Soliloquy in an International Cloister

Breakfast conversation

2009-10-31T16:28:00.000+01:00

Aussie brother: Do you have kumquats in England?

English brother: I'm sorry, I don't like that kind of talk!

Il Postino

2009-09-21T07:38:00.002+01:00

For four days last week we received no mail, an unprecedented event for us. When pressed for a reason, the postman explained that it was due to the improvements they were making to the Italian postal system.

We should have known.

A Prague Spring

2009-06-19T11:35:00.006+01:00

After Madrid, it was 3 days in Prague. As in Madrid and Venice, I was there for a meeting, but there was also a little time for sightseeing. Don't be jealous just because I have the best job in the world.

One evening, our hosts arranged a boat trip on the Vltava River for the meeting's participants. A guide pointed out various important sites along the banks of the river, including the Rudolfinum, one of the main concert halls in Prague. Adorning the roof of the building are statues of various composers and musicians. Our guide pointed out that the building was used as a command post by the German army during World War II. The German commander was upset, however, to learn that one of the building's statues was of the composer Felix Mendelssohn. He ordered his soldiers to remove the statue of "the Jew". The unfortunate soldiers had no idea what Mendelssohn looked like so they searched for the statue with the largest nose, and ended up removing the statue of ... Richard Wagner!

After touring the river, we transferred onto a larger boat, where we were served dinner. The food was wonderful, as was the atmosphere. It was a memorable occasion in one of the most beautiful cities of the world. If you have not seen Prague, you must go! I will also put in a plug for "Venice of Prague," the company responsible for the boat trips, which I do without shame because they were most generous and hospitable with us. I highly recommend them.

Madrid

2009-06-11T14:23:00.001+01:00

After Venice, I went to Spain for a similar three-day meeting. The meeting was held in Alcalá, not far from Madrid. After the meeting, I spent the night in one of our monasteries in Madrid. Not having been there before, I wasn't sure what to expect. It turned out to be a very nice place—simple, but clean and comfortable. I snapped the accompanying photograph just outside the door of the monastery. The white building seen behind the trees in the background is the Prado Museum. You are probably wondering the same thing I did: "How did the Prado get such a prized location next to our monastery?"

Few places in the world...

2009-06-03T21:04:00.000+01:00

... have street signs that are wider than the street itself!

Venice

2009-06-02T20:33:00.002+01:00

I'm in Venice for a meeting. We took the afternoon off to visit a few of the (religious) sites.

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XIX

2009-05-26T01:34:00.003+01:00

Sometimes Brother Amadeus' mouth outran his brain, leading to statements such as:

"The Virgin Queen was about as much a virgin as you or I!" (spoken during a retreat he gave to a group of nuns).

and

"We should fill our holes with soap." (try swapping a few letters).

and

"Let us pray for the poor souls condemned unjustly to Purgatory."

A day in the life - Mass

2009-05-04T21:45:00.003+01:00

Among the brothers in our monastery is one I will call Brother Lunaticus. Among his other accomplishments, he is able to ~~sleep~~ meditate while standing. His customary prayer posture, however, is half-sitting, half-kneeling, elbows on the pew and chin resting on his arms. Occasionally, I have looked up from my prayer book to find him staring at me. It’s unnerving to say the least. I feel certain he will be the headline on the evening news some day: “He was always so quiet. He never bothered anyone. I never imagined he would be capable of mass murder!” [Note to self: update last will and testament.]

There is a door in the chapel that opens to the street, and this is unlocked each morning so people from the outside can attend our mass. We don't attract many, but those who do come are a colorful lot. One lady who occasionally joins us ... well, let's just say her ladder doesn't quite reach her belfry. She fancies herself the foundress of a new religious order, but unfortunately has not found anyone to join her yet. She is still trying to find the right look for her religious habit, and has come wearing smocks of varying styles and colors. She also has the habit of farting quite loudly and frequently—I'm not certain whether that is part of her Order's charism or merely a personal devotion.

For a short time, a frequent attendee was a gentleman dressed rather shabbily, as if he were homeless. He appeared to be quite unfamiliar with the rituals of the mass—when to sit, stand and kneel, how to make the sign of the cross, etc. Still, what the heck, converts are always welcome. We began to doubt the sincerity of his conversion, however, when we noticed that he always left mass right after our day's supply of fresh bread was delivered at the chapel door, and that several pieces of bread were missing from the sack on the days that he attended.

