essentially vocal

 

Leading a music workshop in Hamburg

13 October, from Rome

 

A cool not-too-noisy Sunday morning above the Circo Massimo in my new room here at San Gregorio al Celio in Rome. I arrived quite bedraggled after the long train ride down from Hamburg. The overnight part was not bad at all actually, squeezed into the little sleeping pod with my guitar and backpack (there was no storage space for either, alas) and I slept remarkably well. My only regret was that I didn’t get to see any of that new countryside, passing through Austria and the Italian Alps, the little-known (at least to me) regions of Friuli-Venezia Giulia and Udine. 

We got into Florence an hour late, around 7:15, not too bad since my train to Rome wasn’t until 9:05. I had made one of my typical mistakes: I had bought a ticket for Rome for the day before and it was non-transferable. Luckily, I noticed that before I got on the train. So, 24 Euros poorer we headed south to Rome. But that’s when the troubles really started. Bad travel karma. There was some kind of delay between Florence and Arezzo, and we sat in Santa Maria Novella for a long time before leaving, and then had another delay sitting on the track. And then for some reason, without explanation, we were told that the train would end at Orte, still another 45 minutes outside of Rome. The Italians were taking it in stride, but there were a lot of us foreigners and most were more confused than I was since the announcements were coming only in Italian at that point. We somehow all managed to get on the right train, but it was amazingly crowded and about 15 of us were stuffed into the little area by the exits, I with my backpack and guitar. And then we were told, as we slid into the outskirts of Rome, that the train was not going all the way to Termini but was stopping instead at Tiburtina, and we would have to switch to another local train. My serenity was really getting tested at that point. It was much warmer there in Rome than it had been in Hamburg, and I was feeling pretty uncomfortable and grimy, trying to stuff layers of clothing into my already overstuffed backpack. 

By the time we got to Termini I was wiped out, especially after the long walk from the train to the station with the guitar, etc. I always try to keep in mind that traveling like that, carrying bags, walking and so on, is not only work. It can also be considered exercise, so “try to keep a good posture!” I keep thinking I have just taken the necessities with me, but the backpack I carry with my computer and books, etc., is as heavy as my guitar in the hardshell case, plus the one on my back. And by this time my shoulders and back were aching. It got worse yet because Termini was chock full of people. I was debating about whether to take a taxi or the Metro. I went back and forth––the line for the taxi was extremely long––and finally settled on the Metro, which was as crowded as rush hour. It was impossible to board the first train that came by since it was so packed, but I managed to squeeze onto a second one, again uncomfortable with the guitar and backpack. And then the walk from Circo Massimo to San Gregorio and up the steps to the monastery. About as miserable as I have ever been traveling, and as relieved to be home as I have ever felt.

 

“Home.” A strange word to be saying about Rome, but it is for the time being. One of the reasons I was somewhat relieved that the retreat I was supposed to do in Poppi was cancelled, as much as I love being at Poppi, is because I had found out that I could move into my new room here at San Gregorio, something I was hoping to do when I arrived back on September 1. That feeling of not knowing where I was going to be living and leaving things here and there that I didn’t want to carry with me had left me feeling very unsettled. As tired as I was when I got to San Gregorio Wednesday afternoon, I set myself right away to setting up my room, in a corridor known as Monte della Luna, the very top floor of the façade facing Circo Massimo. I had stayed in this room last time as well, not knowing that it would be my room, and when George told me via text message that that was to be my permanent space, I was trying to remember how big it was. I was pleased to discover it was a little bigger than I had remember. It’s no doubt the smallest space I will have lived in for years (we’re so spoiled with our private hermitages!), but I am as “happy as a bug in a rug,” as my mom used to say. And there is enough space for everything I need, guitar, yoga mat and (thanks be to God) a little private bathroom.

