solitude and independence

25 sept. 2024

 I am re-reading Panikkar’s Blessed Simplicity, this time in the Italian translation (Beato Semplicità) for various obvious reasons. My translation of this paragraph that I keep returning to:

 Monks are fascinated with ultimate reality. 

Their life is turned toward it as the only thing that really matters. But this ultimate reality has a door and all our efforts and our energies are concentrated on entering through it. To hold the four noble truths always before our eyes, to constantly remember the frailty of things, to meditate on death every blessed day, to see every event of our life from the perspective of death, not to be touched by anything of that which passes, or does not have immediate incidence on the ultimate end of life or anything to do with the entrance that leads to that goal, to conserve serenity and composure in front of the calamities of the world and the social insurrections because they do not belong to the ultimate level, to be free and ready to confront ultimate reality––these and other similar teachings are familiar among monks. (161)

And yet, what I take to be the major theme of the book is that whereas “traditional monasticism tends toward simplicity through simplification,” contemporary monasticism (he is writing in 1980) “seeks simplicity through integration.” The danger of the former is reductionism, and the of the latter is an “eclectic juxtaposition.” And if “the temptation of the first is pessimism, that of the second is optimism.”

So many polarities dancing around in my soul in my soul, having to do with this new role with DIMMID, the new phase in my own (monastic) life, the re-engagement with spiritual seekers in my ministry. I can only list them; I can’t make them dance together yet. They will (need to) find their own synthesis.

·      Panikkar’s book and thesis are still so strongly appealing to the “new monastics.” And to me especially his notion of integration is very attractive, almost Tantric. I definitely during the Santa Cruz phase of my religious life thought of myself as one of those new monastics, only to get coaxed back into to an administrative institutional role that required of me a conservative approach to find the common ground. And now I find myself here, looking ahead to an itinerant life again, this time with not only the sanctioning of the monastic order, but a mandate to do it, and already invitations coming in with regularlity.

·      And here I sit in this Coronese Camaldolese cloister, where the monks live a life as equivalent to a Carthusian one, strict cloister, very ordered solitude, steeped in traditional liturgy, near total separation from “the world.” (No women retreat guests are even allowed.) There is an intimidating validity to this life, and I know its dangers both for healthy human growth (it takes a lot of maturity to live healthy solitude) and for, as the late Francis Kline might remind us, a healthy ecclesiology. I was also speaking this weekend about Bede Griffiths’ and also William Johnston’s critique of the old ascetical model, which Bede thought had passed its usefulness and Johnston said was not only unhealthy but went against the spirit of the Gospel.

·      My daily reading from the Bhagavad Gita today, remembering Bede’s leaning on the Gita’s implied criticism of, or at least warning about, the Upanishadic-sannyasa way: “Only the ignorant speak of sānkhya (renunciation of actions) and karm yog (work in devotion) as different. Those who are truly learned say that by applying ourselves to any one of these paths, we can achieve the results of both.” (BG V:4). Gandhi’s warning too that the so-called way of the renunciate is fraught with traps to fall into hypocrisy.

·      And yet, this immense appreciation and love for the solitary life, which may be for me, as I always assess about Thomas Merton, as much a basking in independence, the luxury of being able to order my own time. That has certainly been the glory of this sabbatical time, particularly the long days at the Jesuits or with Bob and Ellen in Hillsborough, days that easily filled with exercise, meditation, prayer and lectio, but also overflowed with music and writing and preparations for ministry. 

I had occasion again last weekend with the oblates in Olsztyn to talk about the love of God poured in and then pouring out like a stream of life-giving water (Rom 5 and Jn 7), my favorite bookends.

Eremus ss. Quinque Martyrum

 23 sept 24

 

I’ve only got a trickle of phone service (so no hot spot) and no Wi-Fi so I might not be able to post this for a few days, but I wanted to get these first impressions down right away––and I got plenty of time on my hands for the next three days. I’m in the town of, or at least in the region of, Bieniszew (biyeh-nyèh-chef), in western Poland but still about three hours from Frankfort which is right on the German border. In case you don’t know the story or these arcane Camaldolese facts… 

 

First of all, two of St. Romuald’s first disciples, John and Benedict, were sent to establish a foundation here in Poland, an enterprise dreamed up by the young Emperor Otto, knowing that there would be a possibility of martyrdom since these were hostile barbarian lands. They, along with their three companions Mathew, Isaac, and Kristin, were indeed murdered by robbers. Hence making of them the Five Holy Martyrs, much celebrated here in Poland and of course dear to the heart of all Camaldolese. (Another of Romuald’s first disciples, the famous Bruno of Querfort, was also martyred with his companions a few years later, setting up the triplex bonum–threefold good of our congregation: solitude, community, and missionary-martyrdom. This spot is legendarily where the martyrdom of the Five Brothers happened, hence the name Eremus ss. Quinque Martyrum–The Hermitage of the Five Holy Martyrs. I am told that the major portion of their remains are not actually here, perhaps at a church in town, but just some pezzatini (“little pieces”), as I was told last night. More on that in a minute.

