Eshtine

quote of the day

(Merton has arrived for a retreat at a Trappist monastery)

At the end of the avenue, in the shadows under the trees, I could make out the lowering arch of the gate, and the words: "Pax Intrantibus."
The driver of the car did not go to the bell rope by the heavy wooden door. Instead he went over and scratched on one of the windows and called, in a low voice:
"Brother! Brother!"
I could hear someone stirring inside.
Presently the key turned in the door. I passed inside. The door closed quietly behind me. I was out of the world.
The effect of that big, moonlit court, the heavy stone building with all those dark and silent windows, was overpowering. I could hardly answer the Brother's whispered questions.
I looked at his clear eyes, his greying, pointed beard.
When I told him I came from St. Bonaventure's, he said drily:
"I was a Franciscan once."
We crossed the court, climbed some steps, entered a high, dark hall. I hesitated on the brink of a polished, slippery floor, while the Brother groped for the light switch. Then, above another heavy door, I saw the words: "God alone."
"Have you come here to stay?" said the Brother.
The question terrified me. It sounded too much like the voice of my own conscience.
"Oh, no!" I said. "Oh, no!" And I heard my whisper echoing around the hall and vanishing up the indefinite, mysterious heights of a dark and empty stair-well above our heads. The place smelled frighteningly clean: old and clean, an ancient house, polished and swept and repainted and repainted over and over, year after year.
"What's the matter? Why can't you stay? Are you married or something?" said the Brother.
"No," I said lamely, "I have a job..."

--Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain