Begining Monk

It's been two and a half years since I was closed out of the monastery I loved.

I entered because a thick cord of living light tied my heart to the place. This cord sang through my being with dancing joy. I could only follow where it led. Besides, this call was an answer to my prayer to be emptied so I could shine the divine light more clearly.

Be careful what you pray for. You might get it.

This monastery seemed like a good way at the time, not just because the call was strong. So many spiritual teachers in so many religions say that monastic detachment clears the gunk that shadows our inner light. I wanted to test on myself if they were right.

On my last day in the monastery, I sat in meditation, aware of how the monastery had changed me. I'd come to depend on the emptiness of minimal ownership and social activity. I'd let go of stuff, furniture to hold stuff, the house to hold the furniture, the job to pay for the house - and a whirl of social activities. I didn't want to jump back into all that. Could I find another way?

Before I entered, my creative energy had been like a playful wildfire - dashed here and there by every breeze. Now it had the white-hot, focused intensity of a hurricane lamp. I'd take that energy with me when I left, and now I'd be free to use it. Book titles, sculpture plans, teaching ideas... My mind buzzed with possibility.

My parents gave me a room. I rented a small studio and agreed to lead some spirituality workshops. I planned to go to the monastery for morning liturgy and to walk their acres of restored, native prairie.

My best friend said, “I’m glad you’re out. They may not need you, but we do.”

This happy denial lasted about a week, then grief hit. I'd left the monastery at the end of October. My energy drained as winter advanced and I lay buried like a seed under the snow. With spring, life returned in blazing anger. It bounced between the sisters and myself. I’d ask: Why wasn't I submissive enough for them to keep me? Nothing was that hard. Then I’d ask: How could they toss my love aside? They took me knowing how I was different, yet kicked me out citing those very differences.

A year ago on Easter, I went back, slipping unnoticed in and out of the large crowd at the Saturday Vigil service. While there, joy and love burst up. The sisters shone, as did the cross and the congregants. Angst and furor dissipated in the presence of that joy. I attended morning prayers a couple of times.

I was still on the books as an oblate, a lay associate, of the monastery. I went to part of an oblate retreat. Then another one.

I'd carefully scout around to avoid meeting any of the sisters. But my spirit had other plans. Turning a corner expecting that everyone was busy elsewhere, I'd bang into one or another. We'd run through a rote greeting: "How are you?" "Fine." "And you?" "Fine."

Then a strange thing happened. At the oblate retreat this last March, I was no longer wary or tense. I realized how much I still loved each one of the sisters (there weren't very many), as if our souls were deeply connected. Yet it was no longer relevant that they didn't share my feeling. It was no longer relevant if they had clay feet up to their armpits. I'm not sure if this was forgiveness or something broader. It felt like I'd been washed of bitterness and anxiety without any effort on my part... Well, I'm not completely clean. Sticky wisps of anger rise up on occasion. But that is not my general state.

Occasionally since childhood, I’d touched a luminous, inner joy. For two years before I entered the monastery and the year I was in it, I'd been filled by that joy, even when things were hard. They kicked me out and smoke darkened my sight. Then the grief cleared and joy welled up again. Now I’m grateful I got to live there, even if the time was way too short.