What Isolde wanted to know

 Isolde said...

I'm not sure which of the brothers I should direct this question to, and I haven't read all the books yet so it's possible there's one who'd be a perfect fit and I just haven't met him yet.

But my question, for people who live in community and have to be careful not to have exclusive relationships, is about how you avoid playing favourites/choosing sides and getting tangled up about "loyalty". For instance, my family is big and loving but a bit cracked, and there's something I want to tell my grandfather and a couple of uncles about, but I've never discussed it with my father and I don't know if he'll ever be able to receive it if I try. And normally this might not be a problem, except that my father and these other relatives are estranged from each other, and so I can't help feeling that by "choosing" one "side" to reveal my heart to, and leaving the other out of it, I'm playing favourites. How can you tell the difference between having favourites and whatever the legitimate alternative might be? Especially in a context where you shouldn't be splitting up into cliques — whether because it's monastic life or another type of family living in a fallen world.

*        *        *

I climb the day stairs to where the library is, and the robing room, the brothers’ cells — and the novitiate schoolroom. I’m hoping Father Theodore will be there. I asked permission of Abbot John to talk this through with him, and he said, “Yes, good idea,” somewhat distractedly because he was trying to get through a pile of correspondence before Vespers, but he’d only just begun, and people kept interrupting him, including me.

The door stands ajar, and it is all exactly as I hoped. Theodore is by himself, quietly moving round the room setting things to rights: checking the ink supplies, putting books away, ordering the circle of stools and benches ready for tomorrow morning. The fire is still glowing on the hearth, but very low, enough to air and fragrance the room and send out a little warmth.

He straightens up from what he’s doing. “Oh, hello. Welcome. Were you looking for me?”

So I say yes I am, and that I’ve brought a question from a friend if he’s got time to talk about it. If he’s too busy I can just leave it with him for later because I’ve written it out for him. He smiles and stretches out his hand for me to give him my bit of paper I'm holding, with Isolde’s question.

“Would you like to sit down?” he says. “I do have time, I’m free now until Vespers. This is an excellent time to talk.”

Good. That’s what I was hoping.

He collects a short, thick candle burning in a holder from the table, and carries it with him to the hearth, where he sits down on the hearthstone beside the fire, and reads through Isolde’s question carefully and thoughtfully. I sit myself down on one of the low stools just nearby, and wait. He looks up at me. “This is worth asking,” he says; then he reads it again.

After that he lays my piece of paper down on the hearthstone beside him, weighting it in place with the candle in its holder.

“Let me say straight out,” he says, “that yes, sometimes there are favourites and factions in monastic life as there would be anywhere, and it can all get suffocating and toxic and be difficult to purify, to put right. That can certainly happen.

“But let’s assume Isolde’s situation is different from that — not toxic, I mean, not suffocating. She wants authentic relationship. She has something to confide, but her father — who she feels is unlikely to receive it well — has distanced himself from the men she really wants to tell; her uncles and grandfather.

“It may be unwise to jump to conclusions, but what comes first to my mind is that one man in that situation sounds almighty hard to please. He’s fallen out with his father and brothers, and Isolde thinks he’ll probably object to whatever it is she wants to share. Hmm. 

“So, hesitantly, since I can’t actually be present with that group of men to come to my own conclusions, I would proffer this: a relationship is a two-way thing. If you cannot tell your father what you want to tell your uncles and your grandfather, maybe that’s not favouritism or a clique but just that he has indicated he cannot be trusted with your truth. Trust is given, but also earned. Maybe. I cannot be certain if I’m reading it right, but that’s one possibility.

“Setting that aside, there’s the matter of time to consider — because things have a way of working out if you give them space and peace — and, as well as time, timing; waiting for the kairos. It might be a possibility to hold the intention to bring her father into her confidence when the moment is right, when she feels ready to trust him with her truth.

“Because, look, you don’t have to tell everybody everything. There are things I would choose to say to Francis or Michael that I would be unlikely to say to Richard or Gilbert. And this can be a question of mutuality, or reciprocity, or whatever you want to call it — that some things you might want to share belong to this relationship but not that, will be readily understood by this man but not that. I think that has to be all right.

But this brings me on to the more general aspect of what Isolde says — about what is appropriate and what is exclusion, and how we manage that here.”

He draws the paper out from under the candleholder, and reads through it again, tilting it to the illumination of the flame, then carefully replaces it.

“This is easier for me to answer, because it’s certainly something we think about and I know how it works in this house.

