On Not Making a Mess
"Stand by the stairway, you'll see something
certain to tell you confusion has its cost"
Standing still. I've said it before - perhaps I've missed my true calling. I think I'd make an alright monk. Once I got my license to drive and a car, I started visiting the monastery over the state line. It was a Trappist monastery, for men only. But I would visit the chapel in the afternoon, when it was time for vespers.
Visitors were allowed to access a small vestibule area to the left and right of the stark altar. There were several short rows of wooden pews on each side. From there you could peer into the almost complete darkness of the church, eyes straining to make out shapes in this cavernous space lit only by indigo blue stained glass and scattered candle flame.
At the appointed time, rows of monks in brown robes would file in silently and assemble towards the center of the space. On cue they would start their prayers, sung in a low chant. You could not see their faces, only faintly illumined silhouettes. This would continue for perhaps twenty minutes. At the end, they would trace their path back out, in the same silent fashion.
Peace. I felt this. In the silence, save for the creaking of the wooden pews, I felt solid. I felt whole. Exiting the chapel, the rending power of the outdoor air and light felt vaguely like an assault. You can't stay here. Back to the real world.
In truth, I know - I think - I belong in "The Real World", where people are involved in far messier occupations than splitting wood and making bread and jam and chanting prayers. In the real world I am not surrounded by vast open acreage, but rather by a fairly closely packed demographic of low-income families. On a whim, inspired by a work training I had attended last week, I looked up the sex-offender registry, correctly anticipating that I would find some registrants in my neighborhood. This is the real world.
The act of observing is the safe place I retreat to when I don't know how to act, when I worry about making a mess. Standing still. To be and not act. There is a value in this. Some might call it cowardice, and in my darkest places, I might, too. It's possible to philosophically debate this point to infinity. When does standing still constitute wisdom, when does it constitute cowardice?
A rash act cannot be undone; an impulse denied may result in death, or it may result in a more fully realized continuance of a far deeper pulse. I cannot place a superior value or judgement, moral or otherwise, on the decision to act or not act. I can only aspire to make decisions that are as thorough, careful, and wise as possible.
I gather myself to myself, in silence. A comb through my hair in the darkness. A sliver of light. My heart.
certain to tell you confusion has its cost"
Standing still. I've said it before - perhaps I've missed my true calling. I think I'd make an alright monk. Once I got my license to drive and a car, I started visiting the monastery over the state line. It was a Trappist monastery, for men only. But I would visit the chapel in the afternoon, when it was time for vespers.
Visitors were allowed to access a small vestibule area to the left and right of the stark altar. There were several short rows of wooden pews on each side. From there you could peer into the almost complete darkness of the church, eyes straining to make out shapes in this cavernous space lit only by indigo blue stained glass and scattered candle flame.
At the appointed time, rows of monks in brown robes would file in silently and assemble towards the center of the space. On cue they would start their prayers, sung in a low chant. You could not see their faces, only faintly illumined silhouettes. This would continue for perhaps twenty minutes. At the end, they would trace their path back out, in the same silent fashion.
Peace. I felt this. In the silence, save for the creaking of the wooden pews, I felt solid. I felt whole. Exiting the chapel, the rending power of the outdoor air and light felt vaguely like an assault. You can't stay here. Back to the real world.
In truth, I know - I think - I belong in "The Real World", where people are involved in far messier occupations than splitting wood and making bread and jam and chanting prayers. In the real world I am not surrounded by vast open acreage, but rather by a fairly closely packed demographic of low-income families. On a whim, inspired by a work training I had attended last week, I looked up the sex-offender registry, correctly anticipating that I would find some registrants in my neighborhood. This is the real world.
The act of observing is the safe place I retreat to when I don't know how to act, when I worry about making a mess. Standing still. To be and not act. There is a value in this. Some might call it cowardice, and in my darkest places, I might, too. It's possible to philosophically debate this point to infinity. When does standing still constitute wisdom, when does it constitute cowardice?
A rash act cannot be undone; an impulse denied may result in death, or it may result in a more fully realized continuance of a far deeper pulse. I cannot place a superior value or judgement, moral or otherwise, on the decision to act or not act. I can only aspire to make decisions that are as thorough, careful, and wise as possible.
I gather myself to myself, in silence. A comb through my hair in the darkness. A sliver of light. My heart.
posted by Black Egg at 9:26 PM
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