(later)

 

Back to Hamburg. I stayed with my host and her husband, the indefatigable German sociologist Petra Ahrwelier and Achim (short for Joachim), a semi-retired orthopedic doctor in a big old house in a quiet residential neighborhood, chock full of art and books and remnants of children and grandchildren, and a kitchen overflowing with yummies, including loose leaf tea and and lots of honey. I have been working with Petra on a project called AI-Fora for some years now, since just before Covid, using monasteries as “safe spaces” for conversations about the use of artificial intelligence for those who come up with algorithms that make major decisions about social issues (if I can possibly summarize the project with those few words!). Honestly, I have not had to do much for it; besides volunteering New Camaldoli to be a host, I have mainly been the so-called expert on the thought of Bede Griffiths, since Petra has based a lot of her thinking about inter-culturality on him. The AI-Fora project has been taking place in Ireland, China, Nigeria, India, Spain, and Germany as well as in America, and it will conclude with a final meeting in Kerala in December, which will be my last stop for the year. 

 

But she did not bring me to Hamburg for that; she brought me there for music.

 

The first night was a concert. I have decided to use the same program (with few modifications) for Poland, Hamburg, and Oxford. As in Poland so here I was also relying on translation. Crowds in Germany are more used to listening to music and even attending programs in English, which has been taught here in schools since the post-World War II era, but the explanations of the pieces in this program, drawn from various traditions, are as important as the pieces themselves. And, as we suspected might be the case, the folks who came got something different from what they were expecting. Actually, I am not sure what they were expecting. Petra just used the word “Gospel” for the concert which she says covers a lot of area in religious music. I had of course warned her that the program would be including what I always refer to us “sacred World music,” the stuff I think is my specialty. And of course with the new job I feel even more impelled and mandated to spread the word whenever I can. 

There was another motive behind the choice to do it that way too, a musical one. The next day I was giving a music workshop on “essentially vocal music,” (more on that in a bit). I have only been able to articulate it clearly recently, how in my early years, I would say the 1980s mostly, the “experimental music” I was writing for liturgy was influenced by let’s say “world music.” I’m thinking of what I listening to: certainly gospel, reggae, lots of African pop music, especially Johnny Clegg and his groups Savuka and Jaluka, besides all the influences of rock and soul. I was remembering my idea for the album “The Message Goes Forth,” when I stepped out a little more in presenting reggae, gospel, and jazz (I actually backed off a little for various professional and personal reasons though I still got pilloried by at least one well-known liturgist in WORSHIP, God rest his soul). I had read an article in… what was the name of that revue, Pastoral Something or other… by then-Cardinal Ratzinger in which he mentioned musicians needing to listen to the music going on in the “antechambers of the liturgy.” I was enamored of that phrase, and had forgotten how much that inspired me, though my thinking was all over the map at the time. My original idea for the album cover was a photo of me sitting on the steps of Holy Name Cathedral on North Wabash in Chicago, a church which I just love for some reason, with my guitar case, the doors of the church wide open, listening to the sound of the people and the traffic and the boomboxes. 

But then, after some years of devoting myself to “pure” sacred music––writing most of the plainsong chant for the Hermitage liturgy–– and really studying liturgy deeply, partially in order to teach it to the guys in formation, it was my immersion in liturgy that formed me in how to approach texts of other traditions, starting with “Lead Me From Death Into Life,” then the poems of Stonehouse and the Metta Sutta, Sanskrit chants woven into Gregorian ones, all the way up to the Qur’an and “Bismillah.”

My image of an island being the tip of a mountain abides here: how can you possibly convey to people all the depth of experience and knowledge behind the few notes and chords and rhythms? I guess we just hope they “catch” it.

It was a great acoustic in the church where I performed, and Petra and I found a good rhythm between speaking and translation. (We didn’t have as much time to practice as I did with Andrzej.) It seemed to me right to ask the folks not to applaud (in case they wanted to), but to listen to the whole thing as a program. In the few pieces that they sang along on they did pretty well, Petra helping from the front with me. The only problem was that it was so cold in that church! The only time I remember being that cold for a concert was the one John and I did with our friend the harpist Giuseppina in Florence just after Christmas 2003. The church of San Miniato al Monte was packed, all wrapped up in furs and scarfs and gloves, while I could actually see the steam coming out of my mouth as I sang, and John’s drums were going out of tune. But it went over fine––und alle warden satt.

