Monasterio Encarnacion
A friend asks for a description of Avila, of the architecture and surroundings. I wrote much of this morning's walk, probably the way St. Teresa walked it in 1535 when at age 20 she left her father's home to join the Carmelites at the Monastery of the Incarnation. When nearly finished with many words wrought from the experience, including the Mass there, Estelle came into the Tellamar library where I write in solitude, and she tried to communicate in Spanish and broken English that she wished to see news of the terrorist bombings in London, and desired to use my laptop as it is faster than theirs. My battery nearly depleted, I motioned that I needed to go back to my cell and get the charge hook-up. Upon my return, all that I had written was gone, as Estelle had attempted to find the news. This is a beautiful example of the joy of differences between the interior life and the exterior life! Surely Jesus found my description too much; or perhaps He wanted me to see that the language of earth is for the earth, for now. Estelle needed to leave to prepare their lunch, but I was able to find her the London news she desired. More exterior death, terrorism, destruction. I now will try to rewrite some of interior life, peace, and construction.
Avila is a town built on a hill, originally, centuries ago, in the province of Castille, a bit west of Madrid. The people needed protection from the invasion of the moors in the 6th, 7th, 8th centuries, so knights constructed the immense and thick walls. The Tellamar residence where I am living with a few lay women of the community of Las Cruzades de Santa Maria, is just outside the walls, overlooking the later constructions in the valley below and beyond. The building materials are huge, granite stones and red tiles. Small stones fit inbetween the huge stones. How did these people build such massive walls with stones that surely weigh tons?
It was early morning when I set out. The streets had been mechanically sprinkled from yesterday's dust and debris. There has been no rain in Spain (not even on the plain) for weeks. I walk on cobblestone sidewalks and down cobblestone steps, across paved streets with cars just beginning to stream into the day's activities. The air is cool and fresh, the sky azure blue, the sun creating a shimmering on awakening town. At the edge of the walled city, I stop and view the valley below and across to my destination: monasterio de las Encarnacion. What I see are narrow streets winding like spoken language, around and up and down and up again between two- and three-story buildings--houses, mostly--attached as words are in sentence meanings yet individual for the people who live within. The rows are punctuated with turns and corners, stops, and finally open up to a park-like setting with wide, sand paths leading to the monastery. A young man clips dead roses and places them in plastic pail; the sprinklers mist the small area of grass and gardens, as well as the packed, sandy walkways.
The architecture of Avila, is more vertical than horizontal, from a human perspective, walking along and looking up. Granite, tiles, stucco on the newer, wrought iron grills and grates: these are the materials of strength and endurance. From above, the architecture seems horizontal in that it spreads out from the walled town on the hill into the valleys below and around. However, even these constructions are like sentences in a paragraph--tightly connected. There are open pages all about in the distance, keeping humanity's existence compact. They do not spill out all over the pages of the landscape like spilled ink. Along the margins of the streets I walk, I see scrub oaks, junipers, purplish-blooming verbena (Holy Plant in the Middle Ages), orange poppies, and various dusty-greenish plants and trees. It is quite dry here, and the cool morning will heat by noon to light which glares rather than shimmers. But intense spotlights as well as accent lights help a soul find its way. Night will come, and coolness again.
I suppose terms such as Romanesque, Visigoth, Medieval, Gothic, Baroque, Renaissance, and Modern describe better the on-going construction over the centuries to this day, for those who know terms better than I. To me, Avila is vertical with a little horizontal. Avila is a tightly constructed paragraph with exciting adjectives, strong verbs, meaningful nouns, and few adverbs. It has commas and semi-colons and periods with some exclamation points, such as the significant, vertical domes and parapets of the Catholic churches which are inserted into the town and surroundings like the soul is into the body.
Inside the Monastery of the Incarnation--a Carmelite extern nun in habit unlocks the church door with a huge key--the main altar is one before which we reverently bow before turning down the wide aisle leading to the Chapel of the Transverberation. The exterior of the monastery hints at the interior: more gray stone with warm touches of earth-brown, thick walls, great height, and much silencio, silencio, silencio. Peace, humility, a cool sip of God.
The Chapel of the Transverberation is built upon the site of St. Teresa's cell in which a seraph pierced her heart. A masterpiece painting of this event hangs above the austere, limestone altar; the reredos surrounding the painting is of ornate wood with much gilt. The granite walls climb to a domed ceiling painted in gray with white Baroque-style trim. Yet simplicity reigns here. The monastery was dedicated on a day in April, 1515--the day of St. Teresa's baptisim, although no one suspected, surely, that her destiny would hail her as one of the most unusual, amazing, gifted, spunky, and saintly women of all time.
