A Monk's Diary Archive

Every monastery has a Brother Cassian; the monk who fastidiously writes out the names of each monk alongside his daily work assignment, the whole arranged in neat rows and neatly printed – and saved for years in envelopes, each identified with a particular week; four envelopes preserving a record of the work assignments for the month, twelve envelopes bundled in chronological order specifying the work assignment for every brother in the community for each day of the year; all this labo

The thought that a person is actually suffering from a mental illness is not one that I entertain too readily and so it was almost a full minute before I rose from the presider's chair in my priestly vestments and faced off with a woman making her way straight toward me down the center aisle of church in the silence after communion.

Here's what I like about being a monk: a day follows the one that came before it, and all the hours of the day are in the right order. Let me explain. Except for prayer, a monk is never occupied with one activity for very long. I take up a task – let's say, sanding lid-frames in the carpenter shop for an hour. About the time I'm getting tired of that, a bell rings and it's time to go to the prayer service we call Sext.

Brother Gerard is looking for Brother Andrew. The old monk, nearly eighty now, is dressed in his overalls looks animated; clearly ready to “seize the day”. He wants to get to work. He showed up in his pick-up truck at the underpass where Andrew was supposed to meet him, but the newest member of the community wasn't there. “Have you seen Andrew anywhere?” he asks, darting glances around the changing room.