A day in the life - Morning prayers

2009-04-19T10:36:00.003+01:00

At exactly 6:30, a bell in chapel rings to signal that it is time for prayers to begin. Until a few years ago, the signal was provided by an old, wind-up chiming clock that somehow managed to be always either fast or slow. A few years ago, however, the old, charming clock was retired and replaced by an electric clock that regularly synchronizes itself with an atomic clock somewhere in the world. I’m not kidding! No more excusing my late arrival by claiming that the clock is fast. Little by little, all our excuses are being eliminated.

You may have seen movies or heard a CD of monks chanting their prayers in beautiful harmonies. Yeah, that’s not us. Most of the time, we merely say (or better, mumble) our prayers. When we do sing, well, it's just best not to talk about it. At prayer, the brothers can be divided into three groups—the downhill brothers, the uphill brothers and the neutral brothers. The downhill brothers continually pick up speed as the prayer proceeds while the uphill brothers attempt to apply the brakes. Who prevails depends on how many supporters each group can muster from among the neutral brothers. At times, the uphill group and downhill group can be separated by several words. I’m pretty sure this is not what David had in mind when he wrote the psalms.

This temporal tug-of-war lasts for about 15 minutes, until we finish the first part of our morning prayer routine. This is followed by half an hour of silent meditation. We are allowed to do our meditation wherever we think the atmosphere is most conducive. Many stay in the chapel, some walk in the courtyard or corridors and others go to their rooms. I have a suspicion that not all of those who go to their rooms are actually spending the time in meditation. Maybe it’s the fact that when they return 30 minutes later, their damp hair is neatly combed and they are no longer wearing pajamas under their habits. Until several years ago, everyone was expected to stay in the chapel for the meditation period, but the rules were eventually loosened because the snoring in the chapel was keeping some of us awake!

After the meditation period, we celebrate mass. At precisely 7:15 our atomic-synchronized Swiss clock chimes, which is a rather rude way to be awaken from one’s “meditation”. The chime causes a Pavlovian reaction among the priest-brothers, who jump up and run to the sacristy to get vested for the mass. Not being a priest myself, I can remain in chapel, but I have witnessed the action in the sacristy a few times. It looks like the backstage at a Wal-Mart fashion show. Twenty or thirty priests are trying to force their way to the closet where the albs and stoles are kept. Each grabs the necessary items and squeezes his way back to the chapel, throwing on his alb and stole along the way. They come back into the chapel willy-nilly with their albs twisted around their bodies in odd ways and with stoles hanging lopsidedly around their necks. Such grace! Such solemnity! I cry.

(to be continued)

A day in the life - Rising

2009-04-09T20:12:00.003+01:00

My day in the monastery, whenever I am there, typically begins at 5:45 a.m. with a shower and associated ablutions so I can arrive for prayers at 6:30, fresh as a bedewed rose. Okay, I am lying about the rose thing. I am about as fresh as that leaf of lettuce that fell behind your kitchen counter last week. I am not a morning person, and while rising before dawn has become easier with the passing of the years, it still feels unnatural. Surely God meant the sun to be our alarm clock, no? Community prayers are an important part of the day, however, and skipping them would scandalize some of the younger brothers so guilt trumps my desire to stay in my celibate bed each morning.

Judging by the looks of many of the other brothers, I am not the only one who is not a morning person. A few of them tumble into chapel with seconds to spare, complete with pillow-tousled hair and sleep in their eyes. Occasionally, one can spy pajamas under a brother’s habit. On the other hand, there are those brothers who have been in chapel since before 6:00—bright-eyed, perfectly groomed, in attitudes of smug prayerfulness. Oh, how I hate them!

The reader might be asking himself or herself why, if so many brothers dislike this early hour, we don’t move prayers to a later hour. Actually, when I first moved to this monastery in 1988, prayers started at 6:15. After battling for almost 20 years, we normal brothers finally won a 15 minute concession from the "Aurorists". Somehow, whenever the topic came up in a house chapter, the early risers managed to grab the high moral ground and to convince the majority that rising later than 6:00 will insure one’s eternal damnation. Frankly, however, I am suspicious of these people. The Psalmist wisely said, “God gives to his beloved while they slumber.” I ask myself, why will the consciences of these brothers not allow them to sleep to a normal hour?