I follow the nun into the chapel where she proceeds to light altar candles and bring the incensor. Ah, it is the first day of the novena to Our Lady of Mount Carmel; the feast day is July 16. I genuflect and kneel on hard, narrow wood kneeler. To my right is a glorious statue of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, holding the Infant Jesus in her left arm and extending on her right hand a large scapular for any and all to simply reach and take. At least this is the reality of what is meant, and her face speaks this, and the Christ Child wishes love and protection for all of us, as He is held and loved and protected by His mother in this pose. How I wish I could hold Him and hope He would smile at me and then nestle His head into my shoulder and neck. How I wish I could exude the peace and love and gentleness and offering of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, without uttering a word. All things are possible in God, of course. Do not lose heart.
The priest's soul is as white as his hair. I follow the Scriptures in my Missal while the lay man reads in Spanish. Joseph is in Egypt and recognizes his brothers who sold him into slavery. He tells them that he is there to redeem them from their hunger. They have repented. All weep. Jesus tells His disciples to go preach, teach, heal, cast out evil in His Name and not take a thing with them, not a change of clothes or even a copper. He says to remain in a house which receives them in peace and love, but to leave if that peace and love is not offered. This journey requires complete trust in God and not in material goods. God will provide. God will communicate.
As I pray, I hear within that the language of Heaven is pain. I ponder this and find it to be true. Then I hear also that the language of Heaven in joy. I ponder this and find it also to be true. Pain and joy are the language of Heaven. They are not spoken words, yet they communicate fully from within to without. Pain and joy are universal; they construct a sentence which leads one to the other, pain to joy. Then joy punctuates pain in greater comprehension. This is the language of Heaven which all must learn sooner or later, either on earth or after. This is the meaning of "Love to suffer; suffer to love." Joy to pain; pain to joy. It is a quiet, simple language with immense meaning and application to all.
I am thankful that I could not manage the Spanish language class. Last evening at dinner (9 p.m.), Antonia who has some kind of affliction which tires her explains to Estelle who is trying to teach me a Spanish phrase, that I do not desire to learn Spanish because it is better for me to not comprehend more words. It is good that Antonia understands that it is not necessary for me on this journey to hear words of the earth, for I have enough of them rattling as distractions that I packed along in my mental suitcase. The three Americans also staying at Tellamar for the next ten days speak animatedly, practicing their Spanish. One tries to interpret and tell me their conversation; after awhile it all becomes banal radio songs, and I don't listen either way. I am wondering if San Juan de la Cruz walked by this old (yes, stone) building with its interior courtyard and windowless exterior with immense (yes, vertical 16-f00t-tall) wooden doors.
While the dinner conversationalists continue, I silently wonder about the language of Heaven and what it might be. I wonder about the intense pain of my body and if I will endure the three months here. I appreciate each taste of the food placed before me--a light supper but enough. Grated carrot, slivered beets, sliced onion, shredded lettuce, olive oil and vinegar to drizzle. I have yearned for fresh vegetables which are seemingly rare to the Spanish diet. The flat, circular pastry is cut in four wedges; we each are served. Within is a thin spreading of fish paste--perhaps tuna or salmon. A chilled chocolate malted drink is served in cups for dessert, along with a crisp sweet roll and almond cookie, the latter we are told has been purchased in Toledo. Antonia is from Toledo but has been a member of Las Cruzades de Santa Maria for 24 years; perhaps she is in her early forties.
Last night I was able to sleep. Instead of the previous night's pounding contempory music from some interior Avila plaza late into the night, I hear traditional Spanish musicians. They serenade me to sleep. Thankfully I do not have to close the heavy, dark-wooden shutters and can leave the screenless windows open wide to the cooling night air. My cell opens out to the interior courtyard; I am on the second story and can see below the statue of Santa Teresa as well as a statue of the founder of this community, Father Tomas Morales, S.J. He died in 1964. These houses are located in Spain, Germany, England, and a couple other European countries. The house I am in is for women, but there are ones for men, as well. They pray, live together, work together, and have apostolate in teaching and helping youth. They do not take vows of silence, although the house is pleasantly still during the day. Meals are filled with lively discussion, but I am content to not comprehend. The Americans' voices seem harsh and noisy, but this is as one who attempts to play a new instrument--squeaks, squawks, and squeals. It is as well I do not add to the din. Antonia explains anything I need to know, which is little. I use hand motions to offer my help in clearing the table, and this is understood and welcomed. Work needs no words, at least manual labor. Pain and joy need no words, and they are a form of manual labor in a sense.