“We understand there can be pitfalls in this matter of relationship and confiding, closeness and trust. It's aspect of our commitment to celibacy — availability as well as restraint. There is meant to be an openness to how we love, a generosity of spirit that welcomes and includes. But at the same time, you can’t force people to be loved and included; sometimes they just want to stand there with their arms folded, glaring at the ground and saying ‘Shan’t!’ through gritted teeth; and we all have to live with it as best we can until they thaw — or leave. I think you know, loving Father William was a very long-term project, that paid off handsomely in the end. We had to stay open and accepting; and I tell you, ‘hard work’ doesn’t begin to describe that man when he first came here, but it was worth it.

“And then, when we make the choice to take our way together, that requires us to develop a habit of acceptance, not of jealousy. If Father John wants to talk something through with Father Francis and not with me, it’s part of the discipline of holy chastity that I refrain from getting defensive about that, I don’t let it drive a wedge between me and Francis, I don’t go all frosty on John; I just respect his right to have conversations with whoever he wants, whoever he finds most helpful. Because, why not? Another time I’ll be the one he wants to confide in; it all depends what he wants to talk about, I suppose.

“As well as that, in the monastic way we make a regular practice of confession, when we take time to talk in depth privately with our confessor — and what we say there is sub rosa and absolutely nobody else’s business. Just having that aspect to monastic life frees us from the supposition that everyone has a right to know everything that’s going on. They don’t. End.

“There’s also the way we handle privacy here. Each man has his own cell, of course, and we each spend a substantial amount of time alone; but even so, living in community is very  . . . er . . . exposing. We do end up knowing one another very clearly, very well. We see one another’s mistakes and indiscretions, everyone’s faults and foibles are on view. We see one another’s disappointments and the antagonisms that arise. We behold one another’s grief and humiliation. All of that.

“So, privacy here is a gift, that we make to each other. It’s part of the attitude of respect and compassion we each bear towards our brothers. There are times when you weigh up whether to see — or not — a man’s tears or his immaturity or his vulgarity. Or sometimes a person just wants to be left in peace. We have to learn to weigh it up, and decide when to see and include and comment — and when to just let something pass, decide we didn’t hear, didn’t see. Otherwise we’d all go crazy from being altogether over-observed.

“In monastic life, we have a name for this clear choice to not see: mortification of the eyes. It’s how we give one another privacy, and also how we protect ourselves against temptation. ‘What the eyes don’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.’ Something like that.

“And of course, we spend a significant chunk of every day in silence. We come out of Compline into the Great Silence that lasts all the way through until after the morrow Mass, and we keep silence in the cloister and go about the work of the day in silence for the most part.

“It allows us to get things in perspective, to refrain from hasty judgements, to bring whatever’s bothering us before the sacred heart of Jesus to be restored to peace and properly understood.

“Silence, solitude — I hold firmly to the view that everyone needs these as much as good food and sunlight and sleep. They are necessary for the spaciousness that allows generosity, and the peace that nourishes the human spirit.”

“George Fox,” I tell him, “said ‘Carry around some quiet inside thee.”

Father Theodore considers this, and smiles. “Did he?” he says. “Yes, I love that. Who’s George Fox?”

“Well,” I say, “he lived about 200 years after your time. But I think you would have liked him. George Fox was heavily into silence. And peace. He proposed four testimonies, in terms of how we live — peace, simplicity, equality and truth.”

Father Theodore takes this in, and nods in appreciation. “Yes,” he says. “I think you’re right about that. I would have liked George Fox.

“But, look, do you think any of this will be of use to Isolde? I dearly hope so, because there’s the Vespers bell, so I’ll have to love you and leave you — in the nicest possible way. Is that all right?”

And I certainly hope it is, because he had to go.

 

 

 

 

What Anne asked Father Peregrine and Father John

 Anne said...

I'm loving reading these extra insights into these beloved people. When I think of Tom and Peregrine in his later years it is the scene with the bowl of raspberries that hits me again: the realization of how deceptively easy it is to use power to disempower others, even when trying, we think, to help. I have a question, then, for John and, if possible, Peregrine, which is haunting me. How, when you have been elected into a position like abbot or bishop or any role of authority, do you hold the power given you gently enough to empower rather than disempower others? And how do you stop yourself beginning to take the influence the rôle gives you for granted?

*        *        *

I waited until the end of the day to bring Anne’s questions to Father Peregrine and Father John, because although I come across them surprisingly in all kinds of places, my own room seems to function as a kind of portal, like the transporter chamber in Star Trek — and I wanted to be with both men together, to see what they would say to each other as well as separately to me.

