Tuesday 23 September 2014

Two Days in Silence in Taizé

Going to the Common Prayer in the evening, I feel excited.  I'm looking forward to my two days with no distractions, no chatting, and no having to meet people.  I arrive earrly for the prayer and stay late - this is my priority and I have all the time in the world to give to it.  It's a great freedom.  

Walking back to the Girls' Silence House, it starts to rain.  Lightly at first, but then more and more steadily.  There is thunder and lightning, and I've forgotten my rain coat, but I am warm, and I am heading to a warm dry place with a bed, so it's alright.  I have the impulse to tell someone this information - "Don't worry, it's alright, I made it back safe." MIchael is always worried about getting wet in the rain; I'm sure he would have asked.  But there is no one to tell.  Over and over I swallow my words - it's a strange feeling.  

I share a small room with a girl I have not met.  She is doing a week in silence so she has been here five days already. I hear her come in at night, but I am already in bed. In the morning we get ready for the day together, but we don't speak or make eye contact. In fact I don't really even have a good picture in my head of who she is because I avoid looking directly at her. I wonder where she's from, and try to peer as politely as possible at her toiletry case to see what language is written on the bottles. 

As I quietly leave the room and head downstairs, I find I am full of unspoken apologies - sorry for moving into your room, sorry for disturbing you while you were painting, sorry for letting the door bang, sorry for closing/opening the window when maybe you wanted it open/closed, etc. I save them up, to be spoken out loud on Sunday morning, but that's ridiculous. I can't spend all of Sunday morning apologizing. I need instead to let these things go and depend on the charity and small forgivenesses of those with whom I am living. And I need to give them in return. Not always easy. 

I go sleepily to the Morning Prayer, enjoying misty countryside as I walk. My thoughts are a bit everywhere. I imagine what would happen if I suddenly got very sick and was taken to the hospital. How would they find Michael to tell him? But otherwise, I am calm. I have time. Inner peace will come. 

Breakfast is at 9:30am, and the silence house is a 15min walk from the church, so we all leave as soon as the prayer is done. The crowd thins out until it's just us left on the road, and yet we aren't really walking together, in a group. We're in a line, single file, not talking. We must look strange. 

At breakfast, there are maybe 20 of us around the table, eating and not speaking. The silence to me feels hostile. I'm used to silence indicating unfriendliness, anger, reproach.  But this should be a different kind of silence. I think that as time goes on, it will grow to be companionable. 

After breakfast Sister Isabelle (a nun) speaks to us for one hour. She talks about what to expect, what to be wary of, and gives us suggestions of how we can organize our day. It is good, I think, to go into silence with a guide that you trust. After the talk, we each have a small job to do. Mine is to clean the toilets in the garden. My work partner and I speak briefly as we locate the supplies we'll need and then complete our task.  We finish quickly but I have urge to continue discussing- next time I'll use less soap, etc., but I stop, and we simply part ways.

At lunch, after the Midday Prayer, we sing a song to begin the meal, and this blending of voices of people I've never heard speak somehow turns strangers into friends.  During the meal, music is played – piano sonatas, and that also makes our silence more bearable.

In the afternoon, I take a small nap, I read Psalms in the village church of Ameugny, I wander through the countryside, and I sing songs sitting by a river where the bubbling water covers my voice and no one can hear me but myself.  I find I am full of plans – I'd like to write a guide for couples thinking about leaving together on a bike trip. I'd like to host a weekend silent retreat back home. I'd like to try to re-create on paper the teal barn door with yellow, orange and grey bricks that I can see through the window of the small common room. The day's too short. Already I'm thinking I'd like the silence to be longer.

Friday 12 September 2014

When you do the Tour du Mont Blanc

I hope when you walk the Tour du Mont Blanc, you aren't too proud to take the téléseige de temps en temps.  The walk up to the Col de Voza is long and mostly on the road anyways.  

I hope you sleep in an alpine meadow and watch the sun set on the glacier towering over you.  

I hope you get up in the early morning and climb over the col before anybody else does, and that you eat an aisette de fromage Savoyarde when you arrive on the other side

I hope you see a trail and wonder where it leads,  

And that you see a mountain hut, barely discernable 1000m above you in the scree, and wonder how to get there.

I hope you set up your tent moments before the rain,

And that you watch the Ultra Trail runners go by in a steady stream of headlamps bobbing through the dark, cold, wet night, and then climb into your own warm sleeping bag for a good night's sleep

I hope you walk all day and go really far and feel good about yourself, 

But that you also sleep all morning and go practically nowhere at all, and still feel good about yourself.  

I hope your hiking partner carries the tent. 

I hope you hitchhike in France and get picked up right away.

I hope you visit friends.

I hope you don't forget to clean your water bottles more than once every two months.

And if you do forget, I hope scum doesn't grow in them and make you sick.

But if scum does grow in them and make you sick, I hope you notice right away and stop drinking out of them so you don't stay sick.

But if it does take you a while to figure out there's scum in your water bottles and that's what's making you sick, I hope your hiking partner is kind and turns back after just 300m of walking to set the tent back up again in the exact same spot it was an hour before so that you can have a rest day.  

And I hope he reads to you, and holds back your hair if you vomit.

And the next day, I hope he carries your bag to the top of col, and then comes back for his own.  

And when you can't manage to hike down the other side either, I hope he tells you to leave your bag where it is, he'll run down with his bag, and then come back and get yours. 

And I hope you meet some nice people on the trail who ask if you're alright because you're walking so incredibly slowly and you tell them you're sick, so and they give you a sports gel that seems to be pure sugar and caffieine, but you're not quite sure because the package is in a different language, you only know it gives you the energy to get down the mountain.  

And then I hope you eat soup, and sleep inside, and feel better enough the next day to eat three granola bars, some dried apricots and raisins, an omelette and a plate of raviolis with butter before you leave the refuge.  

I hope you climb to the top of a col at over 2000m, and find sheep waiting to greet you.  

And I hope you meet the shepherd, and ask him how many sheep he has (1650), and where he's taking them (down to the valley), and if he brings them up and takes them down everyday (yes, he does). And that you get to watch his dogs at work, gathering the herd and keeping them together.  

But I hope that after you pass the sheep, as you come down the other side of the col, you look up to see a bouquetin, or mountain goat, 20 m away from you, quietly picking its way through the rocks.  

And I hope that when you've seen all these things, and done all these things, I hope you're not too proud after ten days of hiking to arrive in Courmayeur and take the tunnel back home.  Or who knows?  Maybe by the time you do the Tour, they'll have completed the gondola and you can take it over the top!