30 apr

The last day in the monastery. I found it a wonderful experience. Especially the services. I have been wondering what I was looking for, what I wanted.
I am still not sure, but I think what I was looking for is a 12th century experience in a 21st century world. It is easy to say that the monastery has become an anachronism, but why would have not been true for the 14th or 17th century.
I think it is the everlasting power of beauty. The building in the first place, with a wonderful cloisters and some of the best sculpture of the time. And then the Gregorian chants. Music from heaven. Deeply moving. I could not get enough of it.
In a way it is the power of silence. The voices are so soft and so harmonious and still so gripping and powerful. The closer you get to the acoustic hotspot on the altar, the better it is.
I’ve often thought that monks should also ‘do’ something. The (also) Benedictine monks of Worth have a school. But the example of beauty and harmony that’s given here is purpose and end together. It is good.
I couldn’t help looking from the outside at myself and sometimes shake my head. There were several memories that kept coming back. One is of the mother of a girlfriend when I was about 16,17. She told her daughter not to get to heavily involved with me, because I for sure would become a monk. It was the attitude of Northerners in the South of Holland to those strange catholics that send of their oldest boys to become priests. That this habit had changed dramatically – there are hardly any priests of my age, and the ones that are, are social outcasts – was something that she hadn’t noticed of thought of as a kind of catholic trick.
Not one of my hairs had thought of moving into an abbey, and, although there are less hairs now, it is not for me. But it has its attractions. And it’s better for the soul – and the world – than a bank.
Another one is of one of the first days I was walking. I arrived in this Auvergne village with my walking pole, my walking hat and the scallop on my back. At the other side of the street there were two schoolgirls that started making crosses, bowing their heads, while loudly giggling. There is so much pretense in walking the Camino, at least in my case, that being in a monastery hardly changes the overall picture. I can only say that this Camino walker and this abbey visitor is also me.
The last thought that I had very often is more a vision. No Julie, not Bernadette, sorry. It is the vision of my dad in the cloister. My father was about 24 when he decided to leave the cloister. There are pictures of him when he’s wearing monk clothes, but he left before he was ordained (if that’s the word). I see him in the ranks of monks. I hear him playing the organ and I hear him enjoying the Gregorian chants.
Come to think of it, this might have been a subconscious reason to visit this cloister.
There is a poem by the dutch poet that I have been thinking of. It is about the building of a new bridge. Two sides of a river that seemed to neglect each other become friends. There’s a ship coming through the river. There’s a woman steering it. She’s singing psalms. The poet thinks of his mother. Praise the Lord, she sings, His guiding hand will save you. The monks in Silos are mostly singing psalms. And it is as if I’m hearing my father. Will praising the Lord make his hand guide me?
I will return here. When I was talking to one of the only english speaking monks, still young, around 35 I would guess, he asked about my daughter. How old is she (18, oh no 19). ‘Is she beautiful?’ ‘That is not a question for a monk!’ ‘Oh yes it is, monks like beauty’ ‘OK. Yes she’s very pretty, the prettiest of all.’ ‘Well, bring her over.’ I explained that she is in Holland now and it might be difficult, but that my wife is also very pretty. ‘Well I hope we will meet her soon.’
So back to walking. Climbed up the highest mountain in this area. Also to test myself if I am not sick. That fainting is a strange business. But felt good and strong. No pauses, good pace. Ready for tomorrow. I took a bus here from Burgos, but the 1st of may is an official holiday and the buses don’t go. So I will have to walk to Lerma, more than 30 kilometres east. Not looking forward to it. It’s all on a asphalt road, although there are hardly any cars on it. One monk told me that there was a festival in Lerma tomorrow so I should be able to hitchhike my way up there. But I also heard that Spanish people don’t like hitchhikers. And definitely not when they are also wearing a scallop and walking the camino. Hitchhiking pilgrims are phonies, they think. I have to agree.
Update at 10 o’clock: At dinner one of the other guests offered to drive me to Lerma . Then, without me understanding it, two other guests arranged to go to Burgos and drive me there. After the last mass one of the priests came over to me and told me, in spanish, he would drive me to Lerma. I told him this other guy was already driving me there. He went to talk to him and that’s when I found out about the lift to Burgos. Although the communication is hardly existent, the friendly offers tell something about the atmosphere.