January 4 OCTAVE OF
THE HOLY INNOCENTS
There has been no
sun in the sky since New Year's but the dark days have been
magnificent. The sky has been covered with wonderful black clouds,
the horizon has been curtained with sheets of traveling rain. The
landscape has been splendidly serious. I love the strength of our
woods, in this bleak weather. And it is bleak weather. Yet
there is a warmth in it like the presence of God in aridity of
spirit, when He comes closer to us than in consolation. On Sunday,
that is on New Year's Day, I took one of the two torn raincoats
that hang in the grand parlor for the use of the monks, and went
out into the woods. Although I had not at first determined to do
so, I found myself climbing the steepest of the knobs, which also
turned out to be the highest–the pyramid that stands behind
the head of the lake, and is second in line when you begin to count
from the southwest. Bare woods and driving rain.
There was a strong
wind. When I reached the top I found there was something terrible
about the landscape. But it was marvelous. The completely
unfamiliar aspect of the forest beyond our rampart unnerved me. It
was as though I were in another country. I saw the steep, savage
hills, covered with black woods and half buried in the storm that
was coming at me from the southwest. And ridges traveled away from
this center in unexpected directions. I said, "Now you are indeed
alone. Be prepared to fight the devil." But it was not the time of
combat. I started down the hill again feeling that perhaps after
all I had climbed it uselessly.
Halfway down, and in
a place of comparative shelter, just before the pine trees begin, I
found a bower God had prepared for me like Jonas's ivy. It had been
designed especially for this moment. There was a tree stump, in an
even place. It was dry and a small cedar arched over it, like a
green tent, forming an alcove. There I sat in silence and loved the
wind in the forest and listened for a good while to
God.
After that I quickly
found my way into the gully that leads through the heart of the
hills to Hanekamp's house. Hanekamp is the hermit who comes down to
Mass in the secular church. He used to be a monk here. I saw him
Christmas eve, kneeling at the communion rail in his black beard
and he reminded me–quite unreasonably–of Bob Lax. He
does not really look like Lax at all. I came home walking along the
shelves of shale that form the bed of the creek. Our woods are
beautiful. The peace of the woods almost always steals over me when
I am at prayer in the monastery.