Abbot John, as he always does, deferred to Father Peregrine when I put Anne’s question to them — looked to him for his answer, and waited quietly for him to speak.

And Peregrine said, “Let me say first how I love the way your friend has worded this: How do you hold the power given you gently enough to empower rather than disempower others? I find that moving, and beautiful, and very unusual as a concept; that someone would hold power gently, with delicacy.

“She has put her finger there on the core of something central to monastic life. Because it is a very authoritarian structure — obedience is at the heart of it — and yet it is intended to travel towards freedom, to fulfil us, not oppress us. 

“Let me come back to that, if I may, after first looking at the second part of what she asks us: How do you stop yourself beginning to take the influence the rôle gives you for granted?

“If I am honest with myself and with Anne, I must at once confess that when I was first appointed as abbot at St Alcuins, I did take that influence for granted. I had grown up on my father’s manor and followed in his footsteps, expecting to command and rule, to decide and choose. I was accustomed to a situation where, apart from my father himself, everyone either did what I said or was swiftly punished. 

“When I entered monastic life, I grasped the idea of humbling myself and denying myself — as a concept, a proposition. I’m not entirely sure that I surrendered to it completely, ever. Maybe, as a tree is espaliered to grow in a particular pattern, so a man will be permanently shaped by early expectation and example. I suppose it must be so. And I was trained to rule.

“But everything in life is a gift, even when we cannot receive it with unfeigned delight. When my hands and my leg were broken, I was appalled by the helplessness, the loss of dignity and autonomy, by the unrelenting and enforced vulnerability it imposed upon me. To say it was transformative is perhaps stating the obvious, but it made all the difference to my handling of the power entrusted to me in my obedience as abbot.

“How can I put this, how describe it? It opened a connection for me with the vulnerability in others, and — this was important — it opened a connection for them, too, with the vulnerability in me. If a man cannot cut his own food or walk reliably along a pathway, or successfully open a door, then both how he expresses authority and how it is received are modified by his own disadvantage and disability. It had of itself a gentling effect, that our meeting ground was in a place of vulnerability — the sons of my house because the Rule required them to submit to me, and me because there was so much I couldn’t do, so many ordinary undertakings where I needed their help. We beheld one another’s frailty, we found one another in weakness. It didn’t matter how aristocratic had been my upbringing, I still couldn’t climb the stairs; and regardless of how skilled was the work of their hands or how briskly they could stride along the track to the farm, they still must submit to what I required of them. Do you see? It established a kind of mutuality. We met in inescapable human frailty. Perhaps because of that, I think they felt I somehow understood.

“But forgive me; I am enlarging on what intrigues me, and I hope also addressing your friend’s question, but I can see that staying present here in a different century is requiring a great deal of stamina on Father John’s part. What were your own thoughts, my brother?”

Abbot John smiled. “Well, firstly that it is such a joy and such a privilege, because of being in a time not our own, to be able to sit with you and talk like this again, my beloved father. It is something I had never imagined could happen. But yes, I admit I am tiring a bit, so I’d better get to it.

“I do not think it would ever be possible for me to get used to the influence of being an abbot. Sometimes it seems ludicrous, other times it is straight up terrifying, always it is a responsibility that I find very daunting. Just for instance — take Father Theodore; he knows more than I ever will of theology and church history, he is more accomplished in every respect; and yet I owe it to him to hold my light steady, to stand in the obedience that has been entrusted to me, to keep faith with its strength which proceeds from the holy Rule. Me fulfilling my obedience and him fulfilling his, is how we stand firm for one another. Even on the rare occasions I may have had to rebuke him, it is not an opposition, far from it. Never more than in those moments am I absolutely on his side. And the same is true of those times when, his abbot though I may be, he has had to challenge my course of action, and hold me to account.

“I think something we all come to understand when we enter monastic life, is that when our superior disciplines us, calls us to account, they are not belittling us or lording it over us, but standing with us in a shared fidelity. The authority of the abbot is a strength to help a man when he wavers, when he falters. At its best, anyway; I mean, there are some rotten abbots as well, of course.”

He pauses then, and adds with a little grin: “Speaking of rotten abbots, did you think to ask William for his response to this question? No?” 

He looks at me, his eyes full of laughter. “I wonder why. No, but seriously, I saw him, you know, with Father Oswald who we took in after he had been maimed and blinded. I saw that Oswald felt safe with William. Not everybody does, and that’s fair enough, but in his way William acquitted himself well as the superior of his house. And he’s a remarkably good confessor. But, yes, he might not be the most obvious man to ask — at least at first glance.