At class later today, the professor will speak in English about St. John of the Cross' Ascent of Mount Carmel. I have not read the assignment, but I appreciate listening to her passion and expertise of the topic. I have had too intense of lessons in the language of Heaven--at least the pain part--in the last few days to be able to focus on reading with comprehension. It came to me yesterday upon awakening in mid-morning, after a sleepless night, that I am to live the class rather than to take it. I count on San Juan de la Cruz to lead me on.
The tenth and eleventh Stations of the Cross presented themselves. First comes the stripping of the outer garments, and in my case being stripped of the last few pieces of unnecessary attachment to my adult children and thinking I must succeed in some task of the world, to take classes for a degree or participate in something important in a parish; these garments appear as undergarments of hidden pride and ego--thinly disguised, small but obvious. They are gone and reveal me in my nakedness now. Next comes the nailing to the Cross. I have fought the cross, I see, again. I have struggled against Jesus' inviting me to lay myself down, to extend my arms and legs with generosity and docile submission. So I make some decisions which help me to stop struggling. I feel foolish for having been recently angry about not being allowed to "do" things that I thought I should "do." I relinquish the ideas of getting a degree in theology, of having a part-time "important" job. I do not worry about reading St. John's Ascent, knowing that I will climb the mountain and not read about it. (But I will listen, and if able I will read enough to know the direction, to take the steps necessary, to understand the map a bit.)
This morning after Mass at the Encarnacion, while waiting to see the museum, I sat in the courtyard and sketched the scene. This took no words. The language of Heaven speaks in joy.
After Mass I had asked the white-haired, serene priest if he spoke Anglais, but he did not. He did comprehend enough to give me an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Some people from England ask if I speak English. They are going to Garabandal for five days, passing through Avila for the day; they tell me how to get into the museum. God provides. When in the museum, alone, I stand before the small chair that St. John of the Cross sat in for the five years he heard the confessions of the 180 Carmelite nuns at that time (1572-77). I interiorly offer my confession with much contrition and make my act of contrition. I recall my spiritual director's e-mail that sacramental confession will come in time; I trust this. Upon return to Tellamar residence, Antonia happens to tell me, in her broken English, that there might be an English-speaking confessor among the Carmelite friars at the church called Santa. It is built on the location of St. Teresa's childhood home, just inside the walls of Avila and just up the street from Tellamar residence. She shows me on a map. God provides.
Avila is a town built on a hill, originally, centuries ago, in the province of Castille, a bit west of Madrid. The people needed protection from the invasion of the moors in the 6th, 7th, 8th centuries, so knights constructed the immense and thick walls. The Tellamar residence where I am living with a few lay women of the community of Las Cruzades de Santa Maria, is just outside the walls, overlooking the later constructions in the valley below and beyond. The building materials are huge, granite stones and red tiles. Small stones fit inbetween the huge stones. How did these people build such massive walls with stones that surely weigh tons?
It was early morning when I set out. The streets had been mechanically sprinkled from yesterday's dust and debris. There has been no rain in Spain (not even on the plain) for weeks. I walk on cobblestone sidewalks and down cobblestone steps, across paved streets with cars just beginning to stream into the day's activities. The air is cool and fresh, the sky azure blue, the sun creating a shimmering on awakening town. At the edge of the walled city, I stop and view the valley below and across to my destination: monasterio de las Encarnacion. What I see are narrow streets winding like spoken language, around and up and down and up again between two- and three-story buildings--houses, mostly--attached as words are in sentence meanings yet individual for the people who live within. The rows are punctuated with turns and corners, stops, and finally open up to a park-like setting with wide, sand paths leading to the monastery. A young man clips dead roses and places them in plastic pail; the sprinklers mist the small area of grass and gardens, as well as the packed, sandy walkways.