 

The other element of the story is that there are actually two extant branches of the Camaldolese. At one time there were three, but the group based near Venice, the so-called “cenobitic congregation” of St. Michael of Murano, got subsumed into the Tuscan Hermits in 1935. (Another long and kind of sad story…) A strictly eremitical branch was started by Paul Giustiniani, a Renaissance humanist who was instrumental at the Council of Trent, in the 16^th century. They are known, at least by us, as the coronesi, because their original house was on Monte Corona. They are now very few in number, but I believe most populous here in Poland. (As a matter of fact, there was once a rumor that John Paul II was considering retiring back in Poland at a Camaldolese Hermitage.) This hermitage is a community of that eremitical branch. In all these years this is the first time I have ever been in a living Coronese community. Though our branch actually took over two former Coronesi houses in Italy, Monte Giove in Fano and San Giorgio on Lago di Garda. They are much more like the Carthusians and never entered into the Benedictine Confederation. When Fr. Prior introduced me to the brothers in the sacristy this morning, in Polska, about the only thing I understood was when he said, “O-s-b Cam.”

 

I’ve learned all kinds of interesting little facts about the history of Poland that play into the story of this place too. It was first begun in the early 17th century, but the church wasn’t consecrated until 1797, just a few years after Poland was chopped up by Russia, Prussia, and Austria. For a while this area was under Prussian rule but after Napoleon’s crusade it came under Russia. The hermitage did not thrive however and was dissolved in the late 1800s. The monks came back and reconsecrated the church in 1937, but then World War II erupted. Some of the monks were sent to concentration camps in Dachau and Ravensbruck, and the cloister and other buildings were occupied by the legendary Hitlerjugend (“Hitler youth”) who destroyed almost everything, even opening tombs and scattering monks’ bones in the nearby forest. It took 30 years after the war to reconstruct.

 

I didn’t mention the concert the night before. Nobody seemed to mind, but for me the day was really packed. The conferences were all scheduled for an hour and half (though I insisted on taking a stretch break after 45 minutes), then after our conference Saturday afternoon, we headed over to another location where we heard a talk from the director of the place. It was a fascinating venue, an old Jewish purification house, where bodies were prepared for burial in the cemetery which was directly behind the building. It had been built by a Jewish famous architect named Erich Mendelssohn and suffered all the ravages of World War II Poland and post-war neglect, before it was refurbished and is now one of the prides of the city of Olsztyn. It had a marvelous acoustic, for sure. 

We then watched a beautiful film based on Andrzej’s photo essays of India and only after that did I do my musical performance. I was already pretty tired by then. I had carefully laid out this program which I am going to use in Germany and at Oxford as well, but given the lateness of the day and the length of time the audience had already sat through other things, I shortened it by three songs. I was singing very well too, I must say, and playing pretty well, but the guitar was fighting me a few times. Don’t know if it’s that the strings are old or because of the humidity of the place, but the strings felt really mushy. My fingers did forget a few things, but I recovered quickly and probably no one knew. Having a little more time to prepare myself after teaching all day would have been optimal. Anyway, the folks really loved it and sang along very well in spite of it being in English.

 

By the time that was over I was exhausted. There were several people who wanted to talk with me every free moment I had, some of whom were staying with me at the retreat center, and that was getting very tiring for me. My introverted side was aching. So, with Alicjia’s help I slipped through the crowd back to the center and took some food back to the solitude of my room.

 

Sunday, we started the day with Mass at the cathedral around the corner. The original plan, which I had just skimmed and not really thought through, was to have Mass ourselves. When I realized that and pointed out to Andrzej that I did not speak Polish and not many people would know the responses in English, he said “That’s alright. We can have a silent Mass” as I take it they do sometimes with Fr. Laurence with the WCCM. I think he thought I was being hyper-careful not to cross the Vatican when I objected to that, but what I meant was that that would go against everything the Second Vatican Council had fought for (i.e., participation!), and it was not good to model that to folks. That’s when Andrzej and Alicjia came up with the idea to go to the cathedral instead and I agreed to “concelebrate.” (Life is a “word event” and that’s another term I have lots of issues with…_

 

Again, it was interesting to be somewhere and not speak a word of the language, although there was a deacon who was also attending our retreat who helped translate. The rather young parish priest came in and didn’t say a word to me even with a translator, just shook my hand and got business. And I sat mutely on the side and put my canonical hand(s) out at the appropriate times. My impression from that Mass as well as conversations with some of the folks on retreat is that Polish Catholicism is conservative and devotional. All men on the altar, the servers dressed in clerical back and white. Although you didn’t have to use it, there is still an altar rail and many people knelt at it to receive Communion and many people, even those who were not kneeling, received on the tongue instead of in the hand. The music was nice enough, a very fine organist and singer, and there was definitely singing on the part of the assembly. No idea about the homily. 

 

We then had a Q&A period back at the center. I had expressed surprise that so much time had been allotted for it––1:45!––but Andrzej said, “Wait and see.” And sure enough, we went the whole time and could have gone longer. Normally those sessions make me nervous, but I felt very much at ease this time. Of course, Andrzej was translating, and we had developed a really good rapport by this time, which led to some very humorous moments teasing each other. And wow, the questions were great––even such fundamental things such as “what does salvation mean and how does karma play into that?” and reincarnation and the role of authority in the Church, the meaning of the Eucharist. A few times they asked me what Fr. Bede thought about this or that. I was hesitant to answer without really going back to look at his writings, but it was always acceptable for me to answer from my point of view. It’s funny how conservative I am in a situation like that, meaning careful and wanting to be precise. I told them that I get teased for having footnotes in my homilies, but that I am about the only person I know who can quote Pope Benedict XVI and Ken Wilber in the same paragraph, both approvingly.