They both look at me, and I ask them, is that all? Shall I write that down for Anne?

“One more thing,” says Father Peregrine. “I think this cannot be complete without speaking of Jesus. The cross is what speaks of his power and authority, because there he redeemed the world. Even in the Old Testament, the scripture framed the power of kings and prophets and judges as accountability. Solomon, Moses, David, Elijah — all of them wielded authority only to the extent that they submitted themselves to the authority of God. On the occasion in the gospels when Jesus was asked by the centurion to heal his beloved servant, that army officer said of himself that he commanded others because he was a man under authority. His power was not from his ego, but vested in him by the Roman Empire. In the same way, an abbot’s power is part of a web of accountability and obedience. I, as a man, am the servant — the property — of Jesus; who in turn gave his life for us, was flogged and spat upon for us, is the servant king. If I remain authentically located in him, expressing not my impulses to power but the true authority of his shalom, then there is real peace, there is no abrasiveness, no oppression. Then our life here flows with the river of grace.”

“And please thank your friend Anne,” adds Father John. “I have no idea if anything either of us said will be what she needs to know, but if nothing else, it has been the occasion for us meeting here, out of time, in the twenty-first century. And these moments of unexpected encounter are such a treasure, such an unexpected gift.”

*        *        *

I also want to ask Father John about what Isolde wrote to me, but for that I think I should go and find him in the 14th century. He was beginning to look distinctly threadbare at the end of this conversation; being in an unaccustomed timeline can be exhausting.

"Remember Me" now published under our Humilis Hastings imprint

We've now published Remember Me on Amazon — that's Book 6 of Series 1 of The Hawk and the Dove stories.

It's here on Amazon UK and here on American Amazon; and it'll be on whatever branch of Amazon is regional for where you live.

The proceeds of all my books published under the Humilis Hastings imprint are shared 50/50 with the community of Carthusian monks at Horsham in West Sussex (here), before tax and before expenses are paid. I am so grateful to them for holding this troubled world in prayer, faithfully and daily, in these turbulent times.

My thanks to Tony Collins for editing, Hebe and Alice Wilcock for cover art, and Jonathan Roberts for cover design and formatting.

What Emma wanted to ask some of the brothers.

 Here's what Emma said.

I have another question for the brothers, which I've had for a while, I just didn't want to post it too soon after the first one. I wasn't sure if I should ask it on the original post or just any post, so . . . here it is, and you can do with this comment as you want.

My question to ask them is about being myself without shame/hiding/tension/performance; not being insanely tense and on-guard about everything but being able to live freely and trust freely without filtering everything through "what is this person going to think of me if I do/say/be like this" and thus keeping myself in iron self-control about everything at all times.

I feel like I'd want to ask Father Francis this, because he seems to have had direct experience with it—performance, hiding, shame. I know he's already been asked a question about shame and healing, but if this is a different enough angle, maybe he would have thoughts on it too? Also, I wondered if you could catch Father Peregrine in the earlier days and get his thoughts as well, unless that's not possible. He always had valuable things to say to the brothers, no matter their struggle.

I guess it would be, in a nutshell: how do I be my own person? What does it look like to be true to myself (in Christ), instead of wrapping myself in so many layers of self-control, and being so good at mirroring others, that I don't even know how to relax and just BE, without fear or shame about how others could perceive me? (Or fear that "just me" is not enough, without endless effort and catering to others to avoid causing them any inconvenience or unpleasantness.)

The thing is, I WANT to be seen and known. But my default is still to hide from it, and it's so easy to do. All those layers of composure and self-control keep me at arms' length quite well with hardly any effort at all. I can and do sometimes speak vulnerably with others, on my own initiative; and I love when I get to have a conversation like that with someone trustworthy. But I'm realizing that that, too, is still something in my control: I'm vulnerable when I invite the vulnerability, when I choose to be, at certain times and in certain ways. Being uncensored in regular life just on a daily basis is an entirely different matter.

So . . . anyway. I'm not sure if I formed any good direct questions out of that. But if Francis, and Peregrine if it's possible, or anyone else you think might be good to ask, have thoughts on any of that, I would love to hear them.

I’m grateful that Emma left it to me to choose which of the brothers would answer her question — apart from Francis and Peregrine — because Father Felix, Father William and Abbot John also had something to say here. 

