And Then There Were Nuns (12 page)

Enough with the second-guessing already,
the Voice Within cried with exasperation.
Stop beating yourself up and just accept it.
The Voice Within was sounding less like Dumbledore and more like Jackie Mason.

Of course,
I thought, stiffening my resolve.
Others climb mountains, run marathons, join the army, or run for political office. I happen to search for God. Nothing weird about that. Is there? My time with the Sisters of St. John the Divine had been, well, divine. Why would this be anything less?

One major difference was that the moment I had walked through the doors of St. John the Divine, the sisters, bless their organized little hearts, had handed me a carefully prepared package of information that included a schedule. At Quarr I was completely without guidance or reference, save for that speedy recitation that Father Nicholas gave, and I could not remember half of it.

I recalled a mantra I had adopted when I was in my early twenties:
“Be willing to wait, and listen to the Lord.”
The words had jumped out from a speech I was covering as a reporter in a small town. I had sat in the audience, rueful and antsy that I was wasting my time listening to this snake-oil salesman thump at the podium when I could be sending out résumés to get myself out of this two-bit town. And then he said those words, and it was as if he was speaking directly to my heart. As soon as I began repeating the phrase to myself, it was as if I became unstuck, that opportunities began to open up for me. Since then, whenever I have found myself burdened by impatience or worry, the restorative powers of those words bring resolution. Now I summoned them again:
OK
, God, I'm listening. Start talking.

I sat for a few moments and waited.

And waited.

No God.

Ah, He was probably busy with someone else. Eventually, I lost patience with the tension of the silence. I walked to the door of my bedroom and opened it gingerly: I looked down the long hall, to the left and to the right, but no one was around. Not a peep. I closed the door as silently as I could.

As I checked my watch, a distant bell tolled signaling the call to prayer. I convinced myself that it was much too soon after my arrival to go to church, so I pulled a newspaper from my suitcase and proceeded to do two sudoku puzzles.

A little later, the bell tolled again, this time for vespers. It was now five o'clock. Again I demurred, deciding my time was better spent unpacking my luggage.

I unzipped my suitcase and carefully withdrew each piece of clothing from my 2011 Winter Nun Collection. I shook out each item, appraised it for imperfections and creases, then folded it up and reverently placed it in the drawer of the chest that doubled as a bedside table.

It was a pitiful assortment. One big pile of monochromatic dull. More depressing was that most were new purchases. No heart-pumping colors; no red, fuchsia, mustard, sage, emerald, turquoise, amethyst. Just a morose palette of brown, gray, black, and for a jolt of color, navy. It was certainly serviceable: three pairs of trousers (brown, black, navy), two skirts (black, gray), one dress (brown), four tops to mix and match with the aforementioned, and one sweater (the color of porridge). The nail polish I used to wear on my toes had been downgraded from hellfire red to a pearly but boring beige.

But so what,
I told myself with a forced jauntiness.
I'm going to be a nun, and clothes no longer matter to me. Right? Right?

Father Nicholas had said something about seven o'clock and dinner, so at the appointed hour I sauntered down the hall to the dining room. No one was about. The double doors that separated the dining room from the monks' refectory were still closed. I pulled on one of them to sneak a peek. A scratchy creak emanated from the hinges and echoed embarrassingly.

The refectory was cavernous. Broad, low brick arches rippled the length of the room like the way sound waves are depicted in illustrations. Five or six narrow trestlelike tables, each with bottles and jars of condiments clustered in the center, and three or four chairs apiece, were lined up on opposite sides of the room, facing each other. The room could easily handle many more, and still have room for a dance floor. I did a quick calculation based on the number of tables and chairs in the room and figured that twenty-four monks must live here. Aside from Father Nicholas, I hadn't seen any others.

I pricked my ears for a sound or movement. Nothing. The door creaked again as I slowly pushed it shut, and then I scuttled over to the solitary place at the table that had been neatly set for me. I stood patiently at my place, not knowing what the protocol demanded. It was a little like Alice waiting for something to happen in Wonderland.

