Monastery

I am greeted by Brother Patrick when I enter. He is sitting on a low stool in a room in the shade, surrounded by bottled wines and jams. I ask how the avodado wine is. “I hope it is good” he says “I make it”. He leads me indoors and offers me coffee. I accept, not because I truly even want coffee, but because it is real coffee, not instant. Sitting in a room, generously called the library, I can see out into a garden. Flowering bushes grace the edges, and careful palm fronds betray it as a nursing garden. Somehow, that fits well here.

The brothers are quiet. They aren’t simply not voluble; their very presence draws some quiet within me. Their voices are even, measured. Their footfall is light. The breeze whispers as well, and a lone bee hushes around the edges of the room. The books are not plenty, but they are immediately impressive. Every encyclopedia brittanica is here, and books from “the Vision of God” to “100 Flowers”. Sipping my coffee and listening to the clock pass seconds by, I am aware that, in another life, I could be very happy here.