A Monkst Women

I wanted to be a monk when I was growing up.  I didn’t think I’d like the lifestyle of a nun.  I was tyrannized by nuns for a good part of my childhood and adolescence and had no desire to perpetrate that upon anyone else. 

There were some exceptions to the scary nuns.  When I was very young my sister and I used to “help” the nuns with their grocery shopping.  One of my favorite memories of these excursions was unpacking all the groceries from the brown paper bags and then having a race to see who could fold the bags the quickest.  I’m very sorry that I can’t remember the nun’s name, but she would always win.  The three of us would be hysterically laughing playing this game, but I always secretly thought she “won” only because she was a nun and I couldn’t call her out for having folded her bags the worst.  My sister and I had been trained at home by our most meticulous and perfectionist mother on a wide variety of inconsequential details, one of which was how to fold brown paper bags.  We never could teach Sr. Whatshername, but she was so delightful to be with, we let her slide.

The one nun’s name whose I do recall, and who rates as my all-time favorite nun was Sr. Madeline John.  She was my teacher for 6^th grade.   She was a new member to our parish convent and I always thought she stirred things up there a bit.  I remember walking home from school with my sister after the first day of school, clutching my books to my chest and telling her all about the new nun.  My exact words were: “She’s dreamy.”  There was much eye-rolling on my sister’s part, but I did not let that faze me.  In retrospect, she was a dream – someone who was sent to me for a brief and shining moment in my life when I most needed to know that someone understood me.  I cheered the day I found out she left the convent.

I never knew a monk personally, but pictures of them seemed to portray a much more serene presence.  Who couldn’t love St. Francis of Assisi? He was, however, a friar, not a monk, but he looked to me like he wore the same outfit.  And friars are basically monks that live in the real world.  That was the catch though – I liked the idea of solitude and living in a monastery.  I desperately wanted to live in a castle-like home (I envisioned all monasteries to look like medieval castles) and more than anything I wanted my own room. I loved crusty bread.  I thought I could learn to like cheese enough to be satisfied.

And I craved what I know now to be serenity, but what I mistook it for then, to be solitude.  I had this epiphany while running.  I am a running monk.  I don’t like running in a pack.  I don’t like running socially.  I don’t like competitive running.  I like running alone.  It is when I am alone and running that I often make my connection with that which exists outside of me.  When I am alone and running I can get past the physical insult and let go of my body.  With that out of the way, I become more aware of my surroundings.  I run in the forest – away from roads and traffic and people.  All five of my senses seem to retreat and the unexplained and unexplainable becomes heightened.  I run towards the peace, the solitude, the serenity.

The trees indeed love You without knowing You. The tiger lilies and corn flowers are there proclaiming that they love You, without being aware of Your presence. The beautiful dark clouds ride slowly across the sky musing on You like children who do not know what they are dreaming of, as they play.

But in the midst of them all, I know You, and I know of Your presence.

Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude.