Author: Aidan Chambers
Category: Young Adult
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I know I shall fail to explain what I mean. But I have learned that in such failure there is a kind of success. For my failure announces the infinity that I call God. It demonstrates God’s unwritableness (if there is such a word, which I doubt!).
Your ‘cluster’ seems to me to be the evidence of your own struggle with that truth. God is not to be captured in anyone’s prose. Others discovered this before you. The Psalmist, for example, whose words we repeat at every office in chapel, knew that God can only be celebrated, but never captured, in words of special worth. So you too were led to speak, to write, in other shapes—in words of special worth to you. You will not allow me to call them poetry. All right! But the Psalms are poetry, and the Sermon on the Mount and much else in the Bible. Poetry seems to me much closer to writing God than is any prose. So will you allow me to make one last Retreat leader’s plea and ask you to read more of it? I have attached a poem I have long loved and often found useful during meditation, just in case. It may not be to your taste, but I hope you will give it a chance.
Now about the kitchen floor. Let me try saying it this way:
The young men who come here to try their vocations are of two kinds. The first kind are those who are attracted by the trappings. They love the idea of being a monk. They like wearing the habit, like feeling special, enjoy the ritual of chapel, and make a great fuss of their vows. Their attention is on themselves and on the drama, the romance, of being a monk. They are like actors playing monks in a never-ending play. They often do not stay long. They get tired of playing the part.
The other kind are in love with the work. With the business of our life. They sometimes find the trappings irksome, and ask awkward questions of us older brothers about why we do some things which to them seem out of date or which make us different from other people. Why we wear the habit, for example. This can make them at first more difficult to live with than the other kind. But their attention, their energy is given to the slog of prayer, the discipline of worship, the hidden grind of our labour.
The first kind are here to fulfil their fantasies about themselves. Scrubbing the kitchen floor doesn’t usually feature in their desires. At first, they may think of it as romantic—an act of humility in the style of St Francis. But they like everybody to know how humble they have been! And after a few months of such drudgery, they begin asking if they have not done it for long enough. They think scrubbing the floor is only for beginners. A job for those on the lowest rung of the ladder. For them, monastic life is like an ordinary profession, with a system of promotion, and a hierarchy of seniority. You start at the bottom doing the worst jobs and work your way up to ease and comfort and power over others. They often have a vocation to be Superiors, in charge of monasteries!
The other kind are here to search for God in the work of God in community. These are the people (and they are the fewest of all) who have a true vocation. Scrubbing the kitchen floor may make them grumble, but in their heart of hearts they know it must be done. It must be done for the practical reason that there is no one else to do it. But more importantly, it must be done for the spiritual reason that in the meanest work, in manual labour, in necessary drudgery, we encounter the disgust of monotony.
Those who give their lives to God, rather than to the elevation of themselves, soon learn that scrubbing the kitchen floor is forever the test of the strength of their givenness to God. They know that their life as a monk is not about climbing ladders of professional success, but about lifelong acceptance of their commonplace equality with their brothers, and, through the community, with men and women living and departed all over the world.
This is what I wanted you to glimpse today, on your last day with us. It offers you another clue, another piece of evidence, about what belief is—what belief ‘feels like’.
Belief not only begins as an act of will, but it is sustained by the drudgery of everyday work. My belief is kept alive by the monotony of everyday prayer—which is the same for a monk as daily training sessions are for an athlete, or daily practice is for a musician. It is nothing elevated, you see. It is not usually accompanied by beautiful feelings or holy thoughts. It is not a kind of trip into a spiritual wonderland of pleasure. It is like scrubbing the kitchen floor–a routine necessary chore that helps keep the place clean and in good repair.
When you feel confident in your faith, such work is not difficult. It is even enjoyable. But when you lose your confidence, when you are off form, when the dark night of the soul besets you, and faith seems hollow and ridiculous, such drudgery, though tedious, even disgusting, anchors you to reality. It is all that is left to keep your belief alive. And then, when faith returns, it finds a home fit and ready to inhabit.
In this a monastery is no different from anywhere else. Everywhere in the world there are people who seek only their own elevation—comfort for themselves and power over others. And there are people who give themselves to the work.
If you remember us at all when you return home, I hope, Nik, that you will think of us scrubbing the kitchen floor.
I pray for you. Kit.
P.S. Here is the poem I promised. It is by George Herbert.
Love
Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked anything.
‘A guest,’ I answered, ‘worthy to be here.’
Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on thee.’
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
‘Who made the eyes but I?’
‘Truth, Lord, but I have marred them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the blame?’
‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
So I did sit and eat.
ENGAGEMENTS
JULIE:
Dear Nik: I can see! I CAN SEE!
[Laughs.]
Isn’t that great!
[More laughter.]
I expect Mum has let you know.
But I want to tell you about it myself.
[Heavy breaths.]
I’ll be calm now.
[Pause.]