Going back in time is not the tricky thing about talking with Father Peregrine — but I can’t talk with him and the others together at St Alcuins, because time has moved on there. But they can meet up in the 'now' moment in my room. And although my room is small, space is not an issue because this is non-corporeal.

There was a time, late one night, and I will maybe tell you about it one day, when the abbot and the infirmary brothers (Michael, William, and Christopher) were together in my room in a ministry of prayer. Unexpectedly, Father Peregrine came to join them, which is how I discovered that was possible. When he came in, Father William said quietly, “Excuse me”, and he moved from where he was to where Father Peregrine stood. There he said what he had wanted and waited to say for so very long — which was (multiple times!) “I am so sorry. I’m so very very sorry.” And Father Peregrine said nothing, but he hugged him close, and it was all right after that. But back to what we are talking about — they can meet up provided it’s at my place not theirs. If it’s at their place they are bound by that timeline and some of them can’t therefore be present.

So (apologies for that detour) we sit in my room. I’m not even sure how that works because, as I said, the room is small. But it does. The room expands, somehow. 

There are no preambles, because it's not easy for the 14th century soul to hold presence in the 21st century, but I glance round to check that they are ready — and in so doing catch the moment of unspoken humour and affirmation in Father Peregrine's eyes as they meet Father William's. Then I read out to them what Emma has asked, and they pass round the piece of paper I printed it on.

Abbot John wants to say something, but he looks at Father Peregrine, in deference and for permission, and Father Peregrine nods and indicates that Abbot John should speak. 

Father John says this. “There are some matters here that I recognise as an infirmarian, and some that I recognise as an abbot. If Emma came to me in the infirmary, I would want to look at her diet. Tension, anxiety, and inner restlessness can almost always be calmed by addressing the way we eat. To know more about that, I think your friend Emma could write to you, Little Ghost, because in the timeline where you live I believe there are different parameters that might nullify the advice I would give from ours. I’ll leave that with you, but I think good work could be done there.

“Then — and I speak now both as an abbot and as an infirmarian, there is something about boundaries. To set in place relationships and attitudes characterised by both compassion and respect, it is essential we set boundaries. Each soul has a calling, a work of God to be done, entrusted to us by Jesus. It is important to guard against craving the good opinion of others. Sometimes they will blame us, sometimes praise us, like a wind gusting around us. Our work in this world is to hold steady the light that has been given to us, each one unique. The boundaries we set are like the lantern we fashion to hold and protect the light, so that the weather of praise and blame cannot blow it out.

“And then, I want to add something about being patient with yourself. See it, if you will, as though you had inside your inner imaginative world an older brother and a younger brother. The older brother is there for caution, encouragement, and reassurance. The younger brother is there for trying things out, for offering himself, for learning how to do things and for joining in. Let the older brother within you counsel and support the younger brother within, who will often be bruised and abashed and embarrassed, because it’s hard to get things right. There is more I could say, but let that be enough. Let the others speak.”

He bows his head, and everyone else then looks to Father Peregrine, who sits listening thoughtfully. You know, he still has his twisted hands and damaged leg, still walks with a crutch. I think in the world of light maybe he is free of all that; but here, much like Jesus, the familiar scars are the badge of beloved identity — beloved by us, I mean, not by him. They are our way in to who he is. So anyway, he speaks next.

“My greetings to Emma,” he says. “Yes, I know her. Shame and helplessness belong to being reduced, being of no account, being at the behest of others. They occur where we value and esteem someone else’s judgement over our own, where we are waiting for permission and instruction to allow us to be anything. Self-importance is never a lovely characteristic, but self-esteem is. What I want to say to Emma is — dearest, straighten your crown. Know who you are, daughter of Eve and redeemed of Christ, servant of the most high God and ambassador of the Gospel in a fallen world. You are holy. You are called, you are worthy. Every stumble is a sign that you are walking in the Way. Every mistake is a sign that you are a disciple of the Saviour of the world. When you get up in the morning, make your bed, wash your face — and claim your heritage. ‘The body of Christ: I am’. Walk through this world as a queen, as a light, as a shepherd, as someone of inestimable worth. “It is no longer I that liveth, but Christ who liveth in me.” For so it is. ‘You are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, belonging to God.’ 

“Take your place, dearest; straighten your crown. You have nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of, and you are loved beyond measure. Your sins are forgiven. You are a new creation.”

He stops speaking then, and there is a little silence; but I don’t let it extend too long, because I think it is a strain for them to maintain presence in my timeline. Sometimes one of them just fades out. They get tired.

So I say, “How about you Father Francis? Emma wanted to know what you thought.”

