Stillness

Yesterday we were chauffeurs for an individual scheduled to be an overnight guest at an Orthodox monastery located an hour and a half from our house. We arrived late due to unexpected delays on the interstate, just in time to literally run into Mother Gabriella following vespers (before dinner).  She and the other eight nuns were in the process of exiting a magnificent domed structure that reminded me of a Romanian cathedral. 

“Can you join us for dinner? We’ll be eating in just a few minutes, and would enjoy having you stay.”

Her pleasant, welcoming inclusion caught me off-guard. She could not have predicted extra mouths would show up right at the dinner hour, and yet her hospitality seemed automatic. We hummed and hawed (such awkwardness was unnecessary and unfortunate, but almost involuntary on our part), and finally accepted. 

She granted us permission to enter the massive doors of the imposing structure before us, then left to inform others in an adjacent building that we would be staying for dinner. 

Once inside, we were transported into unsurpassed grandeur. I gawked at the magnificent artistry and color, transfixed by so much exquisite beauty, thinking surely this was a foretaste of heaven.  The Almighty loomed large, and I felt comparatively very small and starved for this kind of Presence while visually consuming the optical feast before me.  It seemed I could not get enough.

Then the dinner bell clanged, calling us back to reality.

The three of us ate in a room adjacent to the nuns in such a way that we were aware of each other’s presence, and yet not competing for space or attention.  Stunning iconography of The Last Supper covered the entire back wall. A sumptuous table had been set especially for us in spite of our last-minute invitation and acceptance: bean soup, greens, broccoli, barley-stuffed dolma (grape leaves), homemade sliced bread, homemade pocket breads stuffed with greens, noodles, rice, and marinara sauce. Individual desserts waited on one side: diamond-shaped slabs of baklava, long fingers of cinnamon biscotti, and squares of halvah.

It was a delicious, satisfying meal of simple foods enjoyed in the midst of quiet conversation.  I appreciated the lack of boisterous chatter and laughter, of jarring pop music blaring in the background.  We learned later that our tasty greens were not spinach, as we thought, but young nettles the nuns harvested from the woods.

After dinner we walked the peaceful, carefully-maintained grounds, and investigated several points of interest embedded in natural beauty: an enchanting children’s garden, a tranquil pond featuring an arched bridge, and a rustic log-cabin-like cemetery chapel with ornate interior artistry.  Imposing (almost lifelike) cross-shaped headstones stood around the chapel, magnificent in size and contour. Symbols of lives passed from one realm to another, they almost resembled ranks of people standing in a sunny field.

As we strolled the paths, a nun in a black cassock pushed a cart to a compost pile, while another worked the soon-to-be vegetable garden with a hoe. They appeared busy and intentional - not frantic or driven by some pushy performance standard, or even by the clock. It was just another calm, purposeful evening at the monastery.

This place is a haven that encourages Orthodox tradition and discipline all but lost in our modern world: inner stillness.  Such stillness cultivates serenity that leaves little room for cultural static, the hiss and crackle of a worldly liturgy that singes soulful nerve endings and hinders our ability to receive from God. Even as an outsider I felt settled and refreshed. Open. Uncluttered. Expanded. Still. 

Be still and know that I am God. – Ps. 46:10

Stillness is an undisturbed state of the intellect, the calm of a free and joyful soul, the tranquil unwavering stability of the heart in God…  -Nikitas Stithatos