(To be continued)

Does this qualify for the Mile High Club?

2009-04-05T16:27:00.001+01:00

Me: Flying from Frankfurt to San Francisco, we were so far north that the sun went below the horizon. Somewhere over Canada, we witnessed the sun rise again. So I had two sunrises and two sunsets in one day.

Confrere: On one of my flights last December, I had two Immaculate Conceptions.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-25T18:46:00.003+01:00

Merry Christmas to all.

I recently returned from accompanying my boss on a 23-day whirlwind visit to our brothers in the Asia-Pacific region: Australia, East Timor, Papua New Guinea, New Zealand and Guam. By my calculations, we accumulated over 37,000 miles (almost 60,000 km) of air travel. I'm exhausted.

Still, I should not complain. I like seeing new areas of the world, and I was able to add three new countries to my list—East Timor, New Zealand and Guam. Each country we visited had some small surprise in store for us, some little discovery.

This was my third visit to Australia. In many ways, it is similar to the United States or Europe. Like them, it is a wealthy, secularized country. Unlike our jurisdictions in those continents, however, the brothers in Australia are enjoying a small boom in vocations. For the past several years, they have averaged three new recruits each year, which does not seem like much, but for a province with a total size of about 35 brothers it is very good. It may be the only province in the developed world that is actually growing. No one can quite explain their success so it isn't clear whether it can be exported to other provinces.

To get from Sydney, Australia, to Dili, East Timor, we had to fly to Darwin and spend the night there. Darwin is an interesting place—Australia's frontier town. Not long ago, someone showed me a scrapbook with articles and photographs of Darwin in the aftermath of Cyclone Tracy in 1974. The people in those pictures reminded me of a 60's or 70's commune, which is perhaps unsurprising since it was the 1970's. In some ways, however, the place still retains a bit of an anti-establishment, counter-cultural feel to it.

We spent all of 24 hours in East Timor, but what do you expect for just three brothers? This is one of our Order's newest missions, having begun only in 2002. There is construction going on all around the capital city of Dili, but almost all the new buildings are embassies, government offices or international aid agencies. The amount of international aid being poured into the country is impressive, but I wondered what kind of future the country will have. Most of the locals are subsistence farmers or fishermen, but the country's soil is poor and fish stocks have been depleted by overfishing. It has the potential to become an alternative to Bali as a tourist location, but it would need massive development before that could happen

Our next stop was Papua New Guinea, a country where many of its inhabitants were literally living in the stone age until about 50 years ago, but which is trying to catch up with the rest of the world. It is not uniformly successful with its efforts. After spending the first night in Port Moresby, we were scheduled to fly to Mendi, in the Southern Highlands, the next morning at 10 o'clock. We arrived at the airport, a rather newish structure, almost two hours ahead of our flight. There was absolute chaos at the check-in counters because the computer system was down... again. Once we were checked in, we discovered that the flight actually left at noon. Flying time to Mendi was only about 90 minutes. The skies were mostly overcast, but otherwise the weather was good. During our descent into Mendi, our Canada Dash 8 had to pass through the cloud cover. It was a bit disconcerting to look out the window once we had passed through the clouds and see a tree-covered mountain at eye level not far to our right. There is not much room for pilot error when you fly to Mendi.

Next stop, New Zealand. We visited both Auckland and Wellington. Of the two, I preferred Wellington, even though it was rather chilly, even during the middle of their summer. My judgment may be a bit clouded, however, by an incident that occurred while we were there. We were taken to a seaside restaurant for lunch one day. From my seat, I could look out over the restaurant's balcony to Wellington's harbour. Two young women were having lunch at a table on the balcony, more or less directly in my line of sight. During our meal, one of the young women, who had evidently been jogging before lunch, casually removed her shirt and sports bra, then donned a sweatshirt. I must have momentarily looked like one of those cartoon characters whose eyes pop out of their heads. Merry Christmas to me! By the way, the photo at the top of this post was snapped in Wellington. It is a flower of the Pohutukawa tree, nicknamed the New Zealand Christmas Tree.

