A Monk's Diary Archive

The transformation happens each time I cross over the two lanes of Monastery Road, as if its empty expanse was the dividing line between heaven and earth. Crossing the street with my back to the monastery, and my steps directed toward the vast openness of North Church Field, I am “leaving this world”, and where I am going, no man or woman can follow.

The “Rosary Walk”, at Holy Family Church, consists of two rows of very tall pine trees about twenty feet apart that extend from the beginning of the long driveway all the way to the door step of the church. Walking between the trees is a little like entering a Gothic cathedral – and it's supposed to be. I've never seen anyone sauntering under these trees saying the rosary. Maybe at one time they did.

I am walking in the dark. It's about 4:30 a.m. and I am outside – not on an errand or to accomplish anything at all, but in response to a movement awakened inside me after the monks and I finished praying “Vigils” together. I want to walk. I want to be outside; to feel the chill air on my face and savor the unexpected mingling of scents and sounds of nature. As I round the corner of the garage, the asphalt becomes aglow.

There are several rather distinctive features to the breakfast of a Trappist monk. It is eaten in the dark. At New Melleray, we are sitting down to our first meal of the day at a little after four in the morning. The large windows lining the south wall are black and, since it is Spring, they are open, but at this time in the morning no sound enters. The birds are asleep.