A Different Rhythm
The close of a semester and finals week always signal the beginning of a seemingly endless rush of conflicting priorities, carefully meted procrastination, and excess sleep deprivation. Even for someone like myself, whose exams are spread over nearly two weeks, can begin to lose sight of reality in the midst of such a storm of scholarly duties.
It was at the onset of this deluge that I got the opportunity to spend the day at Gethsemane Abbey in Trappist, Kentucky. This isn't my first visit to a monastery, but it is the first English speaking monastery I've witnessed. My previous monastic visits were in vary different contexts—several in Greece and a couple in China—but each presented visitors with striking contrasts with the world just outside its walls.
Visiting such a place is all the proof I need to realize (or remember) that the hectic nature of modern college life (and perhaps modern life in general) is almost entirely by
The contrasts between Gethsemane and Louisville are nearly endless, but the most striking was the seemingly complete isolation from the 'real world' the rest of us inhabit. No radios, televisions, or computers are to be found blaring advertisements and news, music or movies. Events that seem of utmost importance to most of us are never even mentioned here—elections, celebrities, movies, etc never make their waves here. The seemingly irresistible tide of pop culture and consumerist frenzy leading up to Christmas is entirely absent—indeed, to a monk at Gethsemane, the word “Christmas” probably shares few connections with the secular world's concept of the term.
It's quiet.
Not only is there a lack of artificial noise, but there is very little talking of any kind. The only sounds I heard monks make were hymns or prayers. They aren't sharing details of their personal lives, political opinions, or work complaints. These things are all ego-centered and outward looking—the monks here are looking inward and upward, and the most important aspects of their lives are shared.
The effect of all of this is a sort of time warp. As we move faster, time seems slower as it passes and faster once it's gone. That is, a one hour period may include a half dozen different activities for many of us, and a day can involve a dozen distinct 'priorities.' Days seem long, but when we look back on months, semesters, or years, they seem to slip away with alarming speed. At Gethsemane, the pace is consistent, slow, and completely foreign to outsiders. I can't comment on its effect on the monks, but the environment itself seems to reverse my concept of time. An hour feels like a moment, but as I think back through the day, each moment is distinct. I feel no regret for the passing of time—even though I'm not accomplishing anything tangible, not a moment seems wasted.
So what can a few hours' experience at a monastery possible mean for my life, or the lives of my colleagues? It seems that the two worlds are so diametrically opposed as to be entirely incompatible. But in reality, I think experiences like these are the most important and most educational. For one, they prove that life's increasingly fast pace and lack of introspection is actually a choice. It's all about priorities—if you want to have the time, you can find it. It's a wonderful illustration of life lived with a focus on something external and eternal, rather than primarily on the self. It's a reminder that the work of looking after a soul isn't automatic or easy, nor necessarily simple, and that perhaps the more you know about such work, the harder and more complex it becomes.
Finally, it's yet another example of the many ways which “the unexamined life is not worth living,” as Socrates (ostensibly) said. Perhaps we should al incorporate a little of the monastic into our lives.