The architecture of Avila, is more vertical than horizontal, from a human perspective, walking along and looking up. Granite, tiles, stucco on the newer, wrought iron grills and grates: these are the materials of strength and endurance. From above, the architecture seems horizontal in that it spreads out from the walled town on the hill into the valleys below and around. However, even these constructions are like sentences in a paragraph--tightly connected. There are open pages all about in the distance, keeping humanity's existence compact. They do not spill out all over the pages of the landscape like spilled ink. Along the margins of the streets I walk, I see scrub oaks, junipers, purplish-blooming verbena (Holy Plant in the Middle Ages), orange poppies, and various dusty-greenish plants and trees. It is quite dry here, and the cool morning will heat by noon to light which glares rather than shimmers. But intense spotlights as well as accent lights help a soul find its way. Night will come, and coolness again.
I suppose terms such as Romanesque, Visigoth, Medieval, Gothic, Baroque, Renaissance, and Modern describe better the on-going construction over the centuries to this day, for those who know terms better than I. To me, Avila is vertical with a little horizontal. Avila is a tightly constructed paragraph with exciting adjectives, strong verbs, meaningful nouns, and few adverbs. It has commas and semi-colons and periods with some exclamation points, such as the significant, vertical domes and parapets of the Catholic churches which are inserted into the town and surroundings like the soul is into the body.
Inside the Monastery of the Incarnation--a Carmelite extern nun in habit unlocks the church door with a huge key--the main altar is one before which we reverently bow before turning down the wide aisle leading to the Chapel of the Transverberation. The exterior of the monastery hints at the interior: more gray stone with warm touches of earth-brown, thick walls, great height, and much silencio, silencio, silencio. Peace, humility, a cool sip of God.
The Chapel of the Transverberation is built upon the site of St. Teresa's cell in which a seraph pierced her heart. A masterpiece painting of this event hangs above the austere, limestone altar; the reredos surrounding the painting is of ornate wood with much gilt. The granite walls climb to a domed ceiling painted in gray with white Baroque-style trim. Yet simplicity reigns here. The monastery was dedicated on a day in April, 1515--the day of St. Teresa's baptisim, although no one suspected, surely, that her destiny would hail her as one of the most unusual, amazing, gifted, spunky, and saintly women of all time.
I follow the nun into the chapel where she proceeds to light altar candles and bring the incensor. Ah, it is the first day of the novena to Our Lady of Mount Carmel; the feast day is July 16. I genuflect and kneel on hard, narrow wood kneeler. To my right is a glorious statue of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, holding the Infant Jesus in her left arm and extending on her right hand a large scapular for any and all to simply reach and take. At least this is the reality of what is meant, and her face speaks this, and the Christ Child wishes love and protection for all of us, as He is held and loved and protected by His mother in this pose. How I wish I could hold Him and hope He would smile at me and then nestle His head into my shoulder and neck. How I wish I could exude the peace and love and gentleness and offering of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, without uttering a word. All things are possible in God, of course. Do not lose heart.
The priest's soul is as white as his hair. I follow the Scriptures in my Missal while the lay man reads in Spanish. Joseph is in Egypt and recognizes his brothers who sold him into slavery. He tells them that he is there to redeem them from their hunger. They have repented. All weep. Jesus tells His disciples to go preach, teach, heal, cast out evil in His Name and not take a thing with them, not a change of clothes or even a copper. He says to remain in a house which receives them in peace and love, but to leave if that peace and love is not offered. This journey requires complete trust in God and not in material goods. God will provide. God will communicate.
As I pray, I hear within that the language of Heaven is pain. I ponder this and find it to be true. Then I hear also that the language of Heaven in joy. I ponder this and find it also to be true. Pain and joy are the language of Heaven. They are not spoken words, yet they communicate fully from within to without. Pain and joy are universal; they construct a sentence which leads one to the other, pain to joy. Then joy punctuates pain in greater comprehension. This is the language of Heaven which all must learn sooner or later, either on earth or after. This is the meaning of "Love to suffer; suffer to love." Joy to pain; pain to joy. It is a quiet, simple language with immense meaning and application to all.
I am thankful that I could not manage the Spanish language class. Last evening at dinner (9 p.m.), Antonia who has some kind of affliction which tires her explains to Estelle who is trying to teach me a Spanish phrase, that I do not desire to learn Spanish because it is better for me to not comprehend more words. It is good that Antonia understands that it is not necessary for me on this journey to hear words of the earth, for I have enough of them rattling as distractions that I packed along in my mental suitcase. The three Americans also staying at Tellamar for the next ten days speak animatedly, practicing their Spanish. One tries to interpret and tell me their conversation; after awhile it all becomes banal radio songs, and I don't listen either way. I am wondering if San Juan de la Cruz walked by this old (yes, stone) building with its interior courtyard and windowless exterior with immense (yes, vertical 16-f00t-tall) wooden doors.