Suddenly, shuffling sounds came from behind the refectory doors. I held my breath and cocked an ear. A voice murmured something and a group of male voices responded in mumbled unison: “Amen.”

OK
, they're saying grace,
I cleverly deduced. Then more shuffling, followed by the sound of chairs dragging across the floor. Someone—I did not see the face—pushed open one of the refectory doors. I craned my head to the left and saw a monk in profile seated at a table. I took that as my cue to sit down. I waited, almost afraid to breathe in case I missed some dog-whistled direction.

The silence was broken by the clattering sound of a trolley, which was pushed through the doorway by a tall, thin monk who looked a bit like Sting. I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to look at him, so I kept my head bowed and whispered “Thank you” as he ladled out my dinner. From the corner of my eye I saw him bow slightly before taking his leave. I nodded humbly in reply.

Impressive. My own serving monk.
It made me feel a bit like visiting royalty.
What if I were visiting royalty? Traveling incognito—which would explain the suitcase of drab clothes—to escape some diabolical court intrigue or workplace shenanigans. Quarr was the safe house.

I ate my food in undisturbed silence, entertained by my little fantasy. From time to time I checked back into reality and craned my neck to see what was going on in the refectory, but I could not really see anything; nor could I gauge the rhythm of the meal.
Or maybe I was smuggling in some secret Vatican document.

When I finished eating, I placed my knife and fork on my plate in the customary fashion that royalty does and waited, hands folded serenely on my lap. The way the Queen does.

Father Sting reappeared and removed my dirty dishes. Again, eye contact was avoided. He bowed as he took his leave. I nodded thanks. There was no offer of coffee or tea, an after-dinner liqueur, an invitation to join the monks for cigars or a game of billiards or to watch
TV
.

I waited in silence for someone to tell me what to do. After several minutes I leaned my head to the left to see why the place had fallen so inexplicably quiet. It was then that I discovered that the room had emptied out!
Well! That was rude! They could have at least told me.

I hauled my royal self up from my chair, bowed my head, said a brief and silent prayer of thanks for my dinner, and harrumphed back to my cell.

I stood in the middle of the room wondering what to do next. Compline was at eight-thirty, and I decided I had better attend. My belongings had been unpacked; books were lined up like soldiers at the head of my desk; my toiletries neatly arranged on the bathroom countertop. The room looked rather homey.

There was a knock at the door. It was so unusual to hear sound after such a great swath of silence that I hesitated in answering it in case I had imagined it.

But when I cautiously opened the door, there stood a monk who beamed with friendliness.

“Hi. I'm Luke.”

Father Luke and I had corresponded briefly by email before my arrival—he was the cousin of a friend of mine—and it was a delight to finally meet him in person. In appearance and manner he reminded me of my friend, and this sense of familiarity erased my doubts and put me at ease. Plus, it was great to have someone to talk to. It had been four hours since I had uttered a word.

Father Luke, however, was not the garrulous sort. He was a thoughtful, intellectual man given to long pauses when a question was posed. He also possessed a deferential manner, and when he spoke his head was bowed, eyes fixed on the ground. It was the posture of humility St. Benedict urged for his monks in the
Rule:
“Whether he is in the oratory, at the work of God, in the monastery or garden, on a trip, in the fields; whether sitting, standing or walking—he must think of his sins, head down, eyes on the ground and imagine he is on trial before God.”

Born an Anglican, Father Luke had converted to Roman Catholicism in his thirties. He had been a teacher before he became a monk, as well as a parish priest and a prison chaplain. He was a literary fellow—he had written a few books—and fittingly, he was in charge of Quarr's bookshop. He had been at Quarr for seven years, having left a previous community—he did not elaborate on the circumstances—and he said that his relocation to the Isle of Wight had been a natural homecoming.