Lastly, we visited Guam. The island is so small that we drove around its entire circumference in a few hours. It's a beautiful island, very popular with Japanese tourists. The people were warm and welcoming. I thought to myself that I would like to spend a few months there, but I would probably become claustrophobic if I were there too long.

We had a 5:00 a.m. flight out of Guam to Osaka, connected to a flight to Paris, and finally landed in Rome about 28 hours after arising that morning. Here is a travellers tip for you. Avoid the Osaka-Kansai airport if you can. The signage is dreadfully inadequate, as is the English spoken by the staff (if you can actually find any staff).

Is it something I said?

2008-11-27T21:52:00.003+01:00

Last month, two of the aircraft on which I was scheduled to fly developed mechanical problems. Both times we had to deplane and reboard other aircraft. Now, the airport where I was scheduled to catch a connecting flight on Saturday has been besieged and closed. I am beginning to develop a martyr's complex. Should I say as Job did, "It's me, I'm the problem. Throw me overboard and all will return to normal"?

The airport was overrun by a group calling itself the "People's Alliance for Democracy" or PAD (Thai PAD, not to be confused with pad thai). In one news report I read, a protester said, "We had to do this to get the world's attention." Well, okay, you now have mine so let's examine the situation. You want the Prime Minister, Mr. Somchai, to step down, and to have a temporary government installed. But Mr. Somchai was elected to office by popular vote twice. Where I come from, we call that DEMOCRACY in action. You say the government is corrupt and that he won the election by buying votes with promises of projects that would improve the lives of his supporters. Boo hoo hoo! Where I come from, we call that POLITICS AS USUAL. Look, you had elections and YOU LOST. You were outwitted. I know it hurt your egos, but don't take it out on the rest of the world. In a real democracy (that is what you want, correct?), you try harder next time.

You may gain the world's attention for a short time, but you are losing its sympathies. I, for one, doubt the intentions of your leaders. If they are willing to hold thousands of innocent people hostage just to achieve their goals, their democratic credentials are rather dubious.

Having the vapors

2008-09-03T23:21:00.005+01:00

I constantly receive expressions of sympathy from my brothers for the fact that my job requires so much travel. Not being one to pass up any chance for sympathy or the material rewards that might accompany it, deserved or otherwise, I graciously accept it. The tricky part for me is to feign nonchalance to my feigned exhaustion, if you can follow that. You see, I basically like my job, and it isn't all that difficult, normally. However, I can't just come right out and say, "Oh, don't feel sorry for me. This is the greatest, easiest job in the world!" That would ruin the whole sympathy thing (especially the material rewards part). On the other hand, it would be unbecoming of someone in my position to overplay the exhaustion card. The brothers want me to be stoic in the face of difficulties, self-giving, concerned more about them than my own health or well-being so I give it to them. It's all fake, but it makes them happy so what the hell!

Anyway, one of the things I like best about my job is the chance to experience different cultures. On my recent trip to Japan, for instance, I was invited to participate in a Tea Ceremony, which I found to be beautiful and very civilized. I am willing to try most things at least once (although I will not, for instance, eat balut). So it was that when I was invited to participate in a "sweat" with a group of Native Americans of the Crow tribe while visiting Montana a few weeks ago, I eagerly agreed. I vaguely remembered one of the brothers explaining the ceremony to me years ago, but I couldn't remember the details. If that brother had survived the experience, I figured, how difficult could it be?

Pretty difficult, it turns out. First of all, you have to take off ALL your clothes. Certain tribes allow bathing suits, but for the Crows, it is stricly au naturel. Lest you get any ideas, there is no mixing of sexes for the ceremony. The men go first, and after they have finished, it is the turn of the women. Although I have no problem undressing in front of others in the locker room of a gymnasium, for instance, the thought of sitting naked among other naked men for an hour or so was slightly disturbing for me. To make matters worse, the reputation of Native American men as the best endowed in the world awakened the old fears of inadequacy in me. Thank God it wasn't a cold day!

