A trip to a monastery

Chant; The Benedictine Monks Of Santo Domingo De Silos

1997 was a rough year for the Aplands. My father passed away in the beginning of March. Then five months later his younger brother, my Uncle M., died of a heart attack. Within a very short period of time, much shorter than any of us imagined, my cousin Dale and I were sons without fathers. We spent many hours together, drinking root beer and talking through our pain and frustrations. What emerged in our frequent exchanges was an interesting parallel.

It became apparent early in my high school years that I embraced all that thumped of music, art and aural or visual poetry. I found solace in museums, listened to NPR and essentially walked the earth at a gentle lope, watching the clouds in the sky, hearing the birds and contemplating the vastness of the plains. I think it all kind of freaked Dad out. But Uncle M. was intrigued.

All the way through high school, Dale had a motorcycle. I’m sure that he did as well in school as he could, but his passions lay elsewhere. He went to trade school, hung out with the wild crowd, and basically galumphed along the path that was set before him, sowing some peaceably ferocious barley – if wild oats implies something that I don’t want to imply – partaking in some creative, unorthodox, yet harmless, excitement and constructed a mental image of the wife, family, house and farm that loomed a little ways beyond the horizon. I think it all kind of freaked Uncle M. out. But Dad was intrigued.

I was in the middle of a band rotation on the Delta Queen steamboat when I heard the news about Uncle M. We somehow arranged a five-day hiatus for me so that I could fly home from St. Louis, spend some time with the family then meet up with the boat in St. Paul.

On the day of the funeral, Aunt I., Uncle M.’s wife, told me that she needed a day to herself and asked if Mom and I could stop out at the farm the next day to pick up Uncle D. and Aunt L. for a day out. Uncle D. is Dad’s and Uncle M.’s oldest brother. He and Aunt L. live in Tuscon. Aunt L. has made her mark in the world as an artist. So, we took them to an art museum in Watertown. After concluding our visit at the museum, we drove thirty miles further to visit Blue Cloud Abbey, a monastery on the eastern plains of South Dakota. I had never visited a monastery before. When we arrived, the monk who greeted us informed us that Vespers would start in five minutes and that we should join them.

So we made ourselves part of their congregation on this weekday afternoon. From the beginning, peace emanated from every aspect of our worship experience. As a Lutheran, I had knowledge of and familiar acquaintance with the sung liturgy in higher church services. But Lutherans love their pipe organs. And monks love their simplicity.

The a cappella chanting of the brothers reverberated a million times in the cathedrals of our hearts that day. Just a single, simple line of melody, floating in the air, nothing holding it up, merely kissing the walls of the expanse, then wafting upward as if to deliver its harmonious message to the Everlasting. The peace that this music engenders stayed with me for many days.

I found this CD in a used CD shop in New Orleans two weeks after Uncle M.’s funeral. The Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos recorded their chants in 1973 and released their product on LP. The Angel CD label re-released this recording as a CD in 1994 and established itself as the best selling album of chant of all time.

About three weeks after Uncle M. died, Princess Dianna and Mother Theresa made their simultaneous exits from this Earth. Each of these women’s deaths affected me in a different way. As you can imagine, I associated “Chant” with the life of Mother Theresa. It has initiated a fascination with monasteries. Can you imagine me entering a monastery and wearing a cowl? I instruct all of you not to answer that question. You might scare me.

Credits: To monks, for the wisdom, peace and serenity that issues from the tranquility that they acquire from the Almighty God.