 

After the closing Q&A and a final meditation we met a few of the folks for lunch at a local traditional restaurant. I have found the food a little on the heavy side, lots of fats, cream sauces and cheese (the latter of which are delicious). At the restaurant a little wooden container of lard was brought with the bread, which was apparently delicious. Apples, potatoes, potato pancakes, and of course dumplings. I do have to watch my intake because I do love cheese and butter and hearty bread. Then A&A drove me here, an almost four-hour drive through the beautiful countryside. I slept in the car at first and was also struggling to stay awake while Andrzej was telling me about more of his adventures around the world, his history with WCCM and India, and more about his amazing life, and by the time we arrived here I had a pretty bad headache too. 

 

This place is pretty isolated and remote––not like Big Sur remote, but definitely out in the woods down a dirt road. There is an imposing wall around the place and a huge door with literally no handle on the outside, if you know what I mean. We had some trouble getting anyone’s attention with the various bells and buttons, but after a phone call to the local priest who called somebody on the inside, the big door finally creaked open to reveal a tall long-bearded gentleman in a white Camaldolese habit complete with the long white cape, who introduced himself as Prior Stanislav. He did not speak any English or Italian but assured me through A&A that there would be someone who did. He helped me carry my things in, and I was anticipating some kind of a raised eyebrow about my rolled-up yoga mat or guitar, but nothing. We left A&A behind, and Prior Stanislav ushered into what I would later figure out was the outer cloister, into church, where I sat in a pew and listened to the monks recite/sing Compline in the choir behind the high altar and tabernacle (like Monte Giove and San Giorgio) in a kind of recto tono, that is, all on one note. (Well, there were a few other, shall we say, harmonic overtones in there…) It really struck me as sounding like Tibetan chanting, very low and guttural.

Then came the funny part. Prior Stanislav came out from choir with a portly younger man with a big beard named Mattia who was dressed in lay clothes, who turned out to be a Jesuit who has been living there with the monks for some time now, “for spiritual reasons,” he told me. He has studied in Rome some years ago and spoke some Italian. It was akin to a comedy routine, us trying to communicate, Mattia trying to remember his Italian vocabulary, Stanislav trying to pull out a few words of English (“super” and “great”). Mattia kept using the formal lei with me, though I told him to please use the informal tu, and he kept saying “Come si dice?” and point to something or act it out. They couldn't have been more gracious, and Stanislav especially has very kind eyes, a gentle voice, and a kind of wry sense of humor. He keeps calling me “maestro” for some reason. I don’t know if that means something different in Polish. When they figured out I liked honey and would like some for my morning tea (my one Polish word––miod) which they actually produce here with their own bee hives, Prior Stanislav took me to the warehouse where all the honey is stored and he showed me all the different varieties, telling me which one was “super-duper.” They then led me to my cell in the guest wing in the outer cloister with a little bag of fruit and bread, cheese and butter and left me to my own after explaining everything the best they could in charades.

 

It has been established (I think) that, since I don’t know Polish, I will only join them for Mass a little after 6 AM. Prior Stanislav himself will come and knock on my door when it is time (as soon as Matins ends). There are several other non-monks here who were concelebrating Mass. One appears, by the ring he wears, to be a bishop, another, when he took off his chasuble was wearing the black of a Conventual Franciscan, and another, who later brought my food, introduced himself as Don Giovanni, a parish priest from Krakow. Other than that, about seven monks.

 

And now I have the rest of the days to myself. Stanislav did ask me, through Mattia, if I wanted to eat like a guest or like a monk. I said like a monk, and I think that means less food or simpler food than usual. I thought that meals would be brought to me three times a day in a tiffin kit like we use at the Hermitage, but the man who brought my kit this morning, with bread and cheese and butter and jam, said, in Italian, this is collazione, pranzo e cena. I asked if he spoke Italian and he said, “Un poco…” Funny for Italian to be the default language, but I guess that’s religious life in Europe, and again I am so grateful for it. I had asked too if I could go for a walk in the countryside (I think going through the cloister in my running shorts would be too much) and the response to that was somewhat vague. But just a little while ago Stanislav knocked on my door and presented me with a fob for “electric door” and then motioned “opening” with his hands. I assume that is the big gate at the driveway.

 

The silence here is as deafening as the darkness last night was nearly complete. And I am so happy to be here for a few days.

 

P.S. The food has been sumptuous and is coming three times day. This morning I sent back several pieces of bread and an unopened wedge of brie. So I am glad I’ve discovered the long walks. The place is not quite as remote as I thought, though it is still protected by a high wall all around and lots of warnings about not breaching the klauzura. Very relaxed, reading, writing, napping––could almost wish for a few more days. My phone suddenly is producing a hot spot so I will post this. 

Rome to Poland.

 20 Sept, from Olsztyn, northeast Poland, about 60 miles from the Russian border! I jokingly asked my hosts if I was safe…

It has been a pretty intense week. Fr. William, my predecessor in DIMMID, came up from Rome to Arezzo last Friday to spend the weekend with me at the Sacro Eremo of Camaldoli. Besides just treating him to a weekend there, we had our transition meetings, mostly on Saturday. I still had a series of questions, some about budget and travel, about organizational structure, etc. but it wound up being mostly about contacts. And together we put together a long list of friends and coworkers from around the world. I told William at the end of the time that those meetings were very good for me; everything went from theoretical to very practical, and I felt a little more prepared for the job. 

