The Cloister Walk, by Kathleen Norris
"I should try telling my friends who have a hard time comprehending why I like to spend so much time going to church with Benedictines that I do so for the same reasons that I write: to let words work the earth of my heart. To sing, to read poetry aloud, and to have the poetry and the wild stories of scripture read to me. To respond with others, in blessed silence. That is a far more accurate description of morning or evening prayer in a monastery than what most people conjure up when they hear the word "church." Monks have always recognized reading as a bodily experience, primarily oral. The ancients spoke of masticating the words of scripture in order to fully digest them.
In the midst of today's revolution in "instant communication," I find it a blessing that monks still respect the slow way that words work on the human psyche. They take the time to sing, chant, and read the psalms aloud, leaving plenty of room for silence, showing a respect for words that is remarkable in this culture, which goes for the fast talk of the hard sell, the deceptive masks of jargon, the chatter of television "personalities". Being with monks is more like imbibing language--often powerfully poetic language--at full strength. One night, when we ended a vespers reading with a passage from Job; "My lyre is turned to mourning, and my pipe to the voice of those who weep," I was awestruck, not only by the beauty of the words but also by the way those words gave a new dimension to watching the nightly news later that night, leading me to reflect on the communal role of the poet."
In the midst of today's revolution in "instant communication," I find it a blessing that monks still respect the slow way that words work on the human psyche. They take the time to sing, chant, and read the psalms aloud, leaving plenty of room for silence, showing a respect for words that is remarkable in this culture, which goes for the fast talk of the hard sell, the deceptive masks of jargon, the chatter of television "personalities". Being with monks is more like imbibing language--often powerfully poetic language--at full strength. One night, when we ended a vespers reading with a passage from Job; "My lyre is turned to mourning, and my pipe to the voice of those who weep," I was awestruck, not only by the beauty of the words but also by the way those words gave a new dimension to watching the nightly news later that night, leading me to reflect on the communal role of the poet."