Astonished by Beauty

Of all my cloistered retreats, one was particularly fruitful. This was spent in the same monastery the Lathrops visited for A Story of Courage.

As we've seen in our recent posts, this monastery is not in mountains or meadow, but situated right in the hubub of Georgetown, DC.

'There was a lush cloister garden,' I wrote several years ago, 'and it was separated from the streets by high walls.  My plan was to sit with Bible and journal and gather together scattered threads of thoughts and prayers.  The sounds of traffic around?  No problem.  I looked upon those as bits of minor background noise.  I would spend the day with God, in peace.  An ideal set up for serenity.

That is, until the band.

From a campus nearby, there were sudden sounds of an outdoor concert.  A LOUD outdoor concert.  I sat in the garden surrounded by trees, holy statues, birds, and THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD.  Thud thud thuds out of context, setting my nerves on end.  Suddenly, ordinary street sounds began to unsettle me.  How long had there been planes flying overhead, one after another, and so close-by?  The city seemed filled with sirens.  Voices shouted, just outside the enclosure walls. Oh dear.  However could I pray?

And then it was time for Midday Prayer.  A bell rang, the Sisters gathered.  As a retreatant, I joined them.  We began the chant.  One Sister quietly closed shutters to hush metallic thuds.  That didn’t help, but the nuns sang on undaunted.  “O Lord, open my lips”THUDTHUDTHUD“and my mouth shall proc” THRUMP THUDTHUMPTHUD “…laim your praise…”

I was suddenly struck by the incongruity of it all.  Sirens, traffic, shouting, planes, THUDs, chant.

But more than that: I was astonished by beauty.  By the intense, amazing beauty I was witnessing all around.  One Sister said, just before I left, that she was sorry I’d been there at such a noisy time.  Oh no, I assured her; I had been there at the perfect time.

I had seen the analogy of 'the cloistered heart' in a whole new way, not in spite of the noises, but because of them.  No matter what went on outside, the nuns were there to praise God, and they would do it undaunted.

Probably the Sisters didn’t 'feel' very prayerful as they chanted praises they could barely hear, but they were singing to Another, and He could hear them.

Surely there are days when one of them doesn’t 'feel prayerful,' but she comes at the sound of the bell and she praises God.  Why?  Because He deserves it.  He deserves praise and worship with the whole of one’s being.

No matter the noises, no matter the weather, no matter the situations around any of us, God is present.

God is present and He is worthy of praise. Period.

(this is an edited post from our archives)

© N Shuman thecloisteredheart.org  

Photos of Georgetown Visitation, N. Shuman, 1990s

This post is part of our series 'A Story of Courage.' To continue in chronological order, click this line.

I Shall Take This As A Challenge

'We were led to the assembly room, where the sisters gather for an hour after dinner, and about two hours in the evening, meeting socially for what they call their 'recreation.' Then they busy themselves with knitting or plain sewing, or with any fancy-work or embroidery they may have to do... much pleasant chat goes on, and a harmless joke pleases every one. 

'Even here, there are many reminders that a higher purpose is always to be kept in view. One of these is a written scroll of paper attached to the wall, near the fireplace, and called the 'Challenge....' to give special attention to some particular virtue - patience, humility, gentleness, cheerfulness - whichever it may be that is specified on the scroll. Briefly, it is a quiet appeal to them, putting them on their mettle or their honor and conscience, to make an additional effort to excel in that virtue. There is a challenge for Advent, for Christmas, for Epiphany, for Lent, for Easter, for Pentecost. ...

'Now it may seem, to those who are wholly unaccustomed to such methods of thought and action, that this ever present watchfulness of self, and this constant endeavor to rise to the higher plane even while engaged in amusement or social converse, must become intolerably monotonous and a frightful strain. But, on the contrary, this conventual system of mingled self-examination and unselfish activity results in the greatest buoyancy of spirits, and in a healthy, happy life....' (A Story of Courage, George Parsons Lathrop and Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, original publication date: 1894)

This post is part of our series 'A Story of Courage.' To continue in chronological order, click this line.

A City Sort of Vision

'The Convent is a large three-sided structure... Across the street is a row of cosy dwellings, standing somewhat back from the sidewalk... the city and the suburb have been gradually welded into one, by a continuous and expanding web of streets and houses...' (A Story of Courage)

As a retreatant in the cloister of this convent, I was once housed in a cell overlooking the sidewalk. The view, overlooking a street lined with rowhouses in Georgetown DC, was charming. But there was no respite from the noise.

One of the nuns later apologized for my not being placed on the other side of the building, where I would have overlooked the (quieter) cloister garden. No need for regrets, said I.  I was exactly where I needed to be.

On one of my mornings there, I wrote the following in my journal:   'Chant, as we prayed this morning, curled around me. I was nestled, as a baby in its mother's gentle arms. Lilting voices lifted like the softest of lullabies, and I was stilled.  Now I sit in my cell, looking out the window...

'The houses across the street 'look at this one,' and this one 'looks at them.' They share a narrow street, yet they are divided by a world, by an entire culture. How like a cloistered heart looking at the face of someone across a room, a street, a yard, out a car window, in a store, in the midst of a family gathering.

'I watch the sky turn light outside my window. The city is waking as I write this. Cars, buses, planes, all move along their way for one more day. Birds chatter, unmindful of the ways of man, of the city of man that is this bustling metropolis, this powerful and mighty place of power among the nations of earth.

'Perhaps I see contrast as much as anything as I sit here. Black branches stand in silhouette against a lightening sky. Cars rush by below me; silver, gray, maroon. Birds call out above me; brown, gray, maroon. 

'Such an important city. Such human power in these houses and streets. And all the while, the sky stretches above all and is over all; unnoticed, for the most part.

'The cloistered heart is a 'city' sort of vision. We must learn to sing the songs of God in a land removed from Him. To sing the Magnificat even as we live the Pieta. Ours are gentle melodies in a land that has forgotten the song. Like birds calling from the treetops, like warblers who sing in the city of man, I must join the chorus.

'I must sing, and I must allow God to do what He wishes with the song.'



Most of the above is reposted from our archives. It is linked to Reconciled to You and Theology is a Verb for 'It's Worth Revisiting Wednesday.'

© N Shuman thecloisteredheart.org  


This post is part of our series 'A Story of Courage.' To continue in chronological order, click this line. 

Caught, the Bright Courage

Looking around my house, I see a number of things placed 'just for decoration.' Mirrors, pictures, vases of dried flowers, bowls filled with shells.

The decor in monasteries is not like that.

'There are interesting pictures on the walls.... There is a large painting over the mantelpiece of the Blessed Virgin meeting St. Elizabeth (and).. sturdy portraits of the saints, and the beaming representations of angels.' (A Story of Courage)

In a monastery, every item has a practical purpose. Each thing in every room is meant to help the nuns or monks live on this earth (to eat, sleep, bathe), or to lift their hearts to the heavenly realm. Paintings hung on walls do not usually focus attention on this world, which to some extent can be seen by looking out a window, but they're meant to direct minds toward God - and to His saints surrounding us. 

'Within the clear monochrome of these pictures is caught the bright courage of religious zeal and sublime law. Their firm glances, their steady poise of head, express the only genuine satisfaction and happiness; namely, those which last through eternity. They remind us of the sort of people we trust. They remind us of those faces which, throughout our own lives, have given us the most solid comfort and the deepest refreshment....'

Do I ever think about my companions the saints? Do I read their writings and seek their intercession?

Are there particular saints who have inspired me with their wisdom and courage? 

If I were furnishing my home as one furnishes a monastery, whose pictures would I hang on my walls?

'We must always have before our eyes the virtues and examples of the saints, in order to pattern and form all our actions on them.'  (St. Francis de Sales)

This post is part of our series 'A Story of Courage.' To continue in chronological order, click this line.

Treasure in the Refectory

One of the most memorable meals of my life was in a Monastery. As a retreatant, I was privileged to be seated with the nuns, in a setup exactly like the one described by the Lathrops (below). I'd had a prayerful, fruitful day of quiet, and I came to supper with my spirit dancing.

‘One of the first places we visited was the refectory.  The board-like tables upon which the few dishes of the nuns are placed are the same that were set up for the nuns here a hundred years ago. A raised desk called a pulpit, in the middle of one side of the room, is where the sister sits who reads aloud during the meals; at which, by the way, no conversation is allowed. The spiritual food she dispenses is usually the Life of a Saint, or passages from saintly writings.' (A Story of Courage, p. 14)

My memorable meal could not have happened without silence. As it was, nothing interrupted my prayerful train of thought and, in fact, everything about this supper added to it. The Sisters didn't have 'refectory reading' that night, but instead played a CD of classical music. My thoughts were free, therefore, to go along a track which I will find impossible (I know) to describe. But I'll try.

It was a Saturday night, and I thought of people 'out in the world' in fine, fancy restaurants. I imagined a lady dressed in silk, wearing diamonds, delicately dabbing her mouth on a white damask napkin. She was dining on filet mignon, lemon capellini with caviar, prosciutto wrapped asparagus, tiramisu. A piano would be playing lightly in the background; mellow standards with a touch of jazz. The lady might be chatting with her companions, against a background of muffled conversations and silverware clattering against china. Perhaps this was an establishment noted for its view, maybe a revolving restaurant high above a city glittering with night life. The chairs were comfortable, cushy, soft. 

‘Here in the refectory the only seats are benches ranged along the walls. There are no chairs. The nuns do not gather around a table, in the ordinary social way, but sit in order on the long, hard benches, at one side of the continuous tables, against the wall, and face the middle of the room. None of them sit on the opposite side of the table, which is left empty and clear, so that the servers, who constitute in turn all the sisters, from the Superioress to the novices, can conveniently place the dishes for them, from that side.' (p. 16)

I sat straight up on a hard bench, looking at my little bowl of buttered carrots. Plain glass windows across the room let me know night was falling, but I could still make out the concrete angel statue standing outside on a little hill. Lights along the ceiling reflected in the window, and glinted off the edge of my water glass, and let me see my companions seated along the walls of the long room. These were silent Sisters, their expressions pleasant, in black habits and long veils, wearing profession crosses of silver and habit-rosaries of dark wood. They did not look at one another; only at their plain white plates and bowls. I, meanwhile, watched the windows darken and the concrete angel dim.  

And I realized. Of all the people dining that evening, in all of the restaurants and houses and country clubs and townhomes and ballrooms across all the lands in all the earth, I was surely one of the happiest. It is no exaggeration to say that, during this simplest of meals, my soul was soaring.  Can I really describe this? Just as I expected - no.  I cannot. I can only say that I remember the refectory as shining with light and splendor and richness that evening.

I can only say that the overhead lights were chandeliers. Drinking glasses morphed into crystal. Fish sticks were lobster. Sturdy white plates were delicate china. A hard bench was made of cushioned velvet. And water became the finest wine.

'He brings me into the banquet hall, and His banner over me is love.' (Song of Songs 1:4)

Text not in quotes © 2016 Nancy Shuman. 
 thecloisteredheart.org     




Painting of Refectory: Pietro Lorenzetti
Painting of Party: Ralph Curtis, James McNeill Whistler at a Party


This post is part of our series 'A Story of Courage.' To continue in chronological order, click this line.