 

We of course celebrated all the liturgies and had all our meals with the monks while there, but on Sunday evening I took him over to meet my ladies in Poppi. I so love that place and loved showing it off to him. And the nuns of course were as warm and hospitable as always. Sr. Regina outdid herself with a fine Indian meal; she must have intuited that I was craving hard-boiled eggs because she made her famous egg curry served with homemade square chapati (with half rice flour and half wheat flour, she boasted). I was supposed to have given a retreat there in October, but so far no one has signed up but one, and so the new prioress Patrizia and I have agreed that we can cancel for now and try again for next summer. She thinks a combination of factors has led to a lack of interest in general, whereas the last two times we gave it––Preghiera nella Grotta del Cuore (“Prayer in the Cave of the Heart”) based on Antonia Tronti’s translation of my book––it was sold out. I do not take it personally and am kind of glad for another break in my schedule. I still have an overnight train down to Arezzo already bought and paid for for that weekend, but I am more than welcome to come and spend the weekend with them. As a matter of fact, when I told Patrizia about my housing woes, she offered me a spot that I had actually dreamed of in the past myself, a little apartment at the bottom of the monastery there in Poppi that they had renovated to house a refuge family from Eritrea, and where also lived a Brazilian woman hermit for a time. Who knows? Dreams do come true.

 

My German confrere Axel has been there in Italy for some weeks fulfilling obligations for yoga retreats and workshops, that very weekend one on Nidra Yoga with a teacher in his lineage (the Himalayan school) from Australia named John. John happened to also be leaving from Arezzo on Monday and so the four of us had a nice visit on the way to the train station, and William and I whisked off down to Rome, he to Sant’Anselmo and I to San Gregorio. 

 

George, the vice-prior there, had sent me a message saying that we were going out for pizza that night. Little did I know that “we” included all those who were there for the Congress of Abbots, Prior General Matteo, plus Cristiano from Fonte Avellana and dear Dorathick from Shantivanam, who I was so glad to see. Plus, there was Donbosco from Tanzania, now staying in Italy for a time, and a young boarder, a bright student named Francesco from Perugia, doing his Masters Degree in International Political Science at an English speaking faculty in Rome. And of course the pillar of San Gregorio, Innocenzo, now 80 years young and still spry. We had a lot of fun, a lot of laughter, wonderful pizza, a few liqueurs (not I), and a nice mile or so walk to and fro in the cool Roman evening. Innocenzo was in a particularly jocular mood. I sat across from him and somehow we were the perfect foils for each other and had everyone around us laughing. I’m quite relieved at how well my Italian is holding up. It’s the same as with performing: if I start thinking about what I’m doing I’m prone to make mistakes, even with my own songs that I’ve played for years! But I’ll keep at it, since, as I learned two days later, it’s going to come in very handy for my new job.

 

The next day, Tuesday, was not quite so fun. I had my first semi-official meetings. To make a long story short: the Venerable Maio Hai, a Chinese monk with a double lineage in the Ch’an and Theravadan tradition wants to start a World Meditation Day and an institute, in Switzerland, for the study of meditation. He tried to enlist the Holy Father, whose people passed the request onto the Dicastery for Interreligious Dialogue, who passed it on to Fr. William at DIMMID, who passed it on to me. It does sound interesting, and I agreed to be in touch with him. Well, he flew all the way down from Switzerland to meet with me in the salon at San Gregorio. We had an hour. He showered me with gifts––I should have thought and had something for him––and we had a nice long chat. 

 

Then I walked up to Sant’Anselmo to meet William for our meeting at the Dicastery. The Abbots Congress is going on and they were on a coffee break, everyone lounging around the outdoor covered walkways drinking coffee and juices and munching on sweets. There were several men I knew from last when I was there as prior of New Camaldoli. In the meantime, I had found out that I had misunderstood: the rector at Sant’Anselmo did not actually have the authority to grant me a room, so I wanted to speak with the prior, Maurizius, who I knew, about a possible room. I waited patiently for Maurizius and he told me that they were full this semester there at Sant’Anselmo but maybe next semester, but in any case I had better speak with Ab Primate Jeremias first. That’s when I found out that Abbot Jeremias was a bit surprised that I had been named without consulting him. I was probably more skittish than I needed to be, but suddenly not only did I still not have a place to stay, I also wondered if maybe I wouldn’t have a job at the end of the day either if Abbot Jeremias decided that he wanted to put someone of his own choosing in the position. So, the rest of the day was clouded, shall we say, by this shadow of a doubt about the whole enterprise.

 

But I neglected to mention the shoes… Wanting to travel as lightly as possible I only packed my black minimus running shoes and my sandals which have sufficed so far. But I thought that they would not be fitting for a visit to the Dicastery for Interreligious Dialogue at the Vatican. I had plans to buy a pair of shoes when I got to Rome but when I mentioned that to my friend and confrere Mario at San Gregorio he immediately offered to give me a pair. He let me choose from several pairs and I finally picked the one that seemed to fit the best. Operative word is “seemed.” They were already bugging me by the time I got the walk up the Aventine to Sant’Anselmo, but by the time we walked from the taxi to the office of the Dicastery I was squirming in them. 

 

We had a very nice formal meeting with Sri Lankan Monsignor Indunil Janakaratne Kodithuwakku, who has the distinction of having the longest name in the Curia. The main purpose of the meeting was for him to meet me, since DIMMID works with and consults for the Dicastery from time to time, but Msgr. Indunil also wanted to fete and thank Fr. William for his many years of service. He had come nice gifts for William and then presented me with two as well. One of them was a copy of the painting commemorating Nostra Aetate that is in the entryway of the office of Paul VI surrounded by leaders of all the world’s religions, all of whom he had met except for Gandhi who was displayed. I had liked the painting so much I had already taken a photo of it so I was very happy to get a nice small framed print for my room (wherever that might be). By the time we left the office and walked to the restaurant I was very uncomfortable in the shoes. A wonderful lunch at a pretty chic little restaurant just a block away from St. Peter’s and more visiting. Msgr. Indunil and I exchanged WhatsApp info which I took as a good sign that the meeting went well, and I actually thought he would be fun to hang out with sometime after work. All through the meeting and the meal the dark clouds were gathering as I kept remembering the uncertainty of my living situation and now suspecting that the job itself was also not a sure thing. And on top of that my feet were killing me by the time we got in the taxi and headed home. As soon as I climbed the stairs to San Gregorio I untied my shoes, and as soon as I got in the door I slipped them off and sure enough as soon as I got my socks off I found blisters. It didn’t stop me from slipping into my hiking shorts and running shoes and heading off for a long walk to shake off the doubts and darkness.

