The fruits of the Carmel trees we eat, we dive into the waters of tradition...
One spring evening while wandering in the waters of the Internet, a refreshing wave splashed my calves – behold, the Beauty of Carmel... Yippee, I'm going there! Motivation?
Mainly to gather information. About what? Essentially about myself. I have a Carmelite heart, but what does that mean? What does it feed on, how does it beat? I live with it, I live from it, I feel its vibration above the beauty of the mountain garden in which it was planted. But what do I know about its soil, the gardener's vision when marking out the beds, the composition of plants, methods of harvest, and the pests that threaten? Still less than I would like.
Information – formation. Place. Silence. Exhale, inhale. I bet that I was splashed by a wave from the depths and without thinking, I sign up; I assume there will be many of us thirsty for refreshment. What about family plans and a child freely playing with my insides? Surely they will bless my journey since these are caramel investments, which are a priority approved by our parliament. I am looking forward to it like a little girl; I can't wait!
The day after tomorrow I'm going. I don't want to. The whirlwind of work has drained me; I miss the smooth flow of motherly waters with calm marital sunsets. At home, a tsunami of renovation is raging; due to pregnancy, I often feel like a whale stranded on a beach, quickly losing energy, and there are not many family working Saturdays left before the birth. Will I write this off? No, after all, that wave...!
I'm here, phew! When was the last time I walked through the main gate with a green backpack on my back? Is my suitcase rattling on the cobblestones a sign of ripening or decline? Whatever it is, I am here. And it's summer. The sun highlights the color of the church's facade on the embankment, and the freshly trimmed hedgehogs on the heads of the linden trees around stick up to the sky rather playfully; I feel like saluting this honorable guard of Mary.
Stone walls hold in their hands
a warming golden glow
Mary cooks sweet porridge
bubbling on the altar
I stand at the monastery door, breathe deeply, and feel the adrenaline wash away from me. A petite blue-eyed girl with long blonde curls opens the door calmly. She turns out to be my roommate; she is pleasant, and I have no objections. I suppress the weak ascetic sources within me and indulge in the luxury of a shower after the journey. In the dining room, I then bump into a long-lost dear friend, so I have my eyes and ears only for her during dinner, and I can quietly scout the other participants only before the first lecture: three or four familiar faces, otherwise all question marks.
Later I find out how diverse our company is: seasoned tertiary matadors and tremulous waiters for the first vows; provisional peepers stepping lightly around Carmel with unclear desire and shyness; local residents – although they are at home here, they are here for the first time to uncover what their Carmelites are really like and how things work during a stay in the monastery. I am surprised how many people were lured here by articles on Carmelite spirituality published on the order's website.
Study materials are prepared on the table for everyone; we nod appreciatively at the professionalism of such a setup, something that hasn't been seen here before. The program brochure on the back informs me that I am indeed not at a retreat, but at an educational seminar.
We dive straight in; barely warmed up by the spiritual sweetness of Mount Carmel and the anticipation of its gardens' aroma at Elijah's spring, we plunge headfirst off the cliff to explore the corals of contemplation. It is said that one can experience the mystery of God even in this life, as we are heirs of the Kingdom of God thanks to the Holy Spirit, and despite all our brokenness, we are therefore at home in Him. It is encouraging for me to hear that communion with God is not (unlikely) the result of our lifelong spiritual toil, nor an enlightenment that suddenly and permanently comes to us, but rather “a gift from God in cooperation with the exercising of human freedom”; in short, a dynamic interplay between God and man, in which both have a share.
What good does it do me to undergo this process? So I can gradually begin to see the world through God's eyes and love with His heart. How simple. Being struck by this sentence, I vividly recall one of the key moments of my life, when years ago, face to face with my inability to love, I desperately pleaded with Jesus to expand my heart to the width of His in my future life, so that it can hold a lot; even at the cost of painful tissue expansion. The request was granted, and now it's up to me to try not to jerk during the expansion – cooperation, cooperation!
I search in vain for shelter
my teeth chatter, my legs barely drag
I will sleep at the stillness of Kerith
then perhaps I won’t run away from the battle
On Friday, I hit my physical limits. The little one in my belly wants to join the birds in greeting the new day; it kicks me out of bed shortly after three in the morning. I disturb my roommate's sleep by tossing and turning. With the agility of a partisan beer drinker, I conquer the squeaky floor by the door, which has already caught me in my pregnancy several times during the night, get up with a massage of coconut oil, and go on a walk. The church is closed, but through the keyhole, one can see directly into the eternal light on the altar. Shreds of mist tickle the nose of the waking sun; the soul clings to the Creator completely lightly, and the body longs for oxygen. Therefore, I set off at a brisk pace to gather herbal tea. Soon, I tear raspberry and strawberry leaves, lady's mantle and flowering elderflowers; I just can’t seem to find the coveted nettle – Brother Pavel is probably maintaining the grounds too meticulously...