While the dinner conversationalists continue, I silently wonder about the language of Heaven and what it might be. I wonder about the intense pain of my body and if I will endure the three months here. I appreciate each taste of the food placed before me--a light supper but enough. Grated carrot, slivered beets, sliced onion, shredded lettuce, olive oil and vinegar to drizzle. I have yearned for fresh vegetables which are seemingly rare to the Spanish diet. The flat, circular pastry is cut in four wedges; we each are served. Within is a thin spreading of fish paste--perhaps tuna or salmon. A chilled chocolate malted drink is served in cups for dessert, along with a crisp sweet roll and almond cookie, the latter we are told has been purchased in Toledo. Antonia is from Toledo but has been a member of Las Cruzades de Santa Maria for 24 years; perhaps she is in her early forties.
Last night I was able to sleep. Instead of the previous night's pounding contempory music from some interior Avila plaza late into the night, I hear traditional Spanish musicians. They serenade me to sleep. Thankfully I do not have to close the heavy, dark-wooden shutters and can leave the screenless windows open wide to the cooling night air. My cell opens out to the interior courtyard; I am on the second story and can see below the statue of Santa Teresa as well as a statue of the founder of this community, Father Tomas Morales, S.J. He died in 1964. These houses are located in Spain, Germany, England, and a couple other European countries. The house I am in is for women, but there are ones for men, as well. They pray, live together, work together, and have apostolate in teaching and helping youth. They do not take vows of silence, although the house is pleasantly still during the day. Meals are filled with lively discussion, but I am content to not comprehend. The Americans' voices seem harsh and noisy, but this is as one who attempts to play a new instrument--squeaks, squawks, and squeals. It is as well I do not add to the din. Antonia explains anything I need to know, which is little. I use hand motions to offer my help in clearing the table, and this is understood and welcomed. Work needs no words, at least manual labor. Pain and joy need no words, and they are a form of manual labor in a sense.
At class later today, the professor will speak in English about St. John of the Cross' Ascent of Mount Carmel. I have not read the assignment, but I appreciate listening to her passion and expertise of the topic. I have had too intense of lessons in the language of Heaven--at least the pain part--in the last few days to be able to focus on reading with comprehension. It came to me yesterday upon awakening in mid-morning, after a sleepless night, that I am to live the class rather than to take it. I count on San Juan de la Cruz to lead me on.
The tenth and eleventh Stations of the Cross presented themselves. First comes the stripping of the outer garments, and in my case being stripped of the last few pieces of unnecessary attachment to my adult children and thinking I must succeed in some task of the world, to take classes for a degree or participate in something important in a parish; these garments appear as undergarments of hidden pride and ego--thinly disguised, small but obvious. They are gone and reveal me in my nakedness now. Next comes the nailing to the Cross. I have fought the cross, I see, again. I have struggled against Jesus' inviting me to lay myself down, to extend my arms and legs with generosity and docile submission. So I make some decisions which help me to stop struggling. I feel foolish for having been recently angry about not being allowed to "do" things that I thought I should "do." I relinquish the ideas of getting a degree in theology, of having a part-time "important" job. I do not worry about reading St. John's Ascent, knowing that I will climb the mountain and not read about it. (But I will listen, and if able I will read enough to know the direction, to take the steps necessary, to understand the map a bit.)
This morning after Mass at the Encarnacion, while waiting to see the museum, I sat in the courtyard and sketched the scene. This took no words. The language of Heaven speaks in joy.
After Mass I had asked the white-haired, serene priest if he spoke Anglais, but he did not. He did comprehend enough to give me an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Some people from England ask if I speak English. They are going to Garabandal for five days, passing through Avila for the day; they tell me how to get into the museum. God provides. When in the museum, alone, I stand before the small chair that St. John of the Cross sat in for the five years he heard the confessions of the 180 Carmelite nuns at that time (1572-77). I interiorly offer my confession with much contrition and make my act of contrition. I recall my spiritual director's e-mail that sacramental confession will come in time; I trust this. Upon return to Tellamar residence, Antonia happens to tell me, in her broken English, that there might be an English-speaking confessor among the Carmelite friars at the church called Santa. It is built on the location of St. Teresa's childhood home, just inside the walls of Avila and just up the street from Tellamar residence. She shows me on a map. God provides.
posted by The Catholic Hermit | 4:42 AM
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