 

It was an interesting spiritual experience, I must say, to feel that kind of poverty and to strive, shall we say, for that kind of abandonment. I walked a total of seven miles: back over to my favorite tea shop near the Pantheon to get a sack of Assam to take with me, to the big, beautiful Apple store to buy some iTags for my guitar and backpack (I think a very worthy investment), and look for a light jacket to supplement my sweatshirt for the cold climes I’ll be entering these next weeks. I had the mala the Ven Maio had given me, and my favorite prayer meant more to me than ever that afternoon: “O my God, I offer myself to you to build with me and do with me as you will…” Back home I had Mass with the brothers, made up an excuse to skip dinner (“phone call,” which I did make), got a good night’s sleep. I skipped collazione and had another long walk in the morning, the one I love, up to Termini, to buy my train ticket to Fiumicino for the next day, spent some time at the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli e Maritiri, the former Carthusian monastery across from Termini. When I got home, I packed my bags to be ready to leave in the morning, put a few more things in storage in an armadio, and by the time I was preparing to head over to Sant’Anselmo I had real sense of peace and release.  If I had to go back to New Camaldoli instead of stay on in Rome with or without this job––what a luxury problem! I like the Italian version of this prayer a lot and it stays with me like a mantra: Sia fatta la tua volontà–“Thy will be done.” Is there any other real prayer than that?

 

As it turned out it wound up being a great day. When I got there William introduced me to Abbot Boniface from South Africa who is hosting the Shi’a-Monastic meeting this December, a delightful young guy, we had lunch with Abbot Cosmas Hoffman of Mechede, a German monastery of the Ottilien Congregation, who is the coordinator of the European commissions of DIMMID, and talked excitedly about getting all the Europeans together for a meeting in France with the excuse of me wanting to meet everyone. Then right after lunch, lo and behold, as I was speaking with someone else William walks up with Abbot Jeremias to introduce us. Abbot Jeremias shook my hand firmly, looked me directly in the eye and said, “Okay, now quickly, tell me three things about yourself.” I said, “I’m a Camaldolese Benedictine, I’m a musician by trade and…” before I could say anything else William said, “And he knows people all over the world!” I amended that by saying, “I’ve been doing this work for a long time.” We exchanged a few more pleasantries and some official stuff, and at one point he assured me that they were working on a room for me and then he asked when the appointment was official and what was the Constitutional role of the Abbot Primate. I thought that might be the moment when he might have decided he wanted to start all over again, but instead he said, “Well, so then the appointment has been made.”

 

A few hours later we were in the assembly with all the abbots and priors and William got up to give his final report. He is such a fine speaker and obviously well respected. He was sitting up at the front table with the Big Guns and had me sit in the assembly until he called me forward. I like to say that there are very few times in my life when I get nervous in front of a crowd. This was one of those times. My heart was beating very hard. He introduced me and called me forward, my face splashed on the overhead screen 20 times too big, and I started my short speech. About one sentence in Abbot Gregory from the front row motioned to me, kindly, to slow down, and somehow that calmed me down a little. I had treated it like a homily––you only get one chance to make a first impression––and had it practically memorized with room for improvisation. And it went very well and was very well received. Abbot Jeremias shook my hand and thanked me before I stepped down off the dais. Afterward William and I both had several conversations with guys who were interested, and I was madly trying to take down names and addresses or exchange WhatsApp numbers, the new visiting card. That continued after Mass at dinner. I was so grateful for Italian at that point! At least twice I met French speaking monks––one my counterpart in Alliance Inter-Monasteres, with whom I will coordinate, and the other the Olivetan abbot of Abu Ghosh in Israel––who asked “Parli italiano?” and apparently do not speak English, and we got on just fine. We then had dinner with Abbot Olivier Saar of Keur Moussa in Senegal, with whom I feel like I had become close friends just through email conversations and made plans to visit there, maybe as early as next March.

 

After a tumultuous day before, I left Sant’Anselmo about 9:30 PM and walked down the Aventine back to San Gregorio feeling very light and grateful, almost as if some kind of “ordination” had happened, and it was all very real now. And I sang right out loud as I was walking along the Circo Massimo “Lord, I want to be / an echo of your peace…” the whole song, including the Spanish version that Pedro and I put together for Uvalde Texas back in 1985. “That’s what I wanna be,” I heard Israel Houghton’s voice in my head singing, “Oh, oh, oh, ooooh Lord.”

 

Early morning taxi and train to Fiumicino, smooth flight to Warsaw, long beautiful train trip to northeast Poland and the charming town of Olsztyn where I was met by my hosts Andrzej and Alijia. It was on the plane, as I was trying to make a list of all the names and contact information I had gathered the night before (and remember who they were and where they were from), that I had another wave of realization: that this new phase in my life has seriously begun now. This is what I am going to be doing for the foreseen future. And it felt good and right.

