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The local Carmelite community in which I live appears to have had quite a rocky history. I'm not going to give away any secrets, but the house (meaning its membership as well as the physical building) has had its trouble. The same can be said of just about any of the larger Carmelite communities, I suppose. But the particular history of this house has led to one interesting, though apparently minor quirk. We only have a cook on four nights of the week, and the fourth night was added only recently. So we go out to eat on Monday night. We are a community of six, but these days we're short one because Bernhard is attending an international Carmelite meeting in Germany. Tonight we went out to a nice, but smokey, place down 176 called The Rockland Cafe. Good food, pretty good prices, casual atmosphere. The five of us are an odd assortment of personalities, interests and job descriptions. About forty years separates the youngest from the oldest. We have our differences, and we don't all know each other to the same degree. So I'm finding this Monday night excursion to be something of a revelation, not just about these particular men but also about a certain community dynamic. When we eat dinner at home, we are sociable enough I suppose. But it seems that we are a bit more distant from each other, maybe preoccupied with the day's struggles, the evening's work, or plans for tomorrow. Maybe we're just tired. But going out to eat carries with it an extra burden of sociability. Here we are in the car or the van, so we might as well talk to each other - the topic doesn't really matter. And then here we are around a table in a room where families and couples are eating and talking and laughing. So we'd look pretty stupid as a group of silent, mostly middle-aged guys just eating; and we find more stuff to talk about. The conversation seems to come in a mostly natural, friendly, unforced manner. Then there's the ride back with talk of the sunset, school things, how one of us got his name, whether two of us will walk tonight (no way). Once home, we're quickly back on our individual paths. All of this may sound pretty common, but I can't afford to take it for granted. I am astonished by these simple get-togethers because they open the doors to a richer life. I am touched by the sense that these guys, for all their real and serious differences, are willing to respect each other, listen to each other, and know each other. Our Monday nights make it possible for slender threads of understanding to bind us closer - even just a little bit. I have lived in communities where some members could barely remain in the same room with certain others. I've lived in houses where some "communicated" with grunts and heavily nuanced silence. And this was soul-killing stuff. Let me make it clear that I am no master of positive communication. I can be a very silent fellow. I can be extraordinarily self-involved and inattentive to my brothers - even at some critical moments when you would think that I'd know better. But I've never wanted to live in a place where anger, intense criticism, bitter resentment, and even a whiff of barely stifled violence poisoned almost every "communal" moment. So.... We ain't perfect here, but I thank the Great Source of All Being for landing me among a group of men who are willing to be reasonably themselves, reasonably open to each other's stories, and reasonably human with each other. In this garden there's enough light, warmth, space, and fertilizer (plenty of that) for these plants to grow. |
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Aldous Huxley |