He smiles at me, and nods. “Yes, of course,” he said. "Thank you." He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and the others just wait peacefully until he is ready to speak. “I have found,” he says, “that expectation can be a force of tyranny. There is a state of mind where you feel you can never be good enough. It fastens around a person like an iron frame. It interferes with freedom and joy and confidence. Living up to expectations . . . ah, Jesu . . . it’s exhausting. I’m not sure, because I’m not entirely familiar with her circumstances, but it sounds to me as if Emma needs her proper community of grace — her tribe, as it were. She needs the affirmation and building up of those who regard her with unconditional love, who accept her just as she is. True belonging. I acknowledge this is not easy to find in this world. Perhaps the best I can say is that we are here for her, if she looks for us. A community of true belonging is a bulwark against the eroding force of expectation.”

He looks at me, and nods; that was what he wanted to say. 

So now I ask: “Father William?”

“Well,” says William, “yes. I certainly know about shame. I’m not over-bothered about what other people think of me, primarily because I got used to that being fairly awful.

“Can I take up this matter of boundaries, that Father John raised? I think this is key. The tension your friend mentions, the hiding of self, the performance so as to please and the terror of displeasing. This sounds to me — and God knows, I can be wrong, so perhaps I am — but it sounds to me like the difference between a servant and a master. The master commands and the servant obeys. The servant does everything at the master’s behest. The servant’s life and wellbeing depend on pleasing the master. This gets almighty wearisome in short order, if you have the misfortune to be the one born into servitude.

“In human society, it is usually the men who command and the women who obey. Money commands and poverty obeys. Aristocracy commands and peasants do as they’re told.

In Christ, so the apostle says, there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither, male nor female, neither slave nor free — there is no servant class and no inferior status. This being the case, whoever is in Christ has the right to set boundaries, to determine the agenda, to speak their mind and be who they are.

Maybe I should add a caution here — it is damnably easy to make enemies. Most people have strong opinions about all kinds of things; they all disagree vehemently and of course they are all, always, right. Arguing is generally unprofitable. It only adds to the cacophony. It pays to walk quietly through the world, to want little, and to trust your own judgement. Let them all go their own way, let them all do exactly as they please. You do what is right for you. Hold fast to it, Refuse to budge. Say to the mountain — but softly and politely — ‘No. You move.’

His eyes meet mine. That man is such a dear friend. “All right?” he says. “If it sounds like garbage, it probably is.”

So now the attention of all of us is on Father Felix, who at the present time appears to be quite calm and well, and not in the grip of the mental turmoil that so often afflicts him.

Father Francis has passed him the piece of paper. Felix looks down at it, and he says: “This. This is what speaks to me. I know it so well.  What does it look like to be true to myself (in Christ), instead of wrapping myself in so many layers of self-control, and being so good at mirroring others, that I don't even know how to relax and just BE, without fear or shame about how others could perceive me? (Or fear that "just me" is not enough, without endless effort and catering to others to avoid causing them any inconvenience or unpleasantness.)

“Absolutely. My heart goes out to her. I’ve been listening carefully to what the others have to say, and with such a sense of privilege and gratitude to be here. I esteem them so highly. I have very little to add. Only this: sometimes this is just part of who you are — the anxiety, the sensitivity, the love of precision which is — hopefully — also a love of truth. This will always be beautiful, the desire for truth, the love of the pure note. I have heard Brother Cassian say, at a music practice, ‘That was good, brothers, but you started a whole semi-tone high, which made it hard to reach the notes.’ There is in some people an acute sensitivity to when something is off, and when it is right on the note — when it is pure, when it is true. I can only recommend a slight shift of focus, trying to get it right still, yes, aiming for purity of mind and spirit, but letting that be determined by one’s own conscience, by the witness within, by the still, small voice of the Spirit that arises in one’s own soul. Nobody else’s opinion. No second-hand truth.”

“To get to that,” adds Father Francis, “there has to be a certain inner spaciousness. Being in, but not of the world, maybe. This is why living in simplicity is key. You cannot hone your practise, or quieten your mind to hear the inner voice, without simplicity. It’s just the same as clearing a cluttered house, but on the inside.”

Father Felix, who gets tired at the best of times because he finds life such a struggle, is already beginning to fade. He is almost see-through. This was how I know the rest of them will also be getting tired. It’s just that they are practised at maintaining presence, at standing firm. But obviously you don’t want to wear out your friends. So I thank them and I say goodbye; and I must have been right, because suddenly I am all on my own in my room, just like normal.