The next day was the music workshop. Petra is also a cantor at her parish and her mandate to me was to demonstrate new ways to get people to sing. I of course centered in on my old favorite theme––essentially vocal music, i.e., music that is not dependent on accompaniment, harmony or rhythm, though it could have all three, but stands on its own two feet. There is a long story about a musical enlightenment experience I had with John Foley in St. Paul, Minnesota in the basement of the Jesuit novitiate sitting at a piano, no doubt both of us smoking, him drinking a bottle of beer me with a cup of coffee, leafing through some old hymnal and him demonstrating to me melodies that were sturdy. Basically, he was trying to ween me off of writing songs by coming up with chord changes and adding a melody on top. It was like scales falling off my ears. (He, by the way, remembers none of this. Just to show you what an impact we can have without ever knowing it.) When I got back to Phoenix that summer I began writing without the guitar or piano, and have pretty much never stopped. 

That led to all my experiments with chant, and I would say culminated in the work I did with Paul Ford, Paul Inwood, Catherine Christmas, Carol Browning and, later, Anna Betancourt, on the ten-year project known as Psallitè for Liturgical Press: three essentially vocal pieces of music for every Sunday and feast in the liturgical year, literally hundreds of pieces of music which we composed as a group, sitting around tables, pacing hallways. It was a grand enterprise, and I am sorry that it never took root as we had hoped, and sorry that Lit Press has decided to drop their music division now. I still stand by it as the best stuff I ever did for liturgical music.

Anyway, for the most part the music that I brought to use with them for the workshop was Psallitè pieces, though I did use a few other things as ice-breakers––including a little dance with the old Shaker song “I Will Bow and Be Simple”––and some pieces from India. I had written out a detailed outline of what I wanted to teach theoretically as well––never pass by a chance for some liturgical formation!––which Petra had translated into German and sent to all the participants beforehand. Alas, few of them had read it or brought it with them, so that got a little tedious, but we made do with PowerPoint slides and translation and lots of singing between teaching. 

For one thing I had forgotten how much work it is to do those kinds of things, given that I have not done a music workshop for years now. Even harder than leading a retreat, I think. Made especially so because among the 30 participants, which was a great turnout, there was quite a range of liturgical musical literacy. So some of the theory and history, of the liturgical reform of Vatican II, was lost on a few. I kept telling them that it did not matter if they got all the theory; just try to catch my enthusiasm. And then of course teaching the music itself in a language not their own (they did great and were very hard-working and patient) with various levels of talent. 

I was pleased to realize there were some really good formative spiritual lessons in the teaching too––meno male, as the Italians say; thank goodness! Such as respecting the native genius in mission lands and the positive anthropology that goes with that––Thomas Aquinas’ gratiam non tollit sed perfecit naturam: “grace does not destroy nature but perfects it.” As well as the hope that, as one document states, “a popular chant may emerge.” Emerge, that is, rather than be imposed as much of our liturgy was for centuries.

I think by any standard the day went really well. I almost wish I had a parallel life and could take that show on the road or could have taken that show on the road to promote Psallitè more. But as I always remind myself, there are only so many hours in a day, days in a week, weeks in a year, years in a life, and so we always have to choose the summum bonum.

We also did the music for the Mass both Saturday night, just Petra and I, and Sunday, with the whole workshop choir. All in all, a good day’s work three days in a row there! 

Monday Petra and Achim have me a super tour of Hamburg, both of them very well educated and cultured, so lots of stories about local history ancient and modern. (I won’t go into that here. You can see the pics on Facebook.) And then the overnight train to Rome on Tuesday, and here I am. 

Just as I was somewhat surprised at how settled I have felt almost immediately here in my room at San Gregorio, so I am a little surprised to find that I am a little sad that I have another two and a half months of travel and ministry ahead of me yet. Of course, when I planned this year I had no idea that this new position was going to come up, and I am sure I will love the work once I get to it. But it is interesting to note that I love being home as much as, if not more than, being on the road doing the marvelous work that I get to do. And I suppose that’s a good sign. And of course, I’m singing with the brothers each morning at the Synod these days, which now feels very comfortable and is very much appreciated. The Holy Father was there yesterday and it’s amazing to realize how that is not such a big deal anymore. I can tell some stories about that later, but for now, off to Vespers.

und alle werden satt...

