forms, and inspires the most heavenly actions in human beings. Intrinsically, we are all the same and we respond to the same light, no matter what we call it."

She was leaving her non-profit job this month, intending to continue her spiritual journey via graduate school to study counseling and to help relieve the plight of abused women.

I was amazed by her courage, her ability to follow her heart, to relinquish the stability of a good job, and to follow her calling. I admired the freedom of her soul. She told me that she was in the learning and transforming phases of her spirit, and there will come a time when she will be called to teach.

"Transformation is never easy," she comforted me. "It is painful, intense, and consumes energy. Don't ever be discouraged. Even if you don't always see it or feel it, your heart is
always moving."

Bobbie is an old soul, a kindred spirit. Even though we haven't spoken for months, I believe we will always be connected. Here is the quote at the bottom of all of her emails.

Changing the world is not impossible. We have but to love ourselves, each
other and the Divine who made us. In this way, we will each find change in
ourselves, thereby changing the world one life at time, beginning with our
own.

A Lesson from the Cows

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.

Entering Monastic Life (Sort of)

Brother Barnabas asked me why I was here. I answered that I was searching for my direction and my vocation, where I belonged and where I was being called. The vague notion of becoming a nun entered my imagination, it always did whenever I was in the presence of a priest. No matter where I was in life, my fascination for living in community with likeminded sisters who were devoted to a noble cause, namely the service of God, never waned.

Brother Barnabas was surprisingly frank about his life. Evidently, he had hurt those closest to him so that now his children no longer speak to him. He became a monk in the spirit of redemption. What is about strangers that allow us to confide in them our deepest failings and our most regrettable mistakes? I wondered if my own father seeks out innocent youngsters to tell his lamentable story.

By the time I arrived at the monastery, dinner was over so I served myself. Believe it or not, priests eat extraordinarily well. Every meal I enjoyed at the monastery was exceedingly well-catered, from tender chickens to pot roasts to succulent lamb to savory tilapia. The luscious rum-laced fruitcake, specialty of the bakery, was served at every other meal and I must have gained a few pounds from that mouthwatering cake alone.

There was a volunteer, Michael, who spoke so speedily and covered such a multitude of words in a single breath that I wondered what he was doing at a silent retreat house. He told me how the Trappist monks had prayers and sang psalms around the clock. Such was the typical schedule:

Monday-Saturday

3:15 am Vigils
5:45 am Lauds
6:15 am Eucharist
7:30 am Terce
12:15 pm Sext
2:15 pm None
5:30pm Vespers
7:00pm Rosary
7:30pm Compline

I dragged myself through the darkness once to attend Vigils and saw the sun rise before Lauds another time. The aura of holiness, the flickering candlelight, and the chanting, an anomaly how the baritones of old men could utter sounds so beautifully. Even if I was not inclined to prayer, it was impossible to keep from praying here. It was effortless, as if the entire congregation was already praying for you and you just happened to join in. Your voice melds with one collectively exquisite voice as if you were part of that universe, such an intimate universe in that enigmatic and sacred hour.

Back to that first night. I entered my room with cinderblock walls and proceeded to continue reading the third installment of Percy Jackson and the Olympians, an amalgam of modern-day New York teenage wry humor and ancient Greek deities who spawned offspring with humans as a recreational activity, thus creating many demigods. It was in the vein of the Harry Potter series: creative, addictive, but uniquely American.

I was prepared to deal with the silence with quite a bit of amusement, albeit of a bookish kind. Of course, cell phone reception here was abysmal.

Despite the books, I had a long, painful, and sleepless night. I cried a lot. I encountered my demons. I was stubborn. I was inflexible. I was judgmental. And I was not entirely blameless in my past troubles. In the silence is the beginning of learning to truly see yourself as you are, not as you would like to be. And when you begin to hold that mirror up to yourself, there are some very visible flaws, peculiar ugliness that you would rather not be aware of.

Is this the dark night of the soul?

Into the Silence

All soul-searching inevitably leads to a search for God in some way, shape, or form. For some it is the spiritual entity in the context of organized religion; for others it is a philosophy or school of thought through which lens worldly experiences become meaningful. For still others, it is the discovery of the self, the truth of the self, its desires and passions, and the infinite source that is life-giving to the self.

My search for God led me to a remote Trappist monastery in the heart of the Shenadoah Valley, Virginia. It was old Civil War territory, acres of farmland along the famed river which gave the valley its name, populated by cows and myriad butterflies. There was an empty creamed honey and fruitcake factory, which was the main source of income for the contemplative monks. I was not there for the cake (although it was sinfully delicious) and I did not intend to volunteer (although I did end up contributing free labor).

I was there for a silent retreat.

In all honesty, my journey there was quite ambiguous. I knew I needed the silence; silence was rejuvenating to introverts like myself. Yet, back in New Jersey, I found that I could not confront the silence. Whether it was hanging out with as many friends as possible or constant window-shopping or insipid phone conversations or the asinine noise and visions coming out of the cathode tube known as a television, I avoided the silence because I wanted to avoid myself. I did not want to think.