 

The folks here are lovely, both a Benedictine oblate group and members of the WCCM, and this little retreat house is ideal. I could live in this room for the rest of my life. It is strange now to be in a country where I do not know the language at all––though I did learn the word for honey (miod) so that I could walk to the store and buy some early in the morning yesterday for my loose-leaf Assam. 

 

Andrzej, who hired me for this, and I have worked very hard not just on the translations of my talks, but on the talks themselves. He is very knowledgeable about India and Bede and was very instructive on what and even how he wanted me to present. And as frustrating as that was––for all extents and purposes I re-wrote all three presentations in the last three weeks––they turned out very well, three conferences on the thought of Bede Griffiths. As I told Abbot Gregory, when he asked me when I could officially start, everything I am doing in the next months easily falls under the umbrella of this new position, and it feels very right to be starting out with conferences on Fr. Bede who got me started in this whole thing 33 years ago. The folks have been very engaged and really seem to be absorbing the material, in spite of the lugubriousness of having to hear everything twice, once in English once in Polish, though a good chunk of them do speak English. Andrzej and I had a good rhythm going, though I think he is working harder than I am. Though I am trying to “stick to script” and not improvise too much, there are moments when I just have to. 

 

I did learn yesterday that in fact I will have a room at San Gregorio after all, which is the best solution for sure, to live with my Camaldolese confreres. Hopefully when I get back to Rome in mid-October for a week (to help sing for the Synod with my brothers again) I will be able to move into it and settle in a little better.

 

That’s all for now! Bless you all. I got my electronic ballot in via email this morning, so I am getting my vote in early. The whole world IS watching, I can assure you.

native genius

 10 sept 24

A funny thing happened on my way to the Eremo… I actually drove here because there was a Peugeot in Rome that needed to be moved back to the monastery. I was not at all looking forward to driving through Rome but was somewhat assured by the trusty GPS. (I’ve been using an Italian voice for the past few months in America to get me used to the language, but ironically I switched it to an American one here in Italy so as to be extra sure I wouldn’t get lost.) But I inadvertently had it set to “avoid tolls,” so it directed me not up the A1 freeway, which is pretty much a straight line from Rome to Arezzo, but by a bunch of backroads, the SS2 and the SS71 if I recall correctly. It took me about halfway up to realize what I had done wrong, but I was none the worse for the wear. It actually a beautiful drive through the Umbrian countryside, passed little towns and fields of dead sunflowers all still bowing their faded crowns in the same direction. 

At one point the road was very windy and as I came around a curve there was Orvieto looming to my right up on a hill in all its splendor. If the road had actually gone through Orvieto I might have stopped––I love that city––but it did not. I wanted to go to a little restaurant just north of there in a little town called Fabo that Alessandro had taken me to once, but alas, by the time I got there it was way too late. They were closed after pranzo until they open for cena at 19:00. So, I happily enjoyed a nice stop at a BAR Snack (sic), ate a panino, some croccanti, an aranciata and a café normale. 

I was pleased that the woman behind the counter did not speak to me in English, that she understood me, and I understood her without hesitation. Axel and I went to Bibbiena yesterday to run some errands and I noted to him the same thing toward the end of our errands from every place we had been. I take that as a good sign. Every time I come, I have to re-learn a bunch of things, but I suppose I am building on a better base each time too. 

By now I am feeling pretty good about the language, though I am working at improving it every day. That has been my biggest concern (“worry” is too strong a word) about living here semi-permanently. I really would like to be much more comfortable in most every situation. I am going to be going and coming three times between now and January but it’s never a waste to exercise that part of my brain. I’ve taken to my old exercise of walking with my phone on which is my Oxford Italian dictionary app. I listen to Italian podcasts (from Australia, of course) on my way out and make up conversations on my way back using the list of recent words. “It’s good and good for you!”

The community here at the Sacro Eremo has been very welcoming, and I feel right at home. As soon as I left the confines of Rome itself and drove into the countryside, I began to feel a wave of relief, and a love for Italy rose in me again. The weather of course has been extremely different from the forno of Rome, even downright cold, or at least cool, at times. And there is quite a crowd here now. My friend Axel is here. He has transferred to Germany from Camaldoli but is back here for a month giving yoga retreats. Prabhu from Shantivanam is here, as is Donbosco from Tanzania, who I didn’t really know at all. Also simply professed Niccolò is here during summer academic break. So, with most of the usual guys and a few claustral guests there is a pretty full choir. 

As much as I loathe the rococo style, there is something about this chapel that retains its simple elegance. And of course, there is something about the very stones that make up these cells that give me a sense of solidity and timelessness. I have never stayed in this particular cell before, San Carlo. It’s smaller and very simple and I am quite settled in here. Especially Sunday afternoon I felt as if I could have been back in Big Sur. They have modified their schedule in two ways that they credit to adopting the ways of Big Sur. Not only do they have a Desert Day every Monday (that was already in place when I was here for the Visitation and Chapter), now the evening meal is taken on your own. Monks take turns serving to the guests in the evening and cleaning up from that. 

It was kind of funny. There was still breakfast (colazione) served on Monday’s Desert Day for those wanted it, as well as lunch. When I came down the woman oblate named Rosanna was there putting things out. I asked her in a whisper if we observed silence on desert days, she nodded “Si” solemnly. And so, we did. Until other monks came in and started chatting. I asked Alberto, the vice-prior, if we observed silence and he just shrugged his shoulders and made some ambiguous gesture with his hands as if to say, “If you want to be silent, be silent!” Also as much as I approved of the evening per conto suo, I was “worried,” shall we say, that that meant no Pizza Night on Saturday. (My buddy Zeno here always refers to it to me in English––Pizza Night!) I cryptically asked him at lunch on Friday if we didn’t have a common meal every night and he said, with that same gesture as Alberto’s, “Tranne sabato. È Pizza Night!”