I savor the sour sweetness of the wild monastery strawberries and wonder how many people probably think, just like me, that only they know about this secret strawberry nook. The dining room is empty, the tea warms my stomach and my feet in soaked shoes, a biscuit raises my blood sugar levels. At six o'clock, however, I am still overtaken by an insurmountable fatigue; I don't dare return to my room, so I lie down on the little sofa in the empty room with a computer. After an hour, I get up for morning praises and in a surge of activity, I then sit in the lecture hall. The sun warms; the views from the glass walls of the hall are disturbingly inviting, the speaker is speaking in a kind calm voice. I am dangerously close to dozing off. However, the gurgling water of the teachings of Lawrence of the Resurrection, originally a mercenary from the Thirty Years' War, does not allow me to fall asleep at all. I am revitalized by the words that everyone who feels too spiritually advanced on the path of contemplation should hear. To linger in God's presence whether in work, prayer, rest, simply in getting up, lying down, that’s what it’s about.
The most holy, most important, and most necessary exercise in spiritual life is the presence of God. That is, man has a liking for His divine company and conversation with Him, and also that he becomes accustomed to humbly addressing Him and speaking to Him with an attitude of loving inclination of the heart, and that always, yes, at every moment, not formally, not coldly; especially in times of temptation, adversity, dryness, sadness, and abandonment, yes, even amid our infidelities and our sins.
How to do this practically, I wonder. Lawrence soon answers me:
He does not ask much of us: (only) that we occasionally think of Him briefly, bow to Him briefly, ask Him sometimes for His grace, that we offer Him our efforts, then that we thank Him for the graces He has shown you and will grant you even in the midst of your works, so that you may delight in Him as often as you can. During meals and your conversations, lift your heart to Him now and then: the smallest remembrance of Him is always very dear to Him...
In the texts, I further find that Lawrence and I agree on the need to expand one's own heart; I have indeed discovered America...
After lunch, I go to get some fresh air, taking the path below the thicket towards a little forest with the Stations of the Cross and the brothers' cemetery. At a wild rose bush, I encounter a miracle of creation:
Copper-colored beetles gather
pairing on the wild rose bush
Helios' stalks mercilessly
measure the time of loving
The meadow and forest are holding a competition of scents; amid their rivalry, I fall asleep on a cemetery bench. The sun does not like that and drives me into the shade. I therefore renounce the good silent company (what will the honored bodies look like?) and prefer the comfort of a pillow siesta – just to refresh myself before the first afternoon lecture... I am only awakened by my roommate returning from it. I regret missing the tasting of wedding wine from the pitcher of John from St. Samson, but at least I gained strength for the upcoming inhalation of Edith Stein's vincentka. The strong minerals of Edit's intellect have usually been too much for me, and I don't voluntarily seek their effects, but now thanks to their glare, I caught a glimpse of the midnight darkness of faith.
When (the soul) realizes that Christ accomplished the greatest thing – reconciliation and the connection of humanity with God – in the utmost humiliation and destruction on the cross, it awakens an understanding that destruction, “the death of the cross in living body, in the sensory as well as the spiritual”, leads to connection with God. Just as Jesus in His abandonment in death surrendered to the hands of the invisible and incomprehensible God, so the soul goes into the midnight darkness of faith, which is the only path to the incomprehensible God.
As the speaker aptly pointed out, as Christians we have a tendency to avoid the cross on the path of following Christ; we would gladly heap God's glory straight onto our brokenness. Bingo, that’s exactly me! I wish I would more often want to seek God Himself rather than His gifts and accept the cross less resentfully.
The path of faith is, however, a night journey, for in comparison with the clear understanding of natural reason, faith is a darkened understanding: it introduces us to something but does not allow us to see it. Therefore, it must be stated that the goal to which we strive on the path of faith is also night: even on earth, God remains concealed from us, even in blissful union. Our spiritual eye is not adapted to His too bright light and looks as if into night darkness... Faith is the midnight darkness, for not only is sensory activity cut off here, but also natural rational knowledge. However, when the soul finds God, it simultaneously begins to dawn on its soul the new day's light of eternity.
In my reality, the day is coming to an end. We dine on the famous otter's lard from the novices, which promptly, in conjunction with the onion, makes me unable to attend the adoration. When I finally dash out of the church, I stop for a chat with a local brother. It is getting dark; a mouse swiftly ran past us and jumped into a canal. Two big frogs emerged from somewhere and settled at our feet. We cannot agree whether they are toads or frogs. In any case, it is clear that the otter's environment suits all creation. Above the ambulatories, bats supposedly even live, occasionally flying in to greet us in the church...