“I used to come to the Isle of Wight as a child with my parents on holiday. It was a very happy time for me, a golden time, and to come here was always special because it was a place apart from our ordinary lives. When I came to Quarr it was, in some ways, a return to those memories, a place that I could return as a child—as a child of God. Now, what about you? Tell me about your interest in a religious vocation.”

I told him about my time with the sisters at St. John the Divine and about my engagement to Colin. He listened thoughtfully, his hands folded under his black scapular.

“Both—marriage and religious life—are huge commitments,” he said before retreating into lengthy silence. He pursed his lips and occasionally nodded his head of silvery curls while staring at the floor intently, as if it held divine knowledge.

When it looked as if the poor man had taken on my quandary as a sort of life's work—or he had zoned out and was thinking of something entirely different—I broke the silence.

“Seems to be a big monastery.”

“It is,” he nodded solemnly. “A big place for eight monks.”

“Only eight?” I thought back to St. John's and how the sisters were freaking out that they were down to about thirty active sisters. “Well, at least you get some sort of subsidy from the church to keep the place running.”

A smile broke across his face, and he lifted his gaze, his eyes twinkling at me over his wire-rimmed glasses: “Now, that's funny.”

“You mean you don't?”

He chuckled softly, which is the monastic equivalent of a belly laugh.

“No, not at all. We survive solely on donations and earnings.”

“How do you earn money?”

“We have a piggery, an apiary—they're closed at this time of year, otherwise I'd show them to you—we have this guest house, and we operate a small bookbinding business. There's also the bookshop and the tearoom. We live very close to the bone.”

This was an astonishing revelation. I had assumed, like many others, that churches financially supported their religious orders. When your business solely supports the traditions of a larger operation, you would think that would entitle you to some assistance from head office. Artists get subsidized; why shouldn't monks and nuns?

Before I could probe further, Father Luke jolted, and looked at his watch.

“Almost time for compline. I've got to go. You coming?”

Not wanting to be chalked up as a plastic monastic, I got up, too.

We walked down the hall of the guesthouse and paused in the vestibule.

“You have to go out that way,” he said, pointing to the door that led outside. “This door adjoins our cloister, and, you know...”

“Yes, men only,” I smiled.

I stumbled out into the dark, cold January night and made my way toward the church door.

( 3:iv )

IT WAS
the aroma that hit me first, though all my senses tingled to attention the moment I entered the dimly lit interior of the Abbey of Our Lady of Quarr.

The thick, sweetly pungent scent of a century's worth of incense had permeated every inch of the church—its bricks, mortar, and stone floors—and as if recognizing a fresh and available receptacle, it rushed toward me, penetrating my skin and bones. My body welcomed it happily, as if reuniting with some long-lost opposite.

Gradually, my eyes registered the cave-like interior. Being somewhat of a troglodyte, I found it appealing in an aesthetic sense, but also in a monastic sense because it was a reminder of early Christianity's humble roots in faintly lit, secretive settings.

Quarr's church looked nothing like a traditional church. There was a lower nave with several rows of chairs. A set of five broad stone steps brought you to the upper nave. Was this an architectural statement about the separation of the secular and monastic worlds? In the upper nave, about ten rows of chairs were arranged on each side to create a central aisle, followed by two rows of dark-wood choir stalls facing each other on either side of the nave. In front of this was the sanctuary.

A series of broad gothic-style and blind arches spanned the width of the interior, and ran the length of the church to create a tunnel effect, rising to a vaulted and ribbed brick ceiling. It looked a lot like the refectory. The combination of soldiered brick on the inside of the arches and linear coursing on the walls gave a sense of texture and subtle movement.

It was a remarkably simple church; no grand works of art; indeed, no decoration at all, just a powerful sense of being in the presence of something immense and holy.

Dom Paul Bellot was the genius behind this design. Born in France, he had trained as an architect before joining the Solesmes order in 1902 just as it was fleeing into exile on the Isle of Wight. He never expected to practice his profession once he took holy vows, but he humbly accepted the commission from his fellow brothers to build new Quarr Abbey.