After stripping. we crawled into the sweat lodge—a low, rounded tent. A hole in the ground near the lodge's opening was filled with red hot stones taken from the fire that had been built outside the tent a few hours earlier. Once everyone was inside, the flap was pulled down over the opening, plunging the lodge into complete, utter darkness. The only light I could see was a faint, red glow from the stones. I suspected that my lily white buttocks were glowing in the dark, but I couldn't tell for sure. Next, the leader sprinkled a pinch of powdered bearroot on the stones. I couldn't decide if the odor of the resulting smoke was pleasant or choking. Then, while saying some prayers, the leader ladled water onto the stones, creating a choking, scalding atmosphere within the tent. To "enhance" the effects of the steam, everyone was provided with leafy switches with which to lash themselves. This was meant to "open the pores". Yeah, right! Within a minute or so, the atmosphere became breathable again and I relaxed. I had survived! That's when the second ladle of water was poured on the stones. Then a third and fourth. Much gasping.

Shortly after pouring the fourth ladle, the leader opened the flap on the lodge to let in some fresh air. We were given some water to drink. After about ten minutes, the flap was closed and the process started again, this time with seven ladles of water. The flap was again opened, and everyone began to crawl out of the lodge. The steam seemed to have the same effect on me as it would on, say, carrot sticks. My limbs felt limp, and I was unsure whether they would support my weight. Outside the lodge, the eight of us flopped onto the ground like so many albino walruses. Air never felt so good.

After about fifteen minutes, my intimate communion with the four winds was interrupted by the announcement that intermission was over, and the third act was about to begin. Back in the lodge for four more ladles, a ten-minute break, then an "uncounted" number of ladles. I had been advised at the beginning of the ceremony that if the atmosphere became too unbearable I could lie prostrate with my head towards the fire. This is what I did for most of rounds three and four. Not very manly, I know, but necessary. Fortunately, it was so dark inside the lodge that most of the others never knew that I spent the last rounds kissing Mother Earth, as it were.

Afterwards, the others all congratulated me on how well I had done, although I suspect that they do that for all newbies. Never mind that, I think I'm ready for the Vision Quest!

Captain's log 2222.1

2008-08-17T07:49:00.003+01:00

If you're like me, you like to pretend you are Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise while you are sitting on the porcelain throne.

Captain's log. I have ordered Sulu to lay in a course for Sewer Treatment Plant One, warp factor 2. We are to rendevous with a delegation from Turdania 3 to discuss the peace treaty....

Image my immense delight to find a toilet worthy of the great Kirk himself in my bathroom in Okinawa!

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XVIII

2008-07-30T11:52:00.003+01:00

One day, many, many years ago, Brother Prudentius was perusing the photographs sent by some brothers serving in Africa. He was struck by the local women's apparently incomplete knowledge of the consequences of the Fall of Adam and Eve. For while they were covered with fig leaves (or the local equivalent) from the waist down, their upper halves were completely lacking in foliage of any kind. One might be tempted to say that they were defoliated, but that would imply that they had once been foliated, which they probably hadn't. Instead, one would have to say that they were unfoliated, which is not a word. Anyway. Mindful of the urgency of this problem, he felt moved to do something so he undertook a campaign to collect bras for the poor women of those villages. [As I said, this was a long time ago. We would never try this in the current environment. One can just imagine the headlines: "Monk Collects Women's Underwear", "O Bra-ther Where Art Thou", "His Cup Runneth Over", etc.] Once he had collected a goodly number, he packed them up in a large box and sent them to the brothers in Africa.

Upon receiving this unexpected gift from afar, the missionary brothers were speechless. As their way of thanking the brother for his solicitude, they arranged to send him a photograph of all the village women wearing their new... bonnets!

World Middle Age Day

2008-07-24T01:19:00.004+01:00

I was in Sydney, Australia, where I participated in World Youth Day '08. Taking my cue from the event's official logo, I began calling it, "Wide Side 08." It was natural, therefore, that when we began the 10 km walk from North Sydney to Randwick Racecourse for the evening vigil and final mass, I began to sing "Take a Walk on the Wide Side."* None of the young brothers caught the reference to Lou Reed's song.

I ask you, what are they teaching young people these days?!

* Now sing along with me...
Benny came from Rome Italiay
Took a plane and went to Botany Bay
Put on an alb made of lace
Wore red shoes and shaved his face
And said, 'Hey, babe, take a walk on the WYD SYD'
He said, 'Hey, honey, take a walk on the WYD SYD'
And the acolytes chant, 'Du Du du Du du Du du du du ....'