So, perhaps if you’re reading this you have also followed the news announced on Facebook (and maybe the NY Times and the Osservatore Romano) that my guitar was finally delivered to San Gregorio Thursday afternoon––after being missing for five days! The thing I know is that every hour that ticks away when luggage has gone missing, the less change you are going to have of speaking to a human being. So there was a great sense of relief, as you might guess. I asked Mario to send me photos just to bring some closure, and he did. I have been advised to get some Apple tags for my bags now, which I fully intent to do when I get back to Rome. I’m also going to try as hard as possible, even if I have to pay a little more, to always get a direct flight (how much would I pay for a separate ticket anway?), though it didn’t help this time, and try to always gate check it instead. I wrestled over and over whether to bring it in the soft case-gig bag, which I can always get on board, or the heavy duty Calton travel case, which I rarely travel with anymore. And wouldn’t you know? The first time I travel with the travel case…

I’ve been picking away at some work. I am giving a music workshop in Germany along with a concert. For the last three years I was planning on perhaps transferring here to Italy anyway––if don Alessandro had been re-confirmed, he wanted me to both serve on his General Council and he really wanted me go back to my work in music. He’s a big fan. I was happy for that but kept adding when I spoke to him about it, “and also the work in dialogue.” Now that I am transferring here to do work in dialogue, I also want to make sure that there is enough time for music, even the music that has nothing to do with interreligious dialogue. (And some of my friends keep urging that, sternly, as well.) As it turns out, four out of the five events I have coming up all include a concert, and I am using the same program for all five, which does concentrate on the “world music.” But there is the other: the amazing unclassifiable work I do with John Pennington, and then straight-ahead liturgical music. 

To be fair, there is very little straight-ahead about my approach to liturgical music either. The workshop I am preparing is actually the revisiting of an old one called “That A Popular Chant May Emerge: A Workshop on Essentially Vocal Music.” And if I have a unique voice in liturgical music it is this. I also realized as I am preparing it, that the same sensibility that underlies my work in dialogue underlies my approach to music, as a matter of fact the approach to music predates it. I am quoting Sacrosanctum Concilium saying that

In certain countries, especially in mission lands, there are people who have their own musical tradition, and this plays a great part in their religious and social life. For this reason, their music should be held in proper esteem and a suitable place is to be given to it, not only in forming their religious sense but also in adapting worship to their native genius...[1]

I didn’t realize that I had borrowed the phrase “native genius” from SC when I speak about the “native genius of the Indian spiritual tradition.” Also quoting the famous aphorism of St. Thomas Aquinas, firmly affirmed by Pope St. John Paul II: Gratia non tollit naturam sed perfecit––“Grace does not destroy nature but perfects it.” Whatever is already good (like the music of the pre-Christian culture) there is to be recognized, encouraged and promoted as the document on relations with Non-Christians of Vatican II puts it. And it was fun to remember then-Cardinal Ratzinger’s phrase that I loved so much: that we need to listen to what’s going on in “the antechambers” of the liturgy. That was actually the inspiration for my collection “The Message Goes Forth.” My original idea for the album cover was a photo of me sitting on the entrance steps of Holy Name Cathedral in downtown Chicago. We’ll see how it plays in Hamburg.

Before I go to Hamburg I am going to Poland, and it is the first time that I am running into the issue of language. In Poland, my host, the wonderfully gifted photographer Andrzej, has guided me (to say the least! He is very thorough and knows just what he wants from me) through my preparations. I have sent him the very detailed outlines of my talks, on Fr. Bede, and he is translating them into Polish. I will give the whole conference in English and then he will read a translation of the whole thing in Polish, for each of the three conferences. I suppose if you don’t have the luxury of the mechanism to do instant translation there is not much other way except translating every sentence as I speak. We have both put a lot of work into these conferences and I must say what he has specified and asked me to amend has made the conferences better than they were. 

In Hamburg, where probably more people speak and/or understand English, my host Petra (the German sociologist with whom I have done and will do some other work) and I have agreed to run my talk through a translation program and hand out copies of the outline in German, so that they can read along in their language while I deliver in mine. Of course, in that case the talk will be broken up often with singing. And in both cases I am doing a concert. I did put together a libretto with the lyrics for them to translate into Polish and German respectively, but both hosts have decided that instead of translating my remarks live they are going to put the translated lyrics and remarks in a booklet to hand out. So, we shall see! (I’ve been saying that a lot lately…)  I must say, I enjoy the challenge of all these things. And luckily, as I have pointed out, I feel that both of these events, as well as the other things I have coming up for the rest of the year, fold in nicely and easily with my upcoming work for DIMMID.

One last note: it seems, for complicated reasons, that there is not a possibility of me staying either at San Gregorio or with the nuns at Sant’Antonio. My other option was staying at Sant’Anselmo itself, the beautiful Benedictine atheneum on the Aventine that house both the international school and the seat of the Abbot Primate (my future boss). I had mentioned to my predecessor Fr. William, that I was going ask for housing there. Well, he beat me to the punch. When he got there he checked with the rector right way, and I found out yesterday that I can indeed. That is a not a 100% confirmation, but it’s pretty darned close. I’ll know for sure next week when we go down to Rome together, but it looks like I won’t be homeless after all.