I had a really fine stay with my brothers in Hildesheim. The two founding members of the community, Benedikt and Jeremias, were both from another Benedictine congregation that lived and ministered in the Holy Land and, before that, members of the German Ottilien missionary congregation. I think it is safe to say that the two of them had been looking for a more contemplative life (to make a long story short), Benedikt found the opportunity to take over an old Carthusian farm, Jeremias joined him a year or two later. They found refuge, through various encounters, with the Camaldolese. They both have a deep love for India, and each spends a month there each year deeply involved in a meditation practice, which of course also leads to a strong bond with Shantivanam. And now they are a solid community of five, which includes a claustral oblate named Behrnt who is very much a full member of the community, my friend Axel, the well-known yoga teacher who is transferred there from Camaldoli, and a monk from Switzerland who is a year into a five-year transfer from his congregation to ours. There was another young priest named Fabian, who I had met several times in Italy, but he was in the process of leaving the community, amicably, after a good mutual discernment, the days I was there. (To show how amicable the parting was, he kept coming to meals and prayers and doing dishes, and even hosted a young friend of his for a retreat in his last days.)

I met Jeremias for the first time several years ago, when I was still living in my hermitage in Corralitos. At the time he was just ending his time at Tabgha, the monastery on the northwestern shore of the Sea of Galilee that is traditionally thought to be the place of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes (Mark 6:30-46) and the fourth resurrection of Jesus (Jn 21:1-24). Jeremias gave me a little icon from Tabgha that had an image of the multiplication of the loaves for my cabin then and I am not sure why this little saying, in German, struck me so deeply: Und alle warden satt––“And all were satisfied.” Every time I see him, I am tempted to use that prhase for something, during my time with them at the Eremo of Sankt Romuald I kept saying it over and over again. And I have been saying it over and over again throughout my stay here in Hamburg too. My host, Petra, made a photocopy of a well-known folky song from one of their Catholic liturgical songbooks that uses the phrase too, but expands on it: Wenn jeder gibt, was er hat, dann werden alle satt––“When everyone gives what they have, then all will be satisfied.” Gosh, could just use that over and over again every day.

You’ve got to put your money where your mouth is we Americans say––and they do. There are several things admirable about the place. One of course is there dedication to silent meditation. There is a wonderful chapel upstairs one of the buildings, a long low room lined with zabutans and zafus, at the head of which is the Blessed Sacrament. It was interesting; these guys are so progressive in many ways, and they also embrace “traditional” Catholicism. And sitting in silent meditation in front of the Blessed Sacrament, with statues of Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus looking on, is certainly not everyone’s cup of tea. But it suits me well. I had just had a discussion about that very thing with someone in Poland who, quoting other teachers, was against having the Blessed Sacrament present during meditation, because “you need to focus more on the indwelling presence of God than any outer form.” I see the point, but I find it to be a false dilemma. 

In that upper room they have an hour of silent meditation each day after early morning Lauds with Mass and a short breakfast, so generally between 8 and 9 AM. And everybody comes. They also do Compline there each night which they begin by singing mantras from India before an examination of conscience and a period of silence, and they end with one of them blessing everyone with the monstrance. In between they are singing the psalms in German but in pristine Gregorian chant. And that leads to another thing I really admire: the liturgies are done so well, simple and elegant, without any frills but with the basics done well (very Benedictine). And they sing very well together. The German Benedictines have put together a monastic Liturgy of the Hours in German that is all set to Gregorian tones that is apparently very widely used. I mentioned in the workshop I did last weekend (“on essentially vocal liturgical music”) how you need to experience Gregorian in a setting like that, as I did at San Miniato all those years ago and again there at Hildesheim, to appreciate what a domestic music it is, just bread and butter, once you get it in your bones. Neither Jeremias nor Benedikt read music, I take it, but they sing it beautifully, as do the others. 

The other thing I like about the place (and I have noticed this at times among some of our Italian brothers as well, at Garda and Monte Giove especially) they do not make a big deal about distinguishing between the three goods of our charism––solitude, community and the Third Good (whatever it may be). Benedikt and now Andri, the Swiss monk, both serve as hospital chaplains; Axel is very involved with his yoga community. And they are all obviously dedicated to the contemplative aspect of our life including intentional times of solitude. On top of that they seem to have a joyful communal life. That is how it should be. Period.

I, on the other hand, felt very lazy during my stay! Part of it was my comfy room and I guess I was more tired than I thought. I kept saying to them that I felt more at home with them than I had felt in months. Every time I closed my eyes, I fell asleep. I did work a bit on my upcoming workshop and write a wee bit, but I was also reminding myself that I’m on sabbatical too and enjoyed leisurely walks in the countryside and one day a bike ride to town (in the driving rain) with Axel to go to the gym. Other than that, good food, and good company in a house full of good sharing and gentle laughter, and then they sent me off to the train station on Thursday for my time here in Hamburg.

Speaking of “lazy,” one challenge about all the travel coming up in the years ahead is what I have found already––and this is also one good justification for staying somewhere a long time. It’s just so hard in a new place to establish a kind of pattern, to “practice” at the same time and, especially, in the same place. Luckily, I’m an early riser so there is little chance that my morning prayers and meditations (and sometimes yoga and a run) are interrupted by activity. But afternoon and evenings are a little more problem. There is quite often something that someone wants me to do in the evening and I am ready to hit my “cell,” wherever that may be, and do my evening prayers and get to bed just as folks are gearing up for the evening activities! So between exercise, yoga, meditation, practicing the guitar, not to mention reading and writing, praying and meditating, it is so easy to cut corners. Fr. Thomas Keating told me, in the last conversation I had with him, which I cherish, that “it’s hard to go deeper when you’re on the speaker circuit.” And he should know! What has been brilliant about this sabbatical time is I have had wonderful break periods between “work,” three days with the Coronesi in Poland and then three days at Hildesheim before this work here in Hamburg for instance. But it does take discipline. I hope I can keep that up in the weeks, months and years ahead. This is also why having a good space to live in Rome is going to be of utter importance, somewhere to sink in to my own rhythm, and go deeper.

It will come as no surprise if I quote Prabhavananda’s commentary on the Yogas Sutras, How to Know God, yet again and I appreciated his warning (commentary on I:30-31) associating the tamas guna with sloth, which I also think of as the ancient noonday devil acedia. So easy to get lulled into sloth in the cell! Prabhavananda says that nearly all the distractions listed by Patanjali––sickness, mental laziness, doubt, lack of enthusiasm, sloth craving for sense pleasure, false perception, despair caused by failure to concentrate and unsteadiness in concentration––“come under the general heading of tamas. Sloth is the great enemy––the inspirer of cowardice, irresolution, self-pitying grief, and trivial hair-splitting doubts.” And an antidote to that, according to him, is actually japam, repetition of the sacred word or the holy name of God. This admonition comes right after his long discourse commenting on aphorisms 27-29 about the repetition of Om, with a beautiful quote from the Way of the Pilgrim and St. John Chrysostom, the latter of which wrote that “everywhere, wherever you find yourself, you can set up an altar to God in your mind by means of prayer.” 

Of course, that is the purpose of carrying beads (a mala or a rosary): all I have to do is reach into my pocket to remind myself of my japam. Prabhavananda says when we do this, we “attack sloth on the subconscious level by quiet persistence in making japam.” Especially ever since my time up in Rishikesh in March this teaching about working on the subconscious level has stayed very much in my mind. Earlier Prabhavananda also writes about the samskaras, how they are at such a deep level that we hardly know, but they are affecting our moods and actions like sandbars effect the flow of water. These too can be flattened, if not erased completely, by our practice of meditation.

At the same time, he says we may actually be growing during times when our minds seem dark and dull. “So we should never listen to the promptings of sloth, which will try to persuade us that this dullness is a sign of failure.”

Heading to Rome on an overnight train today––Hamburg, Munich to Florence via Austria, then Flornece–Rome. I’ll be “home” hopefully in time for pranzo. More on the time in Hamburg later.

 

Und alle werden satt.

tear down that wall!

 30 september 2024, feast of St Jerome, from Röderhof, Eremo di Sankt Romuald

 

The last few hours at Bieniszew were very funny. I went to 6 AM Mass as usual and was expecting to simply return to my cell and eat my breakfast, pack up my backpack and wait for my 10 AM ride to Poznan to catch the train, as promised. But after Mass, in the sacristy, the young priest, Pyotr, who was going to be driving me to the city negotiated a conversation between the prior and I, asking if I wanted to join them for breakfast. I wasn’t sure who “them” were, but I said sure, as a matter of fact I was hoping to visit with Prior Stan before I left anyway. So I was to wait for them in the church while they sang morning prayer (I assume), and sure enough Mattia, the Jesuit who spoke some Italian, Pytor, and Prior Stanisłav and I went over to the dining room in the main building that is seldom used by the monks (four times a year, but the prior receives guests there), and a whole array of food started appearing: salty cheesy scrambled eggs, two kinds of cheese, a jar of homemade pickles that were a little too strong for me, pickled peppers , yogurt, bread, coffee, tea, the whole nine yards. And then we started a very humorous exchange, sometimes Mattia translating into Italian, but every now and then when he was at a loss for words Pytor translating into English. It didn’t slow Prior Stan at all and he was looking very satisfied throughout. 

I found out then that they had had a big celebration, for the anniversary of the dedication of the church if I understood correctly, about 10 days back for which 150 cars showed up; they hadn’t counted the people. They still allow locals to come for Sunday Mass since it served as a parish church at one time. And (this sounds familiar) they were so wiped out by that event that Prior Stan had allowed the community 8 days of reclusion. I am not sure what would have changed if there hadn’t been reclusion since they were still doing liturgies together, but that was the reason, I was told, that I had not visited with anyone, gotten a tour of the place, did not get a hermitage, just a cell in the guest wing, and that there no other guests. The reclusion was over now. 

So Mattia (aided by his cell phone with Google translate speaking to me in British English) accompanied Prior Stan and I on a tour of the back cloister, the cells, the chapter room and the reliquary. They actually do not have much in the way of relics there, just a piece in a monstrance-style reliquary. I got to see the inside of two of the cells, one of them occupied by a 92-year old brother who was just delightful, and we exchanged blessings.

We then bustled into a truck––and this was to answer my question, “Was this the place that the brothers were actually murdered?”––and drove off through the woods. I had been walking about four miles a day, but Prior Stan was taking us even deeper into the woods on a road that goes directly to the next town––Kazimierz Biskupi. It was there then that I discovered, or was affirmed in the knowledge that, the area really was swamp land that had been filled in a lot by now. On the way he also explained to me (via Mattia and Google) that the monks’ cells were there in what is now the town, separated from each other by a good distance, and that chapels had been built up over them, though one, the cell of Isaac, had a large church over it. That church was modern, simple and very nicely adorned with contemporary art, in honor of the Five Brothers of course. There had at one point been a monastery there as well. I was very pleased to see all that and have history become a little more real. I snapped lots of pictures.

Then by the time we got back to the hermitage I had to bustle to pack my backpack because we were supposed to leave by 10 to get me to the train in plenty of time. But Prior Stan was not done with me yet. He then started bringing me books that he wanted me to take with me, big table-sized picture books! I was trying to explain that I was only carrying a backpack and it was already full, but he looked sad and so I agreed to take one. He then came back five minutes later with another that, he was delighted to let me know, was in English. So I stuffed that one in too, trying to figure out how I could mail them back to Rome from my next stop.

