[[I’ve been thinking about the lobster again recently, and one of the most powerful images I ever heard about times of transition. The lobster, as you may know, has an exoskeleton: it’s held together from the outside. And every now and then it has to molt its shell and grow a new one. In order to do that it fills itself up with water until it pops off its shell––and in the course of the operation it pops out its eyes, too. And it sinks to the bottom of the ocean where it has to lie there, naked and blind, and totally vulnerable, to wait for the new exoskeleton to grow around it, a new form, you might say. It’s a moment of incredible vulnerability and, if a lobster is capable of such a thing, a moment that requires immense trust that this new form is going to grow around it while it lies there blind and naked and absolutely vulnerable.
We think of Saint Romuald not only as the founder of our congregation but as a reformer within the greater world of Benedictine monasticism. It occurred to me recently that the word “reform” has a kind of double meaning to it; it could be a positive thing or it could be negative. The negative sense is that we assume some person or some institution has gotten off course, and so it needs to repent, be corrected, as in sending someone to “reform school” to change their ways.
But in some way, that’s also the positive meaning of it: to re-form could mean to go back to basics and form all over again, like a musical group that breaks up and then re-forms, maybe with a slightly different line-up but hopefully with renewed energy,[1] like a lobster growing a new shell around itself. And even the word “de-form” can have a positive meaning to it, kind of like our rather unpoetic translation of Romuald’s advice in the Brief Rule. Our usual translation of the famous line in it is “Empty yourself completely and sit waiting…” but the Latin is actually destrue… It’s too easy to simply translate that as “destroy,” and obviously out of character with everything else we know about healthy asceticism (though the Italians translate it annientati–annihilate yourself!). But as Thomas and I came up with some years ago in a decidedly unpoetic translation, destrue is the opposite of “construct,” not necessarily as harsh as “destruct,” but better “deconstruct.”
Hence, “deconstruct yourself completely” and sit waiting, like that lobster, blind and naked on the floor of the ocean. And so de-form; sometimes we have to be active about it: instead of forming something, let’s first de-form, un-form, take this form apart or let this form die, and start all over again from the basic building blocks––even if it means we are blind, naked and vulnerable for a time, trusting that the new form will build around us.
I got some of this idea from an article that our Br. Will gave me recently, “A comparison between the Zen Buddhist Ten Oxherding Pictures and the Theory of Positive Disintegration” of the Polish psychiatrist (and poet) Kazimierz Dabrowski. I love the image of positive disintegration. Sometimes de-forming or dis-integrating is the best thing for us, because we’ve turned into a form that we were never meant to be, or we’ve not become what we set out to be, so we need to de-construct, de-form, dis-integrate, and give ourselves a chance to re-integrate, to re-form.
It’s the ongoing work of conversatio, really. And of course that is how we translate that strange word for our monastic vow of conversatio––we vow to “reform our lives,” and it’s an ongoing conversation. When the monastic way warns us that we’ve left the right path we need always to be willing to turn around, re-find the right one, and start out all over again. We need to sometimes do this each and every day.
I turned fifty at old Camaldoli in Tuscany in 2008 and almost everyone that I met that day quoted the opening lines Dante’s Divina Commedia to me which the poet David Whyte loves to quote when he is talking about aging: Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita / Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura / Ché la diritta via era smarrita: “At the middle of the path of our life / I found myself in a dark forest / because the right way was lost.”
Saint Romuald of course first enters a monastery under the Cluniac reform and observance, which we can assume was pretty heavy on ceremony and liturgy. He leaves because he doesn’t find the monks observant enough, but he doesn’t leave monastic life altogether, nor does he immediately go to another monastery. And poignantly, he does not go off on his own but under a master. Going to Venice with the hermit Marino and living the eremitical life was actually going back to the basics of the monastic impulse––fasting, praying, solitude, psalmody, in simplicity, without all the decorations and ceremonial. And then he can start all over again from there, and wait for a new form, or new forms, to grow up around that experience. When he starts his reforming of other monastic communities and even of his giving some container to the various hermits and hermitages populating Italy at the time, he comes back to the Rule of Benedict––but without the straitjacket of observance of Benedict of Aniane, for instance, or all the ceremonial exuberance of Cluny.
But the beautiful thing about it is again our charism of the dear Three-Fold Good: his re-forming doesn’t take the typical form of other Benedictine traditions at the time. Yes, it did take the form of community, perhaps in a more austere and simplified way. It also took the form of a move into greater and greater solitude even to the point of reclusion, while still under the Rule and an abbot. It also took the form of missionary martyrdom as some of our first monks longed for from the beginning, with Romuald easily enfolding them in his family. Holding all those forms together has always been a challenge for us throughout our history. But just as new forms emerged then, so new forms can still emerge now. I always think of Shantivanam and how easily the ashram model folded into our congregation.