---

[1]Sacrosanctum Concilium, #119.

not the same river, not the same person

 5 september, 2024

 

I am sitting in my room at the monastery of San Gregorio Magno in Rome, waiting for my guitar to be delivered from the airport. I got here Sunday; the Collings, alas, did not leave San Francisco until Monday. We know that it is now somewhere here in Rome. The courier sent us a message Tuesday night saying that it would be delivered by mezzogiorno yesterday. It is now 10 AM today. If it doesn’t get here by noon, I will head to Camaldoli anyway.

 

So, yes, I arrived Sunday to a sweltering hot Rome, in the 90s, no breeze, humid. Wow. I’ve had a wonderful room here, a double space, really, a small outer room with a desk and an inner room with a bed and bathroom. Long sheer drapes hanging from the windows, which I just love. Obviously have had the windows open the whole time and the drapes provide enough privacy. The jet lag hasn’t been too bad and I think I’ve overcome it already. Besides chasing down the guitar––and at one point I had very little hope that I would ever see it again and was already shopping online to see how much ITA airlines would have to reimburse me to replace a Collings C10 and a Calton case…easy $6,000––including two trips to the airport to catch the next day’s incoming flight (obviously to no avail), I’ve had a lot of desk work to do and this has been a good place to do it. 

The main thing was re-writing three conferences that I had prepared for an event I am doing in Poland at the end of this month. I have always had a pretty good inner clock for deadlines, a sense of how long it’s going to take to do something without having to cram and rush at the last minute, and I had all the preparation for the next work laid out in my mind. I sent the three conferences off to my host in Poland to start the translations before I flew out Sunday. (I am going to present the whole conference in English and then he will re-present the whole thing in Polish.) They are adaptations of old conferences and I was so proud of the work I had done on them to improve them. But he thought they were, in a word, a little too scholarly for the group that was going to be gathering and maybe even beyond his ability to translate easily into Polish. So he advised me pretty much how I should revise them. It was kind of disconcerting; never had anyone ever before asked me to re-write something I was about to present (of course never before had I had to send my talks in advance to be translated), and not only exactly what I should talk about but pretty much even how I should say it! After massaging my wounded ego a little, I set about on a whole new set of conferences, with which he is pleased. And I must say they are good and hopefully also useful for future use. But I wasn’t expecting to be working this hard my first days in Italy!

 

Aside from the missing guitar and the revision of my conferences, the other unsettling thing about these first days is that I still don’t know where I am going to be living. I had asked Fr. George, vice-prior of San Gregorio, and Sr. Michela, guest master at Sant’Antonio, in advance if it was possible to stay long term either here with the monks or across the Circo Massimo with the nuns, but had only gotten a vague answer from George and no response from Michela. Well, we were at Sant’Antonio for Madre Michela’s 70^th birthday party the other day and Michelina pulled me off to the side and apologetically explained to me that they have never hosted a man long term as a guest before, so no. The next day I sat down with George and asked him directly. I am going to be coming in and out of Rome three times in the next few months and also want to leave some stuff behind, since I brought enough things for the long term that I don’t need to cart around on my back. In short, there is a room for me for the first two times I am coming through, maybe the third time, but probably no room for me after January. The reason is there is construction going on here which will cut off access to an entire section of the building, so all the students will need to live in one section. They are not even accepting their other long-term boarders this year, which is very unusual. So that's a drag. 

My next option will be to find out if I can live at Sant’Anselmo. That’s of course the Benedictine University where my boss, the Abbot Primate, lives, and since I am going to be working for the Confederation… If that doesn’t work I am told that the Cistercians also take in boarders, but of course there will be a cost to that.

 

It's an unusual feeling! I just want a little room somewhere to put my “stuff,” a place I can come home to, a place where I can pray and work. (“Is it too much to ask for a room with a view?!”) No doubt something will work out and I’m trying to sink into the poverty of it and enjoy it. At 66 years old I feel more than ever like a wandering mendicant. 

 

So I head to the Sacro Eremo today. God-willing I will be recording some music with the Coro Camaldolese on Saturday for the legendary Christmas album. These are the guys I sang with for the Synod last year. I had great plans originally––including filming and posting videos from Camaldoli (my portable camera is also in my guitar case)––but I have trimmed my hopes down to recording two chants acapella, and maybe the three-part harmony for “Lo How A Rose Ere Blooming.” Then really solid down time until next weekend when my predecessor at DIM-MID, Fr. William Skudlarek, is coming up to Camaldoli to spend the weekend. (He actually video called me via WhatsApp yesterday evening just to check in while I was sitting in the piazza in front of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, which was sweet and fun.) We will do some more transition stuff and long-term planning there, and then come back down to Rome together Monday September 16. The next day he is taking me to meet the Secretary of the Dicastery for Interreligious Dialogue for lunch, and then day after that he will deliver his report to the Congress of Abbots and introduce me as his successor, after which I will give a five-minute self-introduction. Then the next day off to Poland to begin this next leg of ministry.

 

I am really glad that I finally broke down my resistance to Rome last time I was here. I’ve gotten lots of exercise walking the streets––and sweating!––up to six miles a day. I especially love the area, heavily touristed now, around the Trevi Fountain and Piazza Navona, the Gregorianum and the Biblicum. But I am going to be happy to be on the rocky trails in the moody forest of Camaldoli again and covered by the blanket of silence at the Sacro Eremo. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine that we are all, Romani and Casentinesiani, from the same congregation.

 

It all feels very familiar and yet very new at the same time. I thought it was a Taoist aphorism, but I found out it actually comes from Heraclitus: “No one steps in the same river twice. For it is not the same river, and you are not the same person.” Sia Ganga che Tevere! Either the Ganges or the Tiber!