The ride to Poznan took about an hour. It might have taken less if we hadn’t been going 160 km an hour (that’s 99.4194 mph in English). Pytor and I chatted amiably, he very anxious to try out his rusty English with the help of, you guessed it, Google translate on his phone. (There is some kind of Google app that they have that actually reads the translation out loud. Probably everybody in the world knows about it but me.) Along the way I was picking his brain for politics, etc., having heard that the government in Poland now is a bit on the conservative side. Not for Pytor. Too liberal, not the kind that supports church and patriotism. I asked him about Ukraine too. Not the most supportive responses, which I was surprised to hear from someone in a country that was occupied by Russia. I didn’t go much farther with the discussion… 

I am not sure how we were supposed to have found out, but there was a change in our train that was supposed to have gone directly to Berlin. There is a second Frankfort, Frankfort (Oder), right on the border of Poland. And there we had two choices, either to take a bus directly to Berlin or to take two trains, switching at a town called Erkner. I was going to follow the nice elderly lady in my cabin who spoke some English who was going to take the bus, but it turned out that the gentleman who was also sharing the cabin was an Irishman working in Germany who knew the train system well. He told me it was easy to make the transfers and recommended it. You know what Mr. Rogers says, “Look for the helpers!” So, he allowed me to tag along behind him to find the next train. I lost him in the crowd at Erkner but just then my friend Alfred who was coming from Lidner, Holland to meet me sent a text and told me that our rental was actually close to Erkner and so why don’t I wait there for him. Which I did. 

It was actually a bit of a wait, over an hour, but luckily there was a pizzeria next door and a pretty good one at that, and I was by that point hungry. So I sat in the pizzeria and the stood for a bit a time outside (his estimation of how long it would take was short by about an hour, alas) and got a taste of the ‘burbs of Berlin. It was kind of a grimy area. As I stood outside waiting for Alfred, I got a good look at the folks. There was a lot of smoking going on (actually there was a lot in Poland too). They looked rather hard, a lot of working-class folks, not commuting businessmen and -women.

Alfred arrived about an hour and a half later.

We have known each other for about 30 years from the Four Winds Council that the Hermitage has been involved in––less so in recent years. Alfred has been a part of all three of the other communities, he has done practice period and work periods at Tassajara, been on the maintenance crew and in fund-raising for Esalen and has been an active member of the Esselen tribe. He remembers meeting me when I was still Daniel (!) and that we had had a conversation about Aretha Franklin back then. I mostly remember him from sweat lodge at Little Bear’s. We were never close friends, just acquaintances, but we ran into each other at Esalen around Christmas 2019 and greeted each other with such glee, as if we were old friends. He had since married a woman from Holland, moved there with her and they have had two children. He’s a very devoted house husband and stay-home Dad (and basketball coach). A very interesting combination: a Taiwanese born Chinese who grew up speaking Chinese in Carmel, Carmel Valley and on the Big Sur coast (where he knows everybody), now living in Holland speaking Dutch. We had some hit and miss communication for a while but then started conversing over the internet and sending miscellaneous trivia to each other for the past year, a lot of it about classic rock. But our conversations range pretty broadly––he has a very synthetic mind––from arts and literature to politics and philosophy. He picks my brain a lot about the Bible and my views on religion. As a matter of fact, among the car full of stuff he brought with him for our short weekend together––including two guitars that he wanted me to tune and give him lessons on that he could pass on to his son––he had a huge Dutch Bible illustrated with copies of Rembrandt etchings and paintings of biblical scenes. At one point we did indeed get that out as he coerced me into pointing out how I could justify the “silence of the 1^st Person” in the Old Testament, as I do in Rediscovering the Divine via Bruno and Panikkar, and how that can be a bridge to Buddhism, Taoism and Advaita Vedanta. That is a snapshot of what the whole weekend was like conversation-wise. Pretty entertaining and often stimulating.

Friday was the day we had slotted for a tour of Berlin. I had made a list and we pretty much made our way through it. We had debated about whether or not to drive in or take public transportation, but Alfred said we should risk it and, as a matter of fact, we had no problem with traffic and no trouble at all finding parking. We happened to wind up parked next to youth hostel that is also a mock beach with volleyball courts. Go figger. Lots of helpful English-speaking people, and bathrooms.

