One of Many Ruins of Abbeys

…and forever, it seemed, he always felt a touch of melancholy in the late afternoon and early evening, perhaps always regretting the waning of the light, of the golden light of the lowering sun, a fading that reminded his mind and heart over and over, that the day, that life, so enjoyed and filled with good – the beautiful light shimmering among dancing leaves, the ability to see all about and around – also fades away and disappears, if not with the light that day…then eventually.  

He knows that he has no power to stay the light from leaving – such an undignified medieval thought – though frequently now, during the evenings when he is alone – an occurrence, not sad or lonely, but, yes, more frequent – he lifts his open hand to the sun, not as a wave to honor its departure, but as a sign of…longing, a silent, ageless, deeply human supplicating gesture that the sun return, for “Behold,” he says to no one, “see how limited and measured and fleeting is the light and time, always slipping through our fingers, always disappearing, always running from our sight.”  And this he whispers once, again, and then again, always with less life, with less power, as his soul in mourning always drank to the fullest the last long glimpse of all the lingering light and beauty of the day…as if the fading was also reluctant to the light, also wishing to extend the life of the day even as it gathered unto itself all that remained of its fading brilliance, and the breath and life of those, like he, who watched in stillness and exhaled their supplications and longings into the darkening and cooling evening air…

And here, seen from the end of his cousin’s garden, in the wild nowhere of Wales, are the ruins of an Abbey, potentially reached by a long walk across someone else’s field, which he has never ventured to take, out of concern of how the sheep, ubiquitous to every green field and hill of Wales, would respond to his intrusion.  So his safer choice – which he took late in the afternoon – was to walk along the narrow road passing his cousin’s house that eventually rounded towards the Abbey, passing alongside the ruins, before the road wended towards some nowhere farther along in the middle of the nowhere deep within the heart of Wales.  A wonderful, quiet place of eternal green it seemed.

And as he stepped among the ruins of the Abbey – only truly recognizing the space of the ruined church – his melancholy deepened, though not with the burdens of the time, but engendered more by his quiet musings over the disappearance of what was once within the now ruined gathering space of the church, and the dwelling and work rooms and dining hall of the once living, prayerful, and vibrant community of monks…  

He paused in his wanderings among the ruins and eventually sat down within the space of the ruined church and thought that perhaps…the melancholy of the moment…was really sadness for the dissolution of something divine and human that was created for good…for worship and prayer…as a way of experiencing the presence of God daily within one’s life.  He wondered what that was like, how that life worked. 

And as he further mused, he became to feel and understand – the borders and distinctions of these two aspects of his life now imprecise and fluid and almost one – that even though the Abbey was in ruins with very little left, there seemed still something of the holy, yes…though this could be…just the longing of his own soul, responding to the knowledge of something missing and absent in his life that arises within him when his feet trod within this destroyed yet still holy ground…

He watched for a time the dark clouds journey silently to the east, without rain now, without lightning and thunder…and…  Perhaps it was the simplicity of a life of quiet work in prayer…that deeply appealed to him…  What were the thoughts of the monks when violently driven away?  What possessed and remained in the hearts of those plundering and destroying…was there no thought towards God?  Were there no regrets for the dissolution of something once considered sacred…to many…the ruins of where he now sat…

 …and he, at his age, is now used to thoughts and questions without answers, at least immediate answers, for he also knew that even though the light was now fading, and the chants were no longer voiced, the destruction of the Abbey did not completely remove the divine presence from the land…or from those whose souls who still hunger and thirst for peace and goodness and quiet…the ruins, even now, a refuge from the avarice and noise of the world.

Eventually, he rose from within the ruins and started back to his cousin’s house for an early evening cuppa and her outstanding homemade sharp ginger cookies, now, the only immediate objects of his thirst and hunger, yes.  How fun.