Dear Reader,
Last year I had the opportunity to spend three days with a group of Benedictine monks in West Park, New York. For three days I ate, prayed, and slept like a monk, rising when the bell rang for morning prayer and going to bed at the start of the “great silence”.
It was a powerful experience.
I was disconnected from the world, forced to look inward, to consider those parts of myself I often ignore. During this time I began to write a series of sonnets to capture the experience, each sonnet following the daily hours of prayer.
As we enter another day with all its business, joy, and toil, I hope that these words offer a bit of solace, a monastery made of words, a brief respite for the soul.
-Ryan
THE HOURS Written at Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY. I. Arrival The car wound its way down the winding road, The tall pines on either side walling us in, Signaling to the driver and I, Leave the noise of the world behind. The silence set in and I was alone. The driver now a distant sight from the Valley below. The silence pressed in and As I sat in my room, I wondered if I could survive deprived of noise, or be driven Mad by the echoes in those hollow halls. The Great Silence began and I Was adrift, with neither distraction Nor interruption to tether me fast, Drifting, into the void—God’s grand expanse. II. Matins The bell tolled as the sun rose and I Fought myself to get up from my bed, Wrestling with those warm sheets begging me To ignore the bells and risk a little sleep. And as I stumbled into morning prayer I fought to stay awake, doing my best To stifle my yawns and follow along. I was losing that battle, but to my Surprise I wasn't alone. A monk, about ninety, lifted his hand To cover his mouth while his brothers sang. He gave me a knowing look, a smile, And while Jacob wrestled with God We did out best to subdue the beast of sleep. III. Holy Eucharist The bread snapped with a sharp crack sending shivers Down the length of my spine, reminding me Of my frailty and the life I’ll one day Leave behind. We’re as frail as broken bread. It’s no wonder the symbol works so well, The host in the abbot’s hand, straining, waiting— A hanged man dangling from the gallows, A carpenter hanging from a cross. And me, suspended between prayers, Waiting to break, burst, split into two, Hanging from a hope I no longer hold, A host in the hand of an angry God. The gifts of God for the people of God. IV. Diurnum The sun rides high on the valley’s slope, Cresting the tree line, darting in and out Of cloud cover like a child hiding his Face, amused by his sudden disappearance. But that game gets old fast and I’m no longer Amused. It’s too cold to play hide and seek And we both have jobs to do. But the sun Neither hears nor cares and I’m too small to Demand its attention. And if that’s true Of the sun, I can only imagine God—too big to hear or care, or so I’m told By those who’ve tried to get his attention— Lobbing pebbles at his marble windows. (The fruitless click-clack they call prayer.) V. Vespers There was a bend in his back from bending To pray. His head perpetually floorward, Stooped from years of faithful service, Knowing others now from the scuffs on their shoes. When everyone left the chapel he remained, Taking longer than most to get up from His seat, bowing once more to the crucifix Fixed to the wall at the end of the hall. Some say he died bent over his bread. Others say he went knelt by the side of his bed. But on the day he died, he looked to the sky And saw the face of God etched into the sun, The same face he saw in the stains on the Floor and in the shoes his lay-brothers wore. VI. Compline Today I prayed to the holy mother Like I would my own, in short casual Sentences loaded with meaning and The little jokes only we would know. And after I lit the candle’s wick I looked up and saw my mother’s face carved In stone, imposed over the Madonna, An interloper holding the Christ child. Then, I remembered what it was to Be held, nestled in the crook of her arm Without a care in the world, safe and Secure between my mother’s breasts, The whole world held in the cleft of her hand, Soothing me to sleep while we waited for dawn. VII. Departure Just the birds, the river frozen over, My words suspended in the winter air, The chimney smoke rising like incense, The silence heavy with fervent prayer. Leave me to the trails, the icons hidden In leaves, the spectres of holy men Rising to meet me from the shadows Cast along the forest’s ochre floor. And there’s the city looming gray, Giants made of steel, imposing themselves On the sky as if to remind us Of Babel, of hubris, of the serpent’s final words. Banished to the wilds, exiled from Eden, Just beyond the cloister, back in the world.