On the list: we first went to the Berlin Wall memorial. I never understood the configuration of the wall and how it functioned. Maybe you do but if not, this was the big revelation: it’s a circle. (I know, I know: everyone knew this but me...) West Berlin was the part of the city that was surrounded by East Germany. There is a section of the wall still standing along a strip of land that has been turned into a large beautiful memorial (I posted pictures on my Facebook page) that includes sections of the wall, rebar where the wall once was, a wall of windows that have photos inside them of people who were killed trying to escape to West Berlin, a stunning simple chapel of reconciliation that was built on the spot of a church that was razed in order to make the broad alley in between the barbed wire and the wall (it kept expanding) and lots of signs full of historical descriptions and explanations.

From there we made our way across the Spee River, watching for traces of Speer architecture along the way as I had been advised, to the infamous Checkpoint Charlie, which stands as an icon of the Cold War 1960s. Again a whole wall full of explanatory notes about the whole history––and also lots of shops with tchotkes and postcards. It all seemed so light-hearted and touristy––there’s even a Starbucks!––but I found it ponderous and chilling, especially the sign warning that “You are now entering the American sector…” on one side and “You are now leaving the American sector…” on the other, which still stands. I texted my brother-in-law Steve from there, as I knew he would appreciate it, and he urged me to now watch President Kennedy’s speech at the wall in 1963, which I did. But what also kept echoing in my head was President Reagan’s 1987 declaration, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” I kept thinking of Br. Joshua, who was such a buff of history and had spent time in Germany in the Army, and how I wish I could have sent him some postcards.

We then did the next big things––the Brandenburg Gate, festooned with decorations for the upcoming Berlin Marathon (indeed there were people doing warm-up runs all over the city), and the famous Reichstag with its storied history, (I found the inscription over the front very striking––Dem Deutshcen Volke) and a long walk back to the car by the beach.

I had one more thing on my list that I was bound and determined to see, and we saved that for last as it was outside of town and, kind of, on the way back to our rental. Once on a plane, years ago, I fell in love with a postage stamp-sized reproduction of one of Max Pechstein’s woodcuts from a series he did on the Our Father, Das Vater Unser. I loved black and white woodcuts anyway, but this had just a streak of color on it, and it was the color that got me. I did a bunch of research and found out that Pechstein was part of a small movement of German Expressionists in the early years of the 20^th century that called themselves Die Brucke—“the Bridge” because they saw themselves as a bridge to the next phase of art. They were related to the French Fauvists in painting, but it was their woodcuts that really entranced me. And there is a little museum dedicated to them on the outskirts of Berlin, and Alfred was kind enough to indulge me a visit. It was somewhat disappointing: there were not actually a lot of the paintings or woodcuts on display. It was mostly an homage to the six Jewish art collectors who saved their art, or tried to, through the era of National Socialism. But still, I did my part.

I didn’t want to admit it, but Alfred did: we were both a little underwhelmed by Berlin. I appreciated seeing the 20^thcentury historical sites, but I guess I was hoping/expecting to get a feel for the soul of the place which I did not. Alfred had the idea that we ought to drive home via surface streets instead of taking the highway and so we did, getting kind of lost a few times, looking for hip neighborhoods. We didn’t find much. At one point we drove a few miles down Karl Marx Strasse and it was about what you might expect of a Communist region––block after block of huge concrete apartment and office buildings and nothing else. That was memorable. 

We had a nice rental apartment that Alfred had booked, a spacious apartment under a house in the suburbs that gave way to a beach, and after hemming and hawing we wound up spending the whole next day there, each of us gave each other space to do our own thing for the morning.  We went to a grocery store and loaded up on pretty good snacks, salad stuff and cheeses and bread and fruit, and then spent the rest of the day chillin’ and talking, guitar lessons and Bible study, and it was a great fun day, really. 

Sunday Alfred offered to drive me up here to Hildesheim instead of me taking the train since this was on his way home to Liden, and so we had another long visit in the car. And now I am here with my German Camaldolese brothers in this charming pristine little place, where I have been once before. They greeted me warmly and then let me know that today (Monday) is their weekly Desert Day (everybody is imitating New Camaldoli now!), “which we really appreciate” said Jeremias, and we are totally on our own all day, which I really appreciate. Finally did my laundry and slept well and abundantly. Feeling more “at home” than I have in weeks.