They took the bandages off yesterday. Oh, Nik, I’ve been sitting up in bed just staring at everything, and grinning like an idiot! Everything looks so new, so . . . fresh.
Some things are new, of course. I mean, I’m seeing them for the first time. Simmo, for example. Not that she’s a thing. But, after all this time talking to her and being looked after by her, being dependent on her more than on anyone else, I’d never seen her till yesterday. And there she was! And the other nurses. And the doctors. And this room I’m in.
I’m having to readjust myself. Almost as if I’m a new patient, just arrived.
But the amazing thing was the view out of my window. I still can’t get over it. And I just have to tell you about it.
But I’ve jumped ahead of myself. I should tell you about everything in the right order, the order things happened.
[Pause.]
I knew ahead of time when they were going to take the bandages off. They told me a few days ago they thought my eyes were about ready. So I asked them not to tell anybody—Mum or Philip Ruscombe or you or anybody who would worry and want to be here. I wanted to be sure about the result myself first, and have time to cope, whether I was blind or not.
I don’t mind telling you now, I was pretty worked up. I prayed about it a lot, and Simmo had talked to me, buoying me up and preparing me for the worst, just in case. She’s been really terrific: all along.
But even so, I didn’t know how I’d take it if the news was bad. And, to be honest, I didn’t think I could cope wit
h people who are close to me standing around and being sympathetic at the same time as I found out the truth myself.
Besides, I knew it would be a strange kind of experience. Having taken my sight for granted for nineteen years and then suddenly to be blind, which is something you can never take for granted, not for a single moment, and then after worrying about it for weeks, to face the unveiling, when I’d discover if the gift I’d always taken for granted had been given back to me . . . Well, I wanted that occasion to be as unfussy, as clear and simple as possible. I wanted to give it all my attention.
Anyway, the doctor agreed. No one to know. And just her and Simmo with me.
Before the doctor arrived Simmo prepared me. An extra careful clean-up of my room. Fresh sheets on the bed. A new nightie she’d brought me specially. And the blind on my windows pulled down because my eyes might be damaged by strong light after being covered up for so long.
Humankind cannot bear very much reality. Who said that? It’s a line of poetry I read somewhere. Remembered it when Simmo pulled the blinds. My eyes couldn’t bear the reality of unshaded sunlight.
What Simmo does, it seems to me, Nik, is exactly what you’ve been asking about. What she does is what belief is. Simmo being faithful day after day to people like me is belief. Nobody proved anything to her that persuaded her to do it. No one promised her much of anything, as a matter of fact. She just decided for herself that she would spend her life this way. I suppose what Brother Kit told you is right after all. Belief is an act of will, as much as it is anything. It’s given you, true. But you have to decide to accept it.
[Pause.]
There I go again! Another sermon. But you did ask, even if it does seem centuries ago. And you keep on telling me no one knows the answer, and I keep on trying to tell you that they do. It’s just that you’re blind to it! You don’t want to see it yet. You’re like someone closing his eyes when he thinks he is going to be hit in the face. You’re doing it so as to protect yourself. You know that if you accept the answer you’ll have to do something about it. Because belief is about deciding what you mean to yourself. And once you know that, you have to do something about it, and you don’t want the trouble this might cause. Not that I blame you. I’m only pointing out what’s so.
[Pause.]
If you haven’t switched off, I’ll tell you the rest of the story of my seeing again. And no more sermons today, promise!
[Pause.]
Simmo got everything ready, then propped me up in bed in all my laundered glory, and I waited and waited for the doctor, but she didn’t come and didn’t come. Some emergency. She was two hours late! I was exhausted from keeping myself poised for the big moment. Even Simmo was sounding frayed.
Naturally, as soon as she arrived I felt guilty about grumbling to myself when she’d been attending a patient who really needed her, and so I came on too cheery and offhand, overcompensating like mad. The funny thing is, I’ve seen this kind of thing happen time and again in the surgery at work, and yet when it happened to me I behaved just like everybody else. But doctors get used to people acting like clowns, and she chatted to me for a few minutes to settle me down before she started the unveiling.
Which didn’t take long. I deliberately kept my eyes shut till the bandages were off and the pads were removed and Simmo had cleaned the skin and rubbed in some sort of salve. Then the doctor said that was it, everything was ready and I could look.
I opened my eyes and blinked a few times, like you do after a long sleep, to get them working again, and there in front of me was the room I’ve been in all these weeks. Smaller than I’d expected, and even the gloom with the blinds down seeming too bright. And there was the doctor standing on one side of my bed and Simmo on the other. And my hands like stumps because of being wrapped up, lying on the bedclothes.