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XVII

2008-07-03T16:52:00.002+01:00

A meeting of 50+ brothers was being held under a large tent set up behind the monastery. When the wind picked up in the afternoon, there was concern that those in the last rows would not be able to hear the speaker. Before starting the meeting, therefore, the brother moderator went to the microphone and asked, "Am I audible from the rear?"

Huh?

2008-07-03T16:26:00.006+01:00

Some of the brothers took a little trip to Naples and the Amalfi Coast last weekend. I came across this sign next to Lago Averno, outside Naples. Very good advice indeed! Thank goodness for the English translation! (Click on the photo for a larger version.)

Tribute to Brother Pilgrim - The Friend

2008-06-13T18:00:00.001+01:00

When I finished high school, the paths of Brother Pilgrim and I diverged for many years. It wasn't until about twenty years later, after I had been in the Order for about 15 years, that I began to get re-acquainted with him. I had been put in charge of one of our monasteries. He lived in a different monastery in the same city and, because he was semi-retired, he would come to our monastery twice a week to cook for us. And, oh, what a cook! But that's beside the point. It was during this time that our relationship changed from teacher-student to brother-brother. I can pinpoint the exact moment. A guy showed up at our door one day saying that he was thinking of joining our Order. He looked a little weird, but, hey, we have our share of weird-looking brothers so I invited him into the kitchenette and offered him a cup of coffee. I asked him a few questions, which he answered in long, run-on sentences. Soon, he stopped waiting for the questions and went into a non-stop monologue. Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration—he did stop long enough to ask for another cup of coffee. I should also mention that at one point, he pulled a small, very frightened looking puppy from his inside coat pocket. You're getting the picture by now. The whole time, Brother Pilgrim had been in the kitchen, quietly working on the evening meal. About an hour into the monologue, Brother Pilgrim said to me in an urgent tone of voice, "Brother, did you forget your appointment?!" Instinctively, I stood up, looked at my watch and said, "Oh my God!". The young man apologized for making me late, and left immediately. As I was showing him out, I realized that I had no appointments that day and, even if I had, Brother Pilgrim would not have known about them!

As Brother Pilgrim got older, he began acquiring an impressive collection of illnesses: diabetes, hepatitis, heart disease and osteoporosis, among others. This latter was to cause him the most problems. He broke bones in his arms and legs at least seven times. At one point, doctors screwed a metal rod onto one of his femurs in an attempt to hold it together. It worked for a few years until his brittle bones could no longer hold the screws in place. The loose rod then became an additional source of pain and had to be surgically removed. [A sidebar: A co-worker and I went to the hospital after the surgery and asked the receptionist if he had come out yet. She called the surgical unit to see and, after she had hung up, announced, "She just came out of surgery." (His real name could be used by either gender.) I turned to my co-worker and exclaimed, "She?! I told him he should have marked his bad leg!"]

Once, after another fall and another broken leg, it was decided that he could no longer remain in the monastery where he had been staying because no one could take proper care of him. He was given the choice of going into a nursing home or choosing a different monastery. He chose to transfer to the monastery where I was living because one of the other brothers there was a friend of his. Although he had mobility problems, he had an active mind so I was happy that he was moving in with us rather than going into some depressing nursing home. It wasn't an easy move. For instance, all the bedrooms were on the second floor and we had no elevator so we would have to help him up and down the stairs. I can't say that the brothers never got annoyed with the interruptions, but somehow we knew that if the tables were turned, he would do the same for us. He also never took any of it for granted. As soon as his leg had healed, he started cooking our evening meals, and he kept that up as long as he could. Even when it became too much for him, he continued to do the meal planning and supervised the hired cooks.

Brother Pilgrim kept his love of theater throughout his life. A few times a year, I took him to see shows at the local theaters. He would try to take part of his annual vacation in New York, where friends would get tickets to Broadway shows for him. He would return a week later exhausted, but beaming. Sometimes while he worked, he would play (much too loudly) the CD's of musicals he had seen. He had an amazing knowledge of actors, directors and the workings of the theater.

Something I didn't know about him until he came to live with us was how many people he was in regular contact with. Daily, he received telephone calls from his former high school students, from nurses and staff of the hospitals where he had been a chaplain, and even from some of the former patients in those hospitals. This was the most amazing thing for me. One of those former patients would fly 1000 miles every year just to visit him for a few days. This simple, unassuming man had a profound effect on everyone he met. He rarely talked about religion, but I believe he brought more people to God than a busload of preachers.

One of the great things about Brother Pilgrim was his ability to listen. When I was having a bad day, I could always talk to him. There wasn't a damn thing he could do to help me, but somehow I felt better after talking to him. Maybe it was because seeing him in his wheelchair made me realize that the sum of my problems paled in comparison to what he must have gone through in just getting out of bed each morning. Then again, he wasn't just a passive listener. He often came out with an insightful response that would help me see a question or problem in a new light. He also had some wickedly snarky comments about people he didn't like. Oooh, I loved those! God knows, he probably made similar comments about me, but I'm okay with it coming from him.

The day before he died, I was told, Brother Pilgrim was in the kitchen helping prepare the brothers' dinner. He probably felt like hell, but no one knew it because he rarely complained. He talked to the cook excitely about his upcoming trip to New York and the shows he wanted to see. The next morning, he quietly started on his final voyage.

I'm going to miss you, brother. Rest in peace.

Tribute to a fellow pilgrim - The Trailblazer

2008-06-09T22:00:00.001+01:00

About a month ago, I lost a good friend in the Order. His passing was not completely surprising since he has been on the brink several times before—I actually started writing this post last year—but this time he just crashed and never made it back. I had hoped that I would be there to say goodbye when the end was near, but as luck would have it I arrived a week too late.

I really began to know Brother Pilgrim, as I'll call him, only in the last eight years or so. He was a good twenty years older than I, and was one of my teachers in the all-boys high school I attended. Even though I was a self-centered little twit and distrustful of anyone in authority back then (it was the 70's, after all), there was something I liked about Brother Pilgrim. It may have been the sense of self-confidence he exuded. It wasn't a self-confidence that came from being smart, athletic or handsome. He wasn't any of those. He was overweight, walked with a limp and had only a GED, whereas most of the other brothers had masters degrees. I suppose that gave me hope that I wouldn't have to go through life battling my own insecurities. Then again, maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe I liked him because he showed us movies during religion class instead of lecturing us about the Trinity, Catholic moral teaching and other such nonsense. I also appreciated his sense of humor. As our class advisor one year, it fell to him to give us the standard lecture on proper behavior. I can still remember him telling us not to kick the soda machines when they weren't working, and "since the machines are physically incapable of having sex, there is no sense in asking them to do so." Wink wink. Nudge nudge.

Brother Pilgrim also directed the school plays, which was his real passion. Despite being a shy kid, I loved being in the school plays. It was during practices for the school plays that I learned my first lesson about Brother Pilgrim. He had a quick temper, but would just as quickly get over it. One moment he would be reading me the riot act for my stupidity, and a moment later he would congratulate me on a fine job. It infuriated me that he could so quickly get over his anger while I would stew about it for days. He once kicked me out of a play for arriving half an hour late for practice. I thought it was rather unfair since it was the first time I had been late. When he saw me later in the hallway, he gave me a hearty greeting, which I repaid with an icy glare. (Years later, he confided that he had never liked my part in the script, which had been written by another brother, because it was completely out of context. My late arrival gave him a convenient way of eliminating my part without hurting the feelings of the brother who wrote the play.)

One of the things that was unique about Brother Pilgrim was that he was not a priest. Non-ordained brothers are a minority in our Order, and back then it usually meant that you would be assigned only to manual labor, such as cooking, cleaning, sewing habits or making sandals. When Brother Pilgrim first entered the Order at the tender age of seventeen, that is exactly what he was assigned to do. He spent the first fourteen years of his life in the Order cooking for the brothers. When the fresh breezes of Vatican II started to blow through the Church, he saw other opportunities open to him. He asked and was given permission to pursue studies in theater and theology during the summer months. In his mid-forties, after many years of working in the high school, he enrolled in a Clinical Pastoral Experience program, then worked as a hospital chaplain for ten years. His trailblazing was important for me as I was making my decision to enter the Order. Seeing the various kinds of ministry that he was able to do helped me to choose not to be ordained.