The ironic thing was in the midst of the hustle and bustle of activity, I still felt it was inadequate. I found myself longing for silence when the noise and chatter and talk in my life were imposed by me.

So I made my way to the Holy Cross Abbey. Silence for seven days.

It was at the end of July and painfully hot. To get there, I traversed four buses and trains: bus from NJ to NY Port Authority, subway from Port Authority to Chinatown, Chinatown bus from NYC to Washington DC (lovely things, those $15-$20 bus rides available every hour on 3 different carriers), local bus from DC to Berryville, VA. It would have taken 5-6 hours had I driven. Of course, being unemployed and carless, the affordable route took 8-9 hours.

There I sat, at a shopping mall in the middle of nowhere, waiting for someone from the monastery to pick me up. I worried if they would remember, since arrival time for the retreat was 3pm and I was fashionably late at after 6:30pm. It was rush hour, although in this isolated town no one ever seemed to rush. It was an eternity before a navy blue station wagon pulling into the parking lot hesitantly…stopped as if the driver was peering around…and continued to roll through the parking lot, halt and watch, and keep rolling.

It was my cue.

I saw a pleasant-looking man of about seventy with fluffy white hair, a baseball cap, and faded polo shirt.

He opened the door and introduced himself as Brother Barnabas.

I knew we would be friends.

Copyright © 2011 Paladian Queen

Exit Glacier: The Alpine Path not Climbed

We arrived at the Kenai National Park. Exit Glacier sprawled from the bottom of the mountain to the top in a curvaceous configuration, so that it was visible at multiple angles. From the bottom, it was a crust of diamond overlaying the desolate rock and loose earth of the lower lands. Blue undertones, the vivid color of transformation, that state of being locked between ice and water, ran along the glacier like veins. Yet it was far from pristine, grains of soil were embedded on the periphery, tainted by the footprint of man.

Then we began the climb. The landscape began to change as the elevation increased. Shady paths and stately trees appeared; everything was so overwhelmingly green. Countless tiny waterfalls spilled silver water and made music as they flowed from ledge to ledge. Sunlight filtered through the swaying leaves, and I remembered a verse from my youth, a verse that inspired me in my most impressionable years:

“Then whisper, blossom, in thy sleep
How I would upward climb
The alpine path, so hard, so steep,
That leads to heights sublime.
How I may reach that far-off goal
Of true and honored fame
And write upon its shining scroll
A woman’s humble name.”

I wondered if I still sought fame. What I seek becomes more simple as the years go by. As a teenager, it was prestige and success and wealth. Then in my twenties, it became a search for love. Now, in my thirties, it was a quest for serenity within my own heart.

My reverie was broken by the tinkling bell Marie wore to ward off bears. Of course, Marie’s year of hiking also made it impossible for me to keep up with her. I watched her limber physique and red coca cola t-shirt disappearing up the mountain.

I entered a clearing with a gorgeous view of the glacier, like a frozen waterfall, ice ridges blinking. Around me was a grassy meadow, dotted with wild bluebells. Such a splash of scintillating color, it reminded me of a Monet painting and those vagrant poppies that seemed lush enough to pick.

I grew tired. My legs trembled as if I was a marionette that lost control of the strings. I continued towards the snow-covered path which led to the top and slid inconveniently back down on my butt. Sweat broke in beads on my forehead. On my abdomen, my scar began to burn. I felt my body betray me. And I accepted my limitations.

Once upon a time, I was too determined to give up. Once upon a time, when I set a course of action, it was inevitable that I reach the destination. I never changed course; I never weakened; I never allowed failure. To do so was a devastating blow to my psyche.

I watched as people passed me, doing what I am unable to do.

In that instant, I gave myself permission to stop. To stop trying, stop struggling, stop thinking. In this moment, I am enough. Wherever I am in life. In whatever I am doing. I am enough.

When you have nothing, you realize that your very essence is far from nothing. I am not defined by what I have. I am not defined by my career or association with others. I am not defined by youth or beauty or health. If I lose any of those external things, then I would become lost again.

I found in myself, the raw divinity of the self. It is the part of me that touches God, the part that is connected to everyone and everything, the part that understands the immortality of love, the part that is too vital to die.

That is who I am, who I will always be.

A daughter of God.

On the Road to Exit Glacier

There was a strange man in my room. Not in my bed; I was sharing a room with three other girls in the Moby Dick Hostel. Lola was one of them. I was awakened from my slumber by the pungent odor of a guy who apparently hadn't showered for a long while. He was conveniently lying across Lola's breast, snoring.

As I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I was yanked to the side by Bianca, one of my other roommates.

"Oh my God, there is a guy in there! What if he rapes me?"

Now Bianca was an extremely attractive girl with deep sapphire eyes and an uncanny resemblance to Kate Middleton. She seemed genuinely frightened by the idea, even though she had staunch allies in the two girlfriends she traveled with. I was amused to see someone even more perplexed than me, down to her expensive Louis Vuitton luggage set. Oddly enough, I felt safe. With dazzling Bianca around, who would think to attack me?