The night was noticeably quieter than the previous one; I slept in a spare room where I could rustle the bedding at will without fear of waking my roommate. Therefore, I set off towards Saturday only around five, not knowing that I would experience the seminar day of days. In the morning, we were trying to decode the Ascent of Mount Carmel, a graphic poem by John of the Cross. I truly received a unique aha experience during it, which without exaggeration moved my history.
At sixteen, as a newly baptized convert, I bought the poster of the Ascent of Mount Carmel. I stuck it on my room door and often stared at it in vain attempts to understand its meaning. My inner detector persistently informed me that the mountain was hiding treasure somewhere, yet I could not uncover its exact location. At that time, I was drawn to Carmel by the sensed space of great freedom and loving acceptance of the whole person, miles away from cramped moralistic mentoring. The image of the steep rocky peak, which is battered from all sides and where only the most muscular spiritual athletes climb to the top, did not fit into that; not to mention that I myself would with all my strength probably manage to climb to about the third nothing, where I would freeze under the overhang... Therefore, I eventually rolled the poster up and condemned John as a teacher of spiritual harshness who, through an unusual mishap (I mean God's management!) became a Carmelite reformer. For years, the doors were closed to him until my confessor forced me to read his correspondence and poems. I then had to, like it or not, rehabilitate John, yet he still remained to me as Brother Sharp Sword.
And today John's peak has crumbled to the ground. In its place, a spacious plateau grows before my eyes, green and juicy, a place of love and praise, suitable for exuberant jumping and picnics with the abundant fruits of the Spirit. Yay! If socialization didn’t hold me back, I would have squealed and stomped in celebration of enlightenment. Nevertheless, I keep myself in check. We are invited to our own interpretation of the sketch. Even without this prompt, I immediately see in it the connection of man and woman, which initially surprises me. Then it becomes clear to me: I am a wife and a mother. I live in the body, and a substantial part of my life mission to practice love I can realize precisely through my body – I open it to the man to whom at the same moment I open and surrender my soul, again and again. In the same way, I allow new creations of God to enter the world, and then I nourish them with my body. These are for me the moments of the innermost connection with God – both the most spiritual and the most material at the same time. Fleeting – just as the moments of connection with God are fleeting here on Earth. Relational – like the path up Mount Carmel, where the human effort to walk upwards and quickly get up again after slips intertwines with the divine grace uplifting the pilgrim and allowing them to taste the sweetness of the mountain along the way.
WEDDING
Saddle my dear little horse
the white stallion from the standing on the left
who sleeps quietly on the heart side
Put a bridle on him from soft leather
we will ride together across pristine plains
to the peaks of the Mountain of Union
Is he galloping already, can you feel it?
In the corners he froths
Desire flows over the waves of muscles
and the soul melts away in the waves of the body
He carries us upward into pleasure
where all is with us
everything is kosher
The hill of perfection within me has released the floodgates of creative enthusiasm and overshadowed the day’s events. The drops of love from Teresa of Lisieux just ran off me, I did not reach her depths. I experienced the vigil in gratitude. The Spirit of God during it reminded me in images of the peculiar paths by which He has led me up until now, particularly dwelling on the serpentine paths winding down the slopes of Carmel. On the evening after the vigil, I sang and danced for the Lord in the corner by the jasmine bush, who so generously pours out His Spirit, and when silence settled around and inside me, I went to the church for Mary. During the program, I had only stopped by her on the fly, now I needed to stay there finally longer. Through Mary’s altar image, her connection with Jesus seeps to the surface: how they closely touch each other’s faces, gently cuddling. They do not have to look at each other, they know about each other and resonate. Their gentle smiles, so similar, welcome us arriving with unspoken encouragement to step further into their love... Is it audacious to wish to have such a relationship with Christ?
After a rather calm night and the last breakfast, we engage with the seminar participants in mutual gifting. As each wants and can, they present to others the results of their discoveries, pieces of the Carmelite kaleidoscope. The diversity of the contributions reminds me of the speaker's remark that the garden of Carmel is definitely not a monoculture. He speaks the truth. The gardener – the Creator supports the diversity of species, meticulously breeds each plant and for Him, there is no notion of “behind the fence”.
What to say in conclusion? Perhaps see you again.
Fellow participants of the seminar – siblings in Christ, I value every moment when our hearts touched,
Norbert – expedition chefs, thanks to you we tasted the fruits of the mountain trees, very deliciously prepared for this,
brother Carmelites – Lord’s bees, you provided us shelter close to your hive,
kitchen staff and various monastery caretakers – without you, we would not have been able to draw living water in Vydří in so many ways,
Lady of the place, Pure Virgin – you truly took care of us in your home like a mother...
... and above all and in all, the presence of God!
Jana Marková
