The Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance (720)
On a promontory overlooking the Kingswood lies the Abbey of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance. The oldest rooms, deep within--the old chapel, the cells, the refectory--are a mishmash of stone salvaged from the old fort that once stood on the promontory, mortared with lime. The later construction--the walls, the terracing, the abbot's rooms--are of locally quarried limestone. The two together give the abbey the appearance of old and young intermingled. A father and son, embracing.
The view from the abbey roof is said to be spectacular in autumn. The forest bursts with oranges and yellows and reds as the oaks and yews shed their summer coat. The river lies quiet, in anticipation of winter storms. Visitors to the abbey are visible as far as the old stone bridge.
Visitors find, as often as not, that they are turned away at the door. The Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, beholden to the Rule of Saint Benedict, must turn away those who would contaminate the monastery with gossip and contumaciousness. Those who are allowed to enter, who are brought to pray in the chapel, to eat in the refectory, to sleep in one of the cells, find themselves without much opportunity for conversation.
For the monks of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, on entering the abbey, must take a vow of silence.
The vow weighs heavy on the shoulders of some. Those bright and happy persons who have the gift of easy conversation. Those who take enjoyment from gossip, those given to laughter. Those who speak a great deal and say little, to drown out their own inner thoughts.
For those who are naturally contemplative, the burden is feather-light.
Once a year, on the high holy day of Saint Benedict, that burden is lifted--at dinner, a single monk is chosen by the abbot to speak. He may speak one word or many. He may give a lengthy speech of his own devising, he may read a Biblical passage, he may even gossip or say unkind words, though that is not often done. Most often, the words are brief and unpracticed, a momentary outburst of noise that is soon superseded by the abiding silence.
In one year, a dreary year marked by constant rainfall, by the river flooding into the forest and the fields, by a poor harvest, the abbot pointed to Brother Matthew at dinner on the high holy day of Saint Benedict. Brother Matthew was a large man, broad and tall, on whom the habit sat ill. He stood and cleared his throat. Looked down at his meager plate. Then looked around the room at his brothers, at the abbot. Thought for a moment. Then he spoke. "The food here," he said sadly, "is terrible." And then he sat. The brothers bowed their heads, the abbot gestured that dinner was to begin. And they ate.
The trees gave their annual autumn show, winter rains gave way to bright spring and on to a warm and quiet summer. Once again it was the high holy day of Saint Benedict. At dinner, as the monks all sat down to their meal, the abbot pointed at Brother John. Brother John was short, and thin-faced, and had always a quizzical expression on his face, as though confused as to what was going on around him. He raised an eyebrow at the abbot, then stood and cleared his throat. He looked around the room, he looked at Brother Matthew. And he spoke. "The food here," he said, "is excellent." And he sat. The brothers bowed their heads, the abbot gestured, and they ate.
The Kingswood blazed red and yellow with leaves, winter storms raised the river almost to flood, spring brought intermittent rains that were chased by summer. Again it was the high holy day of Saint Benedict, again the monks sat down to dinner. The abbot pointed at Brother Jacob. Jacob was a cheerful man, smiling at work, smiling at prayer, his face marked with smile lines and crows feet. Today he did not smile. He nodded at the abbot, stood. He looked around the room, and in particular at Brother Matthew and Brother John. And at last, he spoke. "Will you two," he said, "stop bickering!"
On a promontory overlooking the Kingswood lies the Abbey of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance. The oldest rooms, deep within--the old chapel, the cells, the refectory--are a mishmash of stone salvaged from the old fort that once stood on the promontory, mortared with lime. The later construction--the walls, the terracing, the abbot's rooms--are of locally quarried limestone. The two together give the abbey the appearance of old and young intermingled. A father and son, embracing.
The view from the abbey roof is said to be spectacular in autumn. The forest bursts with oranges and yellows and reds as the oaks and yews shed their summer coat. The river lies quiet, in anticipation of winter storms. Visitors to the abbey are visible as far as the old stone bridge.
Visitors find, as often as not, that they are turned away at the door. The Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, beholden to the Rule of Saint Benedict, must turn away those who would contaminate the monastery with gossip and contumaciousness. Those who are allowed to enter, who are brought to pray in the chapel, to eat in the refectory, to sleep in one of the cells, find themselves without much opportunity for conversation.
For the monks of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, on entering the abbey, must take a vow of silence.
The vow weighs heavy on the shoulders of some. Those bright and happy persons who have the gift of easy conversation. Those who take enjoyment from gossip, those given to laughter. Those who speak a great deal and say little, to drown out their own inner thoughts.
For those who are naturally contemplative, the burden is feather-light.
Once a year, on the high holy day of Saint Benedict, that burden is lifted--at dinner, a single monk is chosen by the abbot to speak. He may speak one word or many. He may give a lengthy speech of his own devising, he may read a Biblical passage, he may even gossip or say unkind words, though that is not often done. Most often, the words are brief and unpracticed, a momentary outburst of noise that is soon superseded by the abiding silence.
In one year, a dreary year marked by constant rainfall, by the river flooding into the forest and the fields, by a poor harvest, the abbot pointed to Brother Matthew at dinner on the high holy day of Saint Benedict. Brother Matthew was a large man, broad and tall, on whom the habit sat ill. He stood and cleared his throat. Looked down at his meager plate. Then looked around the room at his brothers, at the abbot. Thought for a moment. Then he spoke. "The food here," he said sadly, "is terrible." And then he sat. The brothers bowed their heads, the abbot gestured that dinner was to begin. And they ate.
The trees gave their annual autumn show, winter rains gave way to bright spring and on to a warm and quiet summer. Once again it was the high holy day of Saint Benedict. At dinner, as the monks all sat down to their meal, the abbot pointed at Brother John. Brother John was short, and thin-faced, and had always a quizzical expression on his face, as though confused as to what was going on around him. He raised an eyebrow at the abbot, then stood and cleared his throat. He looked around the room, he looked at Brother Matthew. And he spoke. "The food here," he said, "is excellent." And he sat. The brothers bowed their heads, the abbot gestured, and they ate.
The Kingswood blazed red and yellow with leaves, winter storms raised the river almost to flood, spring brought intermittent rains that were chased by summer. Again it was the high holy day of Saint Benedict, again the monks sat down to dinner. The abbot pointed at Brother Jacob. Jacob was a cheerful man, smiling at work, smiling at prayer, his face marked with smile lines and crows feet. Today he did not smile. He nodded at the abbot, stood. He looked around the room, and in particular at Brother Matthew and Brother John. And at last, he spoke. "Will you two," he said, "stop bickering!"
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