When I was but a mile away, my GPS brought me to a hill-side village and I got lost in its narrow alleys. I parked my car and started to reprogram my GPS when an elderly lady smilingly approached me and tapped at my wind-shield. Smilingly, she offered to give me directions to the abbey. Apparently, she's been helping lost visitors to find their way on a daily basis, and like me, we had but one culprit for the misdirection: the GPS.
When I arrived at Tamie, I really don't know what to do. I just found myself wandering around a big gift shop. The bearded man behind the cashier didn't look friendly so I tried approaching one of the monks. It turned to be Br. Didier, the one I contacted through email. He told me to bring my car to the next building, just over the hill that blocked it. When I drove to it, I was surprised how beautiful the monastery was. The spring-time flowers covered a field sprawling before it and the towers looked old and imposing (Later I learned that this was only a 19th century construction).
Most of my days in Tamie are spent wandering at the woods, identifying beech, oak, poplars and evergreens. I felt the cold rush of water by cascades and falls around the monks' property and had known how it is to be mildly brushed by the leaves of poison ivy. I walked miles to see blooms and greeneries and cows and all the elements of spring. I visited the monks' bookshop and even bought some souvenirs. With the zoom of my camera, I spied on monks by my window and saw the abbot, dressed in a blue over-alls and a woolen lumberjack shirt, preparing a big wooden post, the purpose of which, I would not know for certain. I also admired the way the building furniture were arranged by someone who has, no doubt, a flair for ikebana and interior design. But what marked my stay are prayers, the monastic prayers. Most of the time, I would just be listening to them, along with other pilgrims and visitors who are as mesmerized as I was by the singing of the monks. Psalms after psalms, the hair at my arms and at the back of my neck prickled at the haunting beauty of their voices, interpreting age-old chants in a rehearsed but still prayerful pace.
Lord, I am deep within your heart,
as dark as the night
and million times as lovely.
I sat by my window,
your forlorn lover,
for I often mistook your silence
as a painful absence,
an emptiness other than
that which you are, that sweet
expanse of a space that breeds
love. Yes, I am
in that place where you
embraced me and assured me
that I, your beloved,
am truly profoundly loved.
