Cloistered

See how the photographer has attempted to catch an empty moment. There is nothing to see in the image but a shell. Even so, this captured shell seems to resonate beyond the merely physical. Unadorned, weathered brick, seasoned timber trusses to support a roof of rustic tiles. From right to left the lighting shifts from the mellow sunshine that bathes the small lawn visible through the arches of the cloister, to the blue-tinged shadow within the sheltered space. The round arches and their stone columns have been built with minimal decoration. All has been conserved in such away as to emphasise the monkish simplicity. A shelter built by human hands apparently to enclose a spiritual space.

I imagine myself  motionless, within the image. In imagination I feel the timelessness that somehow arises from that history of anonymous moments, trapped in the space where the brothers allowed their tamed egos out for brief periods of exercise on a short spiritual leash. Over the years the dragons of guilt and desire have been tamed as each monk has struggled individually within his chosen holding cell. Fasting, prayer and the lash until at length extinguish those ancient fires that fuel  worldly survival.

I almost allow myself  to see a ghostly, ageing brother as he paces along this hallowed way. His face by now is a mask of tranquillity, his heart hollowed out by the compassionate practise of praying for lost souls, among whom he numbers his own. He will not disrupt his measured pacing to speak to me. Such a vandalistic destruction of silence is strictly forbidden by the order's rule. By now he needs no reminder. The rule and he are one. He will have use enough for his voice, and for the remaining embers of passion, when he and his brothers assemble in the chapel.

Beneath the modest grandeur of the chapel roof all the brothers' routinely silent voices will blend, as they sing the chants ancient even when Charlemagne was Europe's overlord. I can almost hear those beautiful voices soaring, as they create their unison of disinterested perfection. If I strain my hearing, will I catch an echo of that other-worldly song, even in this godless age to which it seems I must belong?

Yet even such peace as this is not beyond the reach of disruption. I hear other voices, harshly imperative, the clatter of metal tipped boots. These soldiers are here to drive the faithful men away. The have  gleefully  accepted their sovereign's orders.Their very presence rips apart the tranquil spirituality of the place. The idle poor, their officer jokes, these cloistered men are parasites. The soldiers curse and threaten. The monks have only their long training to call on. They can do nothing but obey.