Such a Moment of Tears
A short while ago I was listening to a recording of the Monks of the
Abbey Saint-Maurice and Saint-Maur at Clervaux singing Hodie Christus
Natus Est. I do not know why I wept on hearing this - except that
perhaps the
beautiful, numinous, divine-like music reached me, as such music often
does, beyond that intellect whose pride and arrogance has often
blighted my life.
There was such a purity in such music as if it takes away in some
indefinable way the almost physical moments of despair when I remember
the stupid deeds of my past. If only I had not done that - or said
that... If only I could go back to some, many, moments in time. So much
regret.
In such listening, in such a moment of tears, I seem to be so many
places, so suffused with so many emotions - I am by the door, the last
time I saw Fran, as I selfishly left to leave her, to leave her alone
with her anguish, alone with that anguish which prompted her to take
her own life, only hours later; I am back again in what seems to be the
pure, gentle, days of my novitiate when in Choir I strive to praise
through the Latin plainchant that which I felt, knew, then was the
essence of the good.
And yet at the same time I am also. in such moments of tears, the pain,
the suffering, of so many people for so many centuries - crying out
without words for it to end; for the warm Sun of a wordless love to
break forth from this sad Winter of darkness so that the suffering of
so many for so long will end. Thus, there is again that straining
yearning when we fall to our knees as tears stream forth; hoping,
hoping... For answers.
But, yet again, there are no answers; no answers are found, given, to
us, now; no words in reply to such tears; no gentle comfort coming
forth from - somewhere. We are alone, just alone, again, wiping the
tears away from our eyes, our face, to slowly rise, and look out of the
window toward the hills where the trees stand, Winter-bare, under a
cloudy sky.
Such a desire to pray - to say some words for comfort; for myself; for
the so many others who suffer; who have suffered; who will suffer, in
anguish, despair, sadness, pain. But the words refuse to issue forth
from lips, from the mind, as if I would be a hypocrite for saying them,
without belief, without that heartfelt sincerity of faith. Perhaps that
would after all be too easy; too soon. To easy, too soon - for me who
has caused so much suffering for so many people for so many years. And
it seems somewhat strange that now, when I do not believe, but often
desire to believe, that I read Saint Benedict's Rule regarding humility
when - as monk who did believe - I did not read it, except in a
cursory way. Then, the read words had no meaning - they were only
words, of some book. Now: now, some of the words seem to have a life, a
meaning: "...but then I was humbled and overwhelmed with
confusion..." As if I am some learner of some lesson; a slow
learner, who took decades to know, to truely feel, to fully understand,
and so cease - or at least strive to cease - to cause suffering to any
living thing.
So, now it is back to my life in this world - to the many things to
occupy the time of day before the hours of sleep arrive to sometimes
gracefully bring a certain peace.
DW Myatt
December 2006 CE
(Extract from a letter sent to a religious of OSB)