Not to worry, Lola and her boy toy left after breakfast. Bianca resumed her beauty sleep; her two companions apparently hadn't stirred throughout the morning. I headed to Exit Glacier, the only glacier accessible by land in the Kenai Peninsula. My ride was a fearless French nurse, Marie, who had been backpacking continuously for a year. She visited New Zealand in the winter, Asia in the spring, now Alaska in the summer. Along the drive, I asked what she learned about herself in this eventful year.

Marie told me that she discovered the virtue of rest in the midst of her worldly sojourn. Ironic, but it is precisely when going became the norm that the freedom to do nothing became a cherished opportunity. She learned to live in these exotic places she visited, not merely passing through as a tourist.

"Most of all, I don't worry anymore. Before I was really uptight, and I needed to plan everything." Involuntarily, I leaned forward and she elaborated. "When I was in Christchurch, I got into a car accident. It was my fault; I just paid damages to the girl and moved on. I've learned to let things go. When you travel, nothing is perfect and nothing happens like you expect."

Uh oh. Car accident? Goosebumps popped onto my forearm. I tightened my seatbelt, wondering if I should have taken the bus instead. Nonetheless, it was a free ride and I was running out of cash...

Fourth of July: By Night

So I left the boat with a phone number and a rendezvous the following week in Anchorage. At the Moby Dick hostel, I ran into Matthias, whose big toe had turned green from frostbite (no one leaves McKinley completely unscathed). Latecomer to the party was the Scottish guy from the Denali, who brought me an endearing letter from Rick.

By now, even I was wondering what all the fuss was about. Mind you, I looked like a skinny, androgynous boy from afar. No make-up, loose clothing, and striped fedora hat that covered half my face and all of my hair. My philosophy was to be as inconspicuous as possible when traveling. If you're too pretty, you're a target. If you look rich, you get mugged. The idea was to fly under the radar.

My wise cousin Paul likened life to the theory of inertia. "Everything will keep happening the way it always has until you do something or something happens to dramatically change course."

Up until now, my story has been fairly consistent: a profound sense of inadequacy prevented me from becoming the best version of myself. While I always had good jobs, dated good-looking guys with money, and stayed trim myself, something was always missing. I always felt inhibited. I attracted folks who were controlling, egocentric, and materialistic. I was hurt by their behaviors. I was always a victim.

Alaska was a fundamental break with my lifestyle and up to that point, my mode of thinking. It was risky, spontaneous, and absolutely impractical, spurred by some vague yearning of the heart. Here I met a completely different type of man, free-spirited and outdoorsy and unconstrained by expectations. They all affirmed me. Granted, the ratio of men to women was 2 to 1 in this state, so it was by no means completely a function of my feminine charms. For you single gals out there, Alaska is a fantastic place to meet someone.

Back to the Fourth of July. Matthias and I took a walk through the streets of Seward, narrow and dusty and very small-town despite seasonal activities. There was a street fair; children were climbing into small-scale, carnival-like contraptions that spun them around or revolving globes that made them feel weightless. Between bites of hot dogs and funnel cakes, I was impressed by how brilliant Matthias was. Logical and scientific, his approach to life was purely deductive. Then he confided in me about his family, how his parents pinned all their hopes on him because his sister had special mental needs.

Half German, half Swiss, Matthias lived in Zurich, where he was studying for his PHD in economics. I was most curious about Switzerland, as my well-traveled friend Jenny described it as the most beautiful country in Europe. He mentioned that I ever visited, to give him a call.

I'd love to hang out, I replied.

No, he corrected, to stay. We have a couch for visitors.

What?

Apparently, this is a common phenomenon with backpackers, a sort of bohemian hospitality among transient soul-searchers. Not one to refuse free lodging, I nodded.

Lola was waiting for him when we returned to the hostel. Evidently, she had invited Mattias among several others to party that night, and he reluctantly followed her (Swiss Germans are iron-bound by their word). I wasn't invited.

Not to worry, I soon procured an invitation by a girl I peripherally knew from Denali, a biologist who presented her thesis (or was it dissertation?) in Fairbanks. Now, Seward was not exactly hopping with bars; there were precisely two joints occupying the same space, separate by a half wall that allowed glimpses into the opposite side.

So I wound up on one side of the bar and spotted Matthias on the other. Lola was dancing extremely close to him, her arms all over him, and he seemed markedly uncomfortable. Hoping to relieve him from his misery, I sauntered over only to find that he had disappeared.

News coverage of Michael Jackson's memorial service flickered; no sound was audible as clips of the famous videos Beat It, Thriller, and Billie Jean flashed across TV screens. I stifled a cry and willed back tear; it was the end of an era, the break dancing, the moonwalk, and that omnipresent glittering glove.

I bumped into Matthias teary-eyed and all; he had come looking for me. I glanced back at Lola, now seducing another guy.

We talked, we danced, we drank mediocre Alaskan beer, and I found Swiss men absolutely divine.

Despite the fact that Matthias and I didn't have a thing in common.