At first all I could do was stare at everything. I don’t remember what I felt. Except astonishment and relief. But then I started laughing, giggling really, and the doctor and Simmo started laughing too, and Simmo gave me a hug and a kiss, and the doctor kept saying, ‘Well done, well done!’ as if I’d just won an Olympic medal, and before any of us knew it we were all streaming with tears, even me, which was somehow marvellous too, because I thought if my eyes could cry they must really be okay. So for a while it was blubbing day in Side Ward Two, and before long Chrissy and Jean, the nurses on duty in the main ward, and all the walking wounded who’ve been visiting and reading and chatting to me lately, came in to join in the celebration, till Simmo had to put a stop to it in case I got over-excited and tired my eyes their first time out, so to speak. She sent everybody packing, and insisted I wear a blindfold for an hour to rest my eyes before giving them some more exercise.
[Laughter.]
Simmo is almost exactly like I imagined her, by the way, only prettier. You’ve seen her so you know. But the doctor is quite different. From her voice and her manner, I’d thought she must be tall and heavily built, one of those strong older women who are a bit tough from fighting their way up in a male-dominated profession. But in fact she looks like a kindly granny, thin as a fork, not very tall, with bobbed grey hair and a nice face with such amazing skin she doesn’t need to wear make-up, and with gold-rimmed half-glasses stuck permanently on her nose. Just to look at her you’d think she wouldn’t dare say boo to any kind of goose, never mind the geese she must have to put up with among her colleagues not to mention patients. Some people must get an awful shock if they take advantage of her, thinking she looks a push-over. Which just goes to show how deceptive appearances can be and how you can’t always trust your eyes. So after all, seeing isn’t enough for believing! [She chuckles.] I knew you’d want to know that, Nik!
[Pause.]
They wouldn’t let me read or watch television, nor put up my window blinds. By night-time I’d got quite used to seeing again. Even the excitement was wearing off. But then this morning . . .
Phew!
It still takes my breath away.
[Pause.]
When I’d woken and settled myself for the day, Simmo came in and raised the blind. And that was the moment when I saw—really saw again. Simmo raising the blind was like opening my eyes for the first time, and there, through the window, was the scene I’ve been gazing at all day, and still am as I talk to you now.
Probably, if you were here to see it, you’d wonder what all the fuss is about. Because it’s quite ordinary. Nothing to write home about in the normal way of things. Just a field of grass rather roughly cut to keep it trim. And a pond in the middle, not much bigger than a large pool. And a tree, a huge chestnut, to one side of the pool. And beyond a high old mellow brick wall hiding the main road. And above all that the sky. Nothing else. At least, nothing I can see from my bed. And framed by my window, it’s like a picture. And I’ve watched it hour by hour all day, as the light has changed from early morning brightness to the evening glow I’m looking at now. And it’s been like taking a long long drink when you’re so dry you can’t get enough to slake your thirst.
I looked and looked and thought: That was there all the time and I didn’t know. I couldn’t see it, and no one told me, so I couldn’t even believe it was there and hope to see it one day. But it was there, all the time—like a ghost just waiting to show itself.
Which reminded me of a kind of poem, or maybe it’s a prayer, I copied into my meditation book ages ago. It’s by a Tibetan Buddhist monk from years back, fourteenth century, I think. His name was something like Long-champs—no, Long-chenpa, that’s it. I remember it word for word because I’ve always liked it a lot.
Since everything is but an apparition
Perfect in being what it is,
Having nothing to do with good or bad,
Acceptance or rejection,
One may as well burst out in laughter.
And I did—burst out in laughter, I mean—because those words suddenly seemed exactly right in a way I’d not understood before. Partly, I laughed because it is so odd how yo
u can read some words time and again, liking them, and thinking you understand them, but then one day you read them again for the umpteenth time and they suddenly make sense in a way you’ve never understood before, a way that you know properly and deeply for the very first time is what they really wanted to say to you all along.
You see, as I lay here looking so hard and so long, I began to see everything was perfectly itself. The grass was perfectly grass, and the pond perfectly a pond, and the water in it perfectly water, and the tree so perfectly a tree. And the light! Oh, the light! It was so perfectly itself too, perfectly light, and yet also perfectly everything else. Because without the light I couldn’t have seen anything. It illuminated everything. Made everything visible. Made everything there.
And I thought: Yes, the light made everything visible that is there. But it also made everything. Without the light nothing would exist. The grass, the pond, the water, the tree are all light, only light. Their perfection is made by the light.
For hours I had the amazing impression that time had stood still—that all the world around had ceased to move. I waited for the sensation to pass, for time to begin again, but the strange feeling persisted. Time seemed suspended. And I cannot forget one detail of the time I lay here watching it all.
As I watched, the sunlight played on the ripples of the water and flickered on the leaves of the tree as they moved in the breeze. And the light broke up into thousands of individual flecks. But I knew they all came from the same source. They were all, each fleck, perfect sunlight, and were also all the same thing, the Sun. They came from the sun and go back to the sun and are the sun now while they are flecks of light on the water.
The light reveals the water so we can see it, and the ripples of water reveal the flecks of sunlight so that we can see in them perfect individual particles of the sun. They don’t blind us if we look at them, though we would be blinded if we looked at them all together in the perfect Sun.