Saint Benedict Monastery

On Friday I went to the top of Mount Saint Benedict, above where the school I teach at is located. The monastery that we were visiting was built in the 1700s by Dutch Monks. The ambience is so perfect and amazing. The monastery is nestled high in the hillside, embedded in the thick greenery that seems to be respiring in a way that you are almost sure that you can feel the rise and fall of the mountain's breast as you stand, watching the mist wave by your skin in bands of wispy, dense, damp veils. Undulating. The seduction of this nature is complete. The weather rolls in like a viscous locomotive, the momentum is palpable and consuming. The breath of the mountain encompasses the monastery in a warm amniotic embrace; it breathes its open mouth against the windows, smothering them so closely in a gentle but measured exhalation. Sitting on the verandah in cushioned wicker chairs. Who has been here before me? Who has shared this state? I wonder if I am absorbing the energy they left behind with the electricity of their thoughts. Residual. What did I leave behind there of myself? What of my own electricity was transferred to that space? Who will find it, knowingly, unknowingly. Wind and rain blows through the open air of the seating area. Hairs stand on end despite the consuming warmth of the mountain's life. I feel astonished and exhilarated to be reading here in this cocoon of history steeped in the smell of damp earth and high priced tea.