Posts in category: Εμπειρία Προσκυνητή

Tables set along the hall, and a monk silently shows us our places. Standing, we await the chanters, who enter together, singing the hymn of the saint whose feast is being celebrated that day. We sit and start to eat while, in a soothing voice, a monk reads the biography of the saint. Most eat silently and listen, and the simple words from another era in the narrative have a warm aftertaste of burnt wood, which bonds with the meal. I am annoyed that a few visitors sitting a little further down are talking amongst themselves. When you are introduced to silence, it is an opportunity to analyse how much noise you usually carry around. The monk Moyses writes, ‘Silence and quiet are two of the precious rocks of Mt Athos. In a world and an era of a great deal of noise and chatter, silence terrifies those who want to meet with everyone else except themselves'.

Meditation of unknown duration in the midst of the fragrance, the light, and the peculiar atmosphere resulting from that strange world. I am abruptly brought back by the bells on the censer ring to the rhythm of ‘I send my prayer to You as incense,’ and from one second to the next, we have a celebration. ‘Hear me, Lord,’ a direct and bold cry, requiring mercy, but which sounds like a living song, almost joyous. Who can speak to God in this way? The melody still plays within me, even though the vespers have finished and we are walking towards the refectory for dinner.

Half light. Two lit candlesticks and some votive candles light the painted faces. From within the dark arch, a voice reads aloud:
...‘ praise and honour clothe You,
and you are robed in light, as a garment ...
You cover the heavens with water ...
You send torrents down ravines; and the waters run between the mountains.’
I find myself traveling to unexpected places. All the inhabitants and companions of He who made them, the giver of life, seem to believe David.
'The birds of heaven dwell there; from among the rocks their voices rise
The trees of the plains are filled, the cedars of Lebanon which He planted. ...
The high mountains are a refuge for the deer, and the rocks, the rabbits.
You make darkness and night falls, when all the beasts of the forest prowl.
Young lions roar for their prey, and seek their food from God.
There is the great and wide sea, ...
... and the dragon which You made to play there.
… when You open Your hand, all things are filled with goodness.
When You turn Your face away, they are troubled ...
The sun witnesses its own setting.'
The entire universe is life and order.

I read that until the 18th century, the open part of the courtyard, which is lower, had been divided by a wall from the higher part, which serves as a path along three sides of the church. During the period when renovations were being made, the area housed the workers, artisans and others, while the monks lived on the other side. We are informed of this by the well-known Russian monk and traveler Vasilis Barasky, who described and sketched the Monastery in 1744. However, the signal says it is now time for vespers.

Our group leader informs us that vespers are at three since it is winter, followed by dinner. I have a little time to walk around. North of the cathedral, a tomb which appears to be new infuses the joy and peace of the trees and flowers with a patina of the metaphysical: not quite melancholy, but perhaps an added depth. I learn that the tomb houses Father Bessarion, who had come here in 1992 from the Xenofontos Monastery to re-establish the cenobiotic way of life, and who had died young. He was the first Abbott of the new fraternity. Despite his short span of life, it is obvious that he inspired many monks: You can still feel his essence while he sleeps at the center of the Monastery.

The fantastic castle keeps watch over well-tended bitter orange trees and peaceful flowerbeds, which defy description. In the distance, the αρχονταρίκι (guest house). Usually the guest house of a monastery indicates its character. Here, apart from the usual decor, the walls have contemporary paintings, some of which depict the Monastery and others not, publications from the not-for-profit organizations Theofilos (which supports families with many children), and the Friends of the Imprisoned are on the table, and in the corner there is a small bookcase. Nothing about antichrists, or Macedonians, or other dangerous topics. That is well and good. The Athonite monk Moyses is my companion during this visit to Mt Athos, through his two small books: Vigil on Mt Athos and Midnight on Mt Athos. I take them out again and leaf through them mechanically.

I walked east and northeast from Karyes, on the road toward Iviron, because I was afraid to search for footpaths. After about a quarter of an hour, I turned left at a crossroads. I had the giant Mt Athos at my back. After an hour’s walk, I saw a monastery, compact and fortified, located lower and in front of me, on an rocky overhang atop the cliffs above the shore. A Byzantine castle, I thought. Twenty minutes later, I was walking through the iron gate below the tower.