The Glamorous Job: The Mystical Spirituality of Monastery Labor

It was mid-January. I dressed accordingly and stepped out of the guesthouse door for Morning Vigil into a mixed precipitation of freezing rain and snow. With the strong winter wind, I felt as if I were being pelted in the face with frozen slush. I could see only as far ahead as my headlight shined. Driving to Vigil was an option in less-than-appealing weather, but my car was encased in thick ice. I wrapped my face as tightly as possible in my scarf, leaving only my eyes exposed. I put my head down against the driving slush, and I got on with my walk. In an effort to think about something other than my discomfort, I tried to shift my attention to the world around me. I noticed the quiet stillness of the forest in winter: no little critters scurrying around, no birds singing, no crickets or peepers filling the air with their distinctive, not-unpleasant din. There were also no bugs. I tried to appreciate that as I winced against the pelting ice. I also tried to notice, if not appreciate, the distinctive chill of the wind and crunch of my feet on the frozen ground. Step, step. Crunch, crunch. Eventually the monastery came into view and the warm chapel welcomed me inside.

Back in the guesthouse after breakfast, the icy precipitation had turned to a heavy snowfall. I sat on the couch facing a large picture window looking out over snow-covered mountains. The world was steeped in the deep silence of a snowy winter's day. From this comfort, with my field journal open in front of me, I spent some time reflecting on my morning. I wondered about my relatively unpleasant walk, and the challenges it posed for appreciating the world around me, my presence in it, my movement through it, and what I might be learning from it.