Rapt in the Mountain

A monastery. A mountain. Reflection. Some penance. Mostly memories. I am an old man who has returned to the source of his redemption.

Too religious? Too "woo-woo?" Too esoteric for the average reader? Maybe. But I think not. Most of us, perhaps all of us, experience some revelation. But do we recognize it? More important, do we act on it when we realize it? Or, like me, do we recognize it and fail to act on the realization until the experience becomes a longed-for memory?

That longed-for memory is why I am here, now, at this moment, rapt in the mountain. It is not just any mountain. This mountain is of great power and significance. That this monastery sits at the foot of this mountain is no accident.

This mountain is a volcano, asleep at the moment but potentially eruptive, just like revelation or enlightenment. This mountain erupted in recent recorded history. It could do so again. Yes, the parallel is apt. You and I are ready to explode into rapture at any second. The stillness of the monastery amplifies this potential.

I stood there, rapt in the mountain, lost in its glory, potential, and memories. I was doing this instead of what I might have been doing, what I should have been doing. This is the point of this reminiscence. For in this instance, I perceived a presence behind me, a human presence; it arrived quite suddenly and almost entirely silently. It was a gentle rustle and a slight breeze.

I turned to acknowledge its presence and found a monk, a tiny female in the black robe of a novice. How old? Ah, that is hard to discern with monks. Shaved heads and identical robes, except for the difference in the color of the novice and the ordained, make age and even individual recognition difficult. But this one was young.

She was perhaps twenty-something. She was tiny, with striking blue eyes. They were lovely to look into, but I had only the slightest opportunity to do so. Her blue eyes were daggers, and her mouth disapproved. This tiny young monk was not happy with me. Quite sternly and formally, she clarified that I was acting outside the routine, which was unacceptable!

A monastic schedule offers little flexibility. Attention is the matter. The demands of routine, rigidity, and knowing what to do at every moment of existence imprisons and liberates simultaneously. The Rule of St. Benedict is the best example I can think of now.

Benedict's rules are an easy read. He examines every aspect and activity of monastic life, including how many scriptures are chanted daily, ceremonies for summer, winter, or commemorative occasions, and discipline of the young, adolescent, or old.

Who cooks, how to eat what is cooked, and the practice of silence when consuming what is cooked are all considerations. Benedict discusses the individual and institutional management of funds. He addresses a monk's attire and quantity of personal possessions. Even sleep, when, how, and how long; it's all there.

This monastery operates according to the Rule of St. Benedict, although it's not of Benedict's tradition. Nothing is done out of order, and nothing requires deliberate thought. Once learned, the Rule becomes second nature and may be packed away in the attic of one's mind. The opportunity to focus entirely on the moment fills one's interior space.

"I seem to be a verb," said R. Buckminster Fuller. "To be" is the essential, the elemental verb. To be is to exist. To not be is not to exist. Our dear William Shakespeare gets it, and so do you. But spiritually, one may "not be" and still exist in the conventional sense. It's a dead existence, burdened with desire, regret, disappointment, and discontent. Buddhists sometimes clarify this existence as "dis-ease."

The ideal monk is the essence of Fuller's observation. They neither desire to have what they do not nor desire not to have what they have. No residue or hangover affects their existence. To act is introspection and prayer, both in stillness and activity. The monk's vocation is to do what is necessary for existence but leave space for revelation, enlightenment, and communion with God, "That which Is," or the Lord of the House. Whatever the name, the name is less than what IS. The Rule imprisons and yet liberates simultaneously.

I am not a monk. I am a layperson. This tautology strains grammatical rules. But sometimes, for emphasis, out of necessity, one may stretch or break the rules to put a fine point on the point. It is the same with the monastic Rule.

"Cease from evil. Do good. Do good for others." These are the three pure Buddhist precepts. Adhering to the Rule generally satisfies all these recommendations, except when the Rule does not. If a fire breaks out and one elects not to deviate from the Rule and deal with the immediate danger, the fire, well, you get it. This deviation requires instant realization and instant action in a different way that fulfills adherence to the Rule.

The Rule says I must be somewhere doing something at some particular time. But what if a more significant need arises that simultaneously requires doing it in a different place at a different time?

Simply acting is impossible if one is filled with, confused by, hampered by, caught up in, or muddled in deliberate thought. For the ideal monk, altering the quality of being redirects instantly, with no hesitation, wishing, or regretting, just acting. So, deviating from the Rule frees one to do what is good, proper, and critical.

My dear novice monk did what she had to: get the errant visitor back into the schedule and adhere to the Rule. And I had to do what I had to, communing with the mountain, recalling and venerating my teacher, contemplating my mortality. But, all of that did not fit into the schedule, the Rule. What was I to do?

I might have asserted myself, my age--my eminence grise. Hey, I might be a spiritual big shot! You novice monk may be interrupting some vital communication with the Eternal!

Sheepishly, I admit some of those thoughts paraded through my mind. I'm an egoistic S.O.B. Not sheepishly, I assert that such thoughts are everyday human thoughts, so I need not be too ashamed. The spiritual maturity is that I experienced these thoughts as they paraded through my mind. They came as a parade and disappeared at the end of town. I saw them, I adjudicated them, and they remained unspoken and lingered not. "Those who come are received. Those who go are not pursued."

My dear, tiny, blue-eyed novice was the essential element of this collision. Our novice had a job—to get me back on track. Our novice did it skillfully and efficiently, maybe not so graciously. Hell, this is her house. I'm just a visitor. I was in the wrong room, so to speak, somewhere in the back of the house rather than the living room or the dining room, where guests are customarily entertained.

I hope this young blue-eyed monk sticks and eventually dons the brown robe of a reverend and maybe one day an Abbess. I'd love to stick around long enough to engage her at that level of training. As far as I know, an imperious but enlightened Abbess is good. My Abbess was highly imperious. Yet, she was a teacher with so much to teach and give. And I got some of it.

But, at this stage of our novice's development, the Rule rules. We laypersons are tromping willy-nilly about the property. It isn't easy to persuade one to adhere to what is deemed proper. We stray off the bloody reservation!

Ah, but at that moment, on that day, there was a fire inside me. I yearned to meld with the mountain. I longed to incinerate myself and join my teacher. I dreamed of basking in what may have been my final visit to the monastery. All was enough.

I deviated from the Rule for a few precious moments. Like my friend Ho Tei, the Buddha of the marketplace, I had plopped down my sack but had not taken it up yet again. Thankfully, my dear novice nudged me—maybe she gave me a symbolic spiritual dope slap—and said, "Get back on track! Pick up your sack!" And the novice monk was correct!

The teaching: Rules are rules until rules are not, and then rules are again rules. Always onward, always becoming . . .