Because the Isle of St Anthony is located in the southern hemisphere it is common during the harsh winter months for northerners, especially those with medical conditions to come and stay at our guesthouse. Amongst the newcomers was Theophile, a monk travelling from the Lonely Saint’s Isle, a middle-aged man of about 50 of average height and weight, salt and pepper hair and most importantly a nature I came to admire during our brief time together. Our friendship began as all friendships do I suppose, by accident. I happened to be taking my daily walk round the main museum gardens when I noticed him looking intently at the carved stone bust of our founder which sits in the middle of the beds. I observed him for a few minutes and slightly worried by his stillness - he seemed to be hardly breathing - I approached him with a sense of concern.
- They tell me that it is a remarkable likeness, though I never knew the man himself, I said, a flimsy attempt to start a conversation and establish if all was well. He turned and looked at me, not at all surprised by my sudden appearance. - I was just thinking, he said, that my order aspires to be just like him. - Your order would like to start it’s own museum? I asked. - Oh no, nothing like that he replied. No, they are more interested in turning humans into stone. Seeing my eyes widen , he let out a bellowing laugh. - That didn’t sound quite as right as it sounded in my head. Forgive me, my name is Theophile and who would you be? I extended my hand and introduced myself. -It is very rude of me to scare my hostess half to death, my apologies! I was speaking metaphorically of my order’s wishes, of course. -I’m afraid I know little of the order you speak of, I said, hoping this statement would urge him to diverge a little more information. I was intrigued. - Well, my order believes that to attain oneness with the divine we must become as still as possible so that our spirit may escape the confines of our flesh and seek enlightenment. As still as stone. They believe that that is how the spirit escapes the body after death, the lack of movement opens the passage for our spirit to achieve eternal freedom. - Fascinating, I said. I couldn’t help but notice the way you phrased your description, you said your order believes this, does this mean that you personally don’t? He looked at me taken aback I suppose by my forthrightness. A moment of awkwardness passed. Then he smiled. - A shrewd observation…. Let’s just say that lately I have found myself asking the same question. In fact a lady about your age was the reason for me to start questioning my path. To this I raised an eyebrow and he hastened to explain further. - No, nothing like that, I was not interested in leaving my order for a chance at a married life. The lady I speak of is a nun herself, she and I traveled on the same boat during my voyage to your Isle. As fellow passengers we got talking and she told me of her order and that is I suppose what triggered my questioning the ways of mine. - Did she try to convert you? - Oh no, quite the contrary after our discussion she started questioning her order’s ways too. What started as a polite conversation between strangers turned into an in depth exchange of philosophies. He looked around him for a place to sit, spotted the stone bench under one of the pines and urged me to follow and sit beside him. He continued. - Her order believes that every cell in a person’s body is threaded together with every other with a single perpetually moving thread of light, like a beaded necklace or rosary for example. When a person’s mortal days are at an end that thread begins to unravel, the body falls apart as it has nothing to hold it together. After the burial the nuns stand over the deceased’s grave and start to untangle the thread helping the light weave itself into…I suppose, into the unknown as no-one truly knows what is out there. Here he paused either for effect or to check I was suitably impressed. By way of reply I gave a sharp nod for him to go on. -Well, then they begin the “untangling” which to an onlooker would resemble a sort of dance as the nuns seemingly pluck the invisible thread out of the air twisting and turning it till it is free. After this part of the ritual is done, flax seeds, Linum Luminari to be precise, are planted on the ground above where the person is buried. The flax plants are believed to absorb the remnants of “light thread” within their stalks. When the stalks reach maturity they are harvested and the thread that is spun from them is used to make a small keepsake and given to the deceased’s family, a symbol of closure both for the deceased and their loved ones. If no family is available they embroider the spun thread into the big wall hanging, they have over their churches alter. - And to think that I have always imagined a monk’s and nun’s life as a simple one that revolved around singing hymns and tending to their gardens. He laughed and slapped me on the back, a tad too enthusiastically may I add. - In many ways I wish you were right. Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind not having to deal with all these theories, I’m a simple man myself. His impish grin faded and his head drooped a little. -You are worried you may be on the wrong path? It was a very personal question to ask someone I had just met but I could feel that he needed to talk about his troubles, why else would he have said so much. He turned to me and gently nodded. -Aye, what if I have spent most of my adult life chasing shadows? These nuns are actually helping bereaved people find peace, what our order does doesn’t really benefit anyone but our selves…His face grew even more sombre. We sat there for a while not speaking. I had no answers for him and I couldn’t solve his problem. He seemed so vulnerable though and I felt that I needed to do something, so I asked him if he would join me for dinner the following evening so we could discuss his concerns a little more. He accepted and we began to meet frequently. At every meeting we would talk through his doubts and concerns, dissect the theories and stitch them back together in a more orderly fashion. Days and weeks passed and though we talked ourselves in and out of conclusions he could never quite reach an absolute decision. The cool winter days began to thaw under the eager spring sun and a week or so before he planned to return to his monastery he invited me to picnic near the stone bench we had first met. We sat on a patch of soft grass, lay our edibles on a plain white sheet and after our stomachs were satisfied, leaned against the trunk of the big pine tree and started to chat. - I’ll be sad to see you go, I said impulsively. I have really enjoyed your company, our chats, even if I’m afraid we didn’t achieve finding an answer to your ultimate question. - Aye, me too, he answered smiling shyly. You know what though? If it wasn’t for that question I guess we wouldn’t have spent all that time together, so I really should be very grateful to it. I giggled. (Side note: I do NOT giggle. I am not the giggling type. In fact the sound of the giggle startled me. I took this as proof that our time together had affected me quite substantially.) I quickly changed the subject. - We had an arrival today I think you may enjoy seeing: It’s a selection of a botanist’s notes, with the most refreshing take on organising flora. He does it by way of sound, you know, there being scientific proof that trees and flowers enjoy and grow better with music? A musical taxonomy, of sorts, most fascinating. Theophile’s eyes widened in amazement. - Your museum never ceases to surprise me! You know, we had a fellow monk that would only speak to his potted plants. When asked why, he answered “because it makes me feel great from my head tomatoes” I winced. - Honestly Theo, you do need to work on your plant pun repertoire! He laughed his bellowing laugh and helped me gather what was left from our picnic. Heading back, he stopped me before taking the path leading towards the museum’s storage room. - I think I’ll go change before joining you, these robes are way too warm for this spring weather of yours. If we experienced these kind of temperatures where I live, there would be heat exhaustion warnings and people spontaneously jumping into the ocean! How do I get to the warehouse from the guest rooms, is there a shortcut I can take? - Yes, just go through the main entrance, turn to your right and take the steps that lead down to the storage room. He nodded with a “right you are”smile and left me to continue by myself. Just as I was approaching the gate I heard crashing footsteps behind me and turned to face a very red and gasping for breath, Theophile. - I…I….think I have it!! He said whilst trying desperately to catch his breath. -What..? I asked, taken aback by his sudden reappearance. -The solution to my question…it was the warehouse…we were going to take different routes to get to the same place…so what if… - Ahhh…yes, I see… what if, there are many paths that lead to enlightenment? Not just a single way to achieve it? His legs gave out and he collapsed with a thud on the stoney path with a huge grin on his face. -Such a simple solution…I…or should I say us humans can be so blind sighted sometimes…we do enjoy complicating things don’t we! I sat beside him and put my hand on his shoulder. -You ok? I asked gently. - I think I will be…I still believe that the nun’s way is a much more productive way of spending ones monastic life. But if you can reach enlightenment through many paths…I guess nothing stops me from asking to join their order. - Ahem…there is a tiny problem with that.. -You mean because I am a man? Pfff…if they are truly seeking enlightenment that won’t stop them from letting me join, surely! I couldn’t argue with that. He made a valid point!
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About the CuratorMy name is Juniper And I am the principle Curator of the Memento Vivere Museum. My duties include taking care of the primary displays, seeing that every collection is archived correctly and in general ensuring that everything within the museum’s grounds works like clockwork. However, because of the museum’s dwindling spacial capacity, I have taken it upon my self to compile several volumes presenting some of the more interesting and poignant collections that the visitor will very possibly never get to view. Dear reader, within these pages, I shall be sharing some of these collections with you. I do hope you enjoy what I have to show you. Archives
April 2018
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