Next: Brother Pilgrim - The Friend

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XVI

2008-06-01T21:06:00.004+01:00

We try to keep our elderly and sick brothers in the monastery as long as possible, resorting to the use of nursing homes only when we can no longer care for them ourselves. This worked very well when new vocations were plentiful because there were always a few zealous, young men around who were eager to score points, if not with God then at least with the superior.

As vocations have dwindled in the past years, however, the "younger" brothers now tend to be in their fifties and sixties. Which is to say that they are they noticeably lacking in the zeal department, and could give a flying f**k about scoring points. Although there are some kind souls who are willing to help the older brothers out of charity, others see it as an imposition. This sometimes leads to situations like this story I heard recently.

Brother C, the senior member of the monastery, had been confined to a wheelchair for years. He was generally depressed, spoke little, and spent most of the day slumped in his wheelchair. Brother S, the brother assigned to look after him, tried in vain to cheer him up and get him to take an interest in some activity. He was beginning to feel that Brother C was being purposely cantakerous, and it annoyed him.

One day, he came into Brother C's room to take him to the dining room for lunch. As usual, Brother C was slumped in his wheelchair. Brother S greeted him, but as usual, Brother C did not respond. Brother S chided him for not sitting up straight and for being so morose, then wheeled him into the dining room. He parked him at his regular table, told him again to sit up straight, then went to sit in his own place.

Just another day in the monastery. Except for Brother C. For as the other brothers at his table soon discovered, Brother C had already passed away, sitting in his wheelchair. One of the brothers loudly announced, "I believe Brother C is expired."

My momma always said...

2008-05-17T22:06:00.003+01:00

if you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all. Which is one of the reasons I have never said anything about our President, Mr. George W. Bush. I am deeply indebted, therefore, to Mr. Wellington Webb, the former mayor of Denver, who found something nice to say about Mr. Bush in his speech to the Colorado Democratic Convention.

"Mr. Bush," he said, "has single-handedly demolished the myth of white supremacy."

It's true. You can always find something nice to say about a person.

I am two

2008-04-02T06:00:00.007+01:00

Today is the second anniversary of Soliloquy so happy birthday to me. Cake and ice cream for everyone! It is time, I feel, for reviewing and evaluating this blog's existence. It's my party so I can do it if I want.

I was introduced to blogging by Belgian Waffle. I enjoyed reading her blog and many of those on her blogroll. Within a short time, Waffle's nefarious intentions were revealed when she began hounding me mercilessly to start my own blog. My excuses fell on deaf ears and so, despite my extremely humble, private nature, I decided to stick it all out for the public to see.

My genre, I decided, would be to describe life inside a monastery with wry, gentle cynicism. I soon discovered, however, that I am not a good at cynicism. Although I found ample material in one particular brother (Brother Porcinus), I generally like life in the monastery too much to poke fun at it. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I was in a leadership position. Perhaps it was due to maturity (which is known to ruin many of the best things in life). Maybe I was afraid of being discovered by the brothers (one of them did find the blog and identify me as the author so I quickly had to take it down and move it to a new address). Since giving up on cynicism (well, most of the time), I feel that I have never found that something that would define my style. This is still a blog in search of a genre.

Despite my extreme humility (I am the humblest person I know), I was not above placing a counter on my blog and checking the results monthly. Alright, weekly. Only occasionally daily. Results have been underwhelming—about 6,800 hits in two years. This should not be surprising since I am averaging less than one post a week. Still I wonder, what is the point of writing if not for the sake of popularity? I despair of ever reaching the heights of blog writing exhibited by Waffle, Heidi, Moobs or Claudia. While I suspect writing may be slightly therapeutic for me, there are probably better and less painful therapies. Lately, blog writing has become a way of disciplining myself.

So what does the future hold for Soliloquy? Will it continue? Probably so, at least for the near future. I have a few more ideas to put out into cyberspace, and there is still hope that one day I will discover the real purpose of this blog.

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XV

2008-03-29T22:17:00.002+01:00

Brother H had a cold just as Holy Week was approaching. Not wishing to deprive his congregation of spiritual nourishment during the holiest week of the year, he decided to tape his homily before completely losing his voice. At Mass a few days later, when it was time for the homily, he turned on the tape recorder and sat down while the recording played.

At the end of the recording, Brother H made no move to turn off the recorder. In fact, he made no move at all. Finally, the server was forced to nudge Brother, who had gone to sleep during his own homily.