All this is similar to the great work of ressourcement––going back to the sources––that went on with our forebears especially in the 20th century leading up to the Second Vatican Council, in and outside of monasticism, in the greater world of theology and especially in the liturgical renewal: to strip off the unnecessary accretions that have built up around us––and that is a delicate work, discerning what is essential and what is not, what was a healthy growth and what was simply a barnacle on the side of the ship. So in a sense to de-form, dis-integrate for a moment so as to recover something of the pristine original energy––of Christianity, of the liturgy, of monasticism––and see what new form they all might take in a new world, in a new culture, with whatever positive attainments we might have gained with our post-Enlightenment, post-modern mentality, with whatever advances we may have made in our understanding of human growth through depth psychology, with whatever evolution of our spiritual consciousness might have taken place with our modern explorations in the spirituality of Asia and other cultural influences outside of Europe, for instance. What new forms could emerge from these influences?
And especially, for religious, a reference to the originally inspired tradition was exhorted so as to initiate dialogue in contemporary situations. I continue to find that a fascinating formula: to go back to the source so as to be relevant for today.
Another of the ressourcements that took place at the Second Vatican Council in religious life––oddly enough that it should even have had to––was to go back to Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, and to the Gospels. As a matter of fact, the document Ecclesia Sancta (1966) felt the need to urge study and meditation on the Gospel for all religious, from the time of novitiate on. Partially this was because this had not been a major emphasis for Catholic religious up ‘til then for hundreds of years, and one has to wonder, how would a deeper knowledge of the gospel change our view of religious life?
So, what does this mean for us individually and collectively? How many times does this need to happen in our individual lives, for us to be de-formed and re-formed, ché la diritta via era smarrita–– because we have left the right path, deviated from our true path? How often are we called to look at our corporate lives in this way, to judge what needs to be set aside as non-essential, to recover not only our own individual inspiration but the original inspiration of our Romualdian tradition. As Saint Benedict admonishes us, we are always beginning again with the gospel as guide, together and individually, being challenged first and foremost to be converted again to the way of Jesus, the way of self-surrender and service. And then to ask ourselves once again, what was that original monastic impulse? And why Romuald? And why the Camaldolese? And why these people? And why this place, or Incarnation or Monastery of the Risen Christ?
The phrase “the new normal” has crept into our vocabulary since Covid times––but I prefer the idea of “reform.” This is an opportunity for the church, the nation, whole world really, to re-think normal, instead of just going back to things as they were, to re-form, to allow this disintegration to be a positive thing. But let’s focus on us, with Romuald as our guide, to go back to the source, to the sources, once again––to the Gospel, to our original monastic impulse, to what drew us to New Camaldoli or Incarnation or Monastery of the Risen Christ, to what drew us to these brothers and sisters (here and throughout the world) and to come back each day willing to be reformed, re-made, re-newed. As Saint Paul tells us, … if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation. There is new creation––it’s in the present tense; if anyone is in Christ every day everything old passes away; and everything becomes new!
[2]]]
cyprian 19 june 22
When I have written about the silence of solitude I have emphasized that it is not simply about external silence or physical solitude; it is about the silence of living in communion with God. That includes the inner silence that results from communion with God, the stillness that comes from being loved with an everlasting and unconditional love, and the wholeness that allows one to stand with integrity no matter what or who this means standing without or against. Because I am committed to living this element of the canon and witnessing to the result of living the love of God in this very specific way (in and as the silence of solitude) the inner work was an integral and essential part of opening myself to that love.
I wrote somewhat recently that there must be a redemptive experience at the heart of each hermit's life and that it must occur in external silence and physical solitude. Otherwise, there is no way to discern that God is the source of this supposed "vocation," or that this is in fact a vocation. The inner work I spoke of is a primary way in which God's redemption is mediated to us over time. It is made possible by time spent in silence and solitude, and for the hermit it leads back to even greater internal silence and solitude (a deeper relationship with God alone and greater wholeness and integrity as a person) lived in an even more profound commitment to God in the silent and solitary life of the hermitage. Moreover, it will empower the hermit to reach out to others in love despite as well as because one is living a solitary life within the hermitage. In other words, the inner work I have written about opens one to God's redemption. The healing and energy of this experience of redemption leads to the strengthening and purifying of the hermit's silence of solitude, not only as the environment of her life, but as the charism or gift quality of that life as well as its goal. In fact, it helps establish and even underscores the truth of the hermit's witness to the silence of solitude as both charism and goal. 
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
Posts
