were rector at one point, where the Harwoods lived, and where Jane and her brothers and sister attended balls. I was writing down the number for the rector, to call to see if he could get me into St. Nicholas in Steventon, when a van pulled up with a sign on the back that said Hidden Britain Tours. Phil and Sue Howe were putting together—of all things—a Jane Austen tour of Hampshire. They had just been to St. Nicholas and drove me back there (the door was unlocked the whole time, but I didn't know how to open it) so that I was able to sit in the small pews for a few minutes and wonder at the gorgeous paintings on the walls, which look like an ancient sort of wallpaper, in simple dark reds and greens, flowers and vines, but painted on. Then they drove me to Oakley Hall, home of Mrs. Augusta Bramston, who thought Jane's writing was “downright nonsense,” 13 and on to Manydown, which was the seat of the Bigg-Wither family and would have been Jane's home had she been willing to marry for money rather than love. Unfortunately, the house is no longer standing.
Phil and I spent time comparing notes on Jane and both tried to figure out again where the Steventon rectory was, to no avail. Now I have reread the guidebook, and it basically says to walk down the road from the church, and the rectory was across the street on the left. 14 (Sheesh! I'm dying to go back and see it.) But it was a great serendipitous blessing just happening to run into them.
Then there are the monks and the great peace of the abbey—the lovely garden and the care they take of me, whom they do not know at all. I'm sad to be leaving them and sadder that I haven't gotten to know them better. I find myself wondering about them, what they are like, wishing I could talk to them. The only time I see them is during meals, which are silent, and after night prayers they glide out with their hoods up, in silence that will last until morning. Occasionally, if I am around, I might catch them having coffee after morning mass and they will stop and chat, at least a few of them, before they rush off to make icons or organize retreats.
I know very little about them for certain. The abbot, who appears to be in his sixties, has lived here nearly forty years. He wears sandals that look like Tevas and squeak on the tile floor. He has a big bushy beard and carries around a bandanna, and I imagine him to be a hippie sort of a monk, if that's possible. I have taken to studying the shoes carefully because there is so little else that distinguishes them from one another.
Dom Nicholas, who was so careful to warn me about the shower mat, wears the sort of comfortable, sensible black shoes you would expect of him. Kind Anselm, the renowned iconographer, is thin and careful with his trim gray beard and studious spectacles. He wears nice black leather. There is a new one (well, not new to them, but to me). He is Welsh, with short dark hair, and wears what look sort of like Doc Martens. He seems to be second in command and sings and reads as though he ought to read loudly, not as though it is a performance exactly, but he is much more expressive than the others, which is a bit unsettling after getting used to the comforting monotone, where everyone blends together.
Isn't it funny that at a monastery, where everything appears to be the same, their shoes hint at an individuality underneath everything?
One of my favorites is Father Timothy. Dress shoes again. He has only ever said two words to me, I think, and that was tonight during dinner when everyone was, of course, silent. I was trying to eat as quickly as possible because the whole thing is intimidating to me, and they eat very fast (perhaps so they can get back to their prayers), and then I find them watching me finish and decide it's just easier to stop. The other night as everyone was finishing up last bits and pieces, I grabbed a little plum and started to eat it the way I always do, taking small bites around the pit—but
Phil and I spent time comparing notes on Jane and both tried to figure out again where the Steventon rectory was, to no avail. Now I have reread the guidebook, and it basically says to walk down the road from the church, and the rectory was across the street on the left. 14 (Sheesh! I'm dying to go back and see it.) But it was a great serendipitous blessing just happening to run into them.
Then there are the monks and the great peace of the abbey—the lovely garden and the care they take of me, whom they do not know at all. I'm sad to be leaving them and sadder that I haven't gotten to know them better. I find myself wondering about them, what they are like, wishing I could talk to them. The only time I see them is during meals, which are silent, and after night prayers they glide out with their hoods up, in silence that will last until morning. Occasionally, if I am around, I might catch them having coffee after morning mass and they will stop and chat, at least a few of them, before they rush off to make icons or organize retreats.
I know very little about them for certain. The abbot, who appears to be in his sixties, has lived here nearly forty years. He wears sandals that look like Tevas and squeak on the tile floor. He has a big bushy beard and carries around a bandanna, and I imagine him to be a hippie sort of a monk, if that's possible. I have taken to studying the shoes carefully because there is so little else that distinguishes them from one another.
Dom Nicholas, who was so careful to warn me about the shower mat, wears the sort of comfortable, sensible black shoes you would expect of him. Kind Anselm, the renowned iconographer, is thin and careful with his trim gray beard and studious spectacles. He wears nice black leather. There is a new one (well, not new to them, but to me). He is Welsh, with short dark hair, and wears what look sort of like Doc Martens. He seems to be second in command and sings and reads as though he ought to read loudly, not as though it is a performance exactly, but he is much more expressive than the others, which is a bit unsettling after getting used to the comforting monotone, where everyone blends together.
Isn't it funny that at a monastery, where everything appears to be the same, their shoes hint at an individuality underneath everything?
One of my favorites is Father Timothy. Dress shoes again. He has only ever said two words to me, I think, and that was tonight during dinner when everyone was, of course, silent. I was trying to eat as quickly as possible because the whole thing is intimidating to me, and they eat very fast (perhaps so they can get back to their prayers), and then I find them watching me finish and decide it's just easier to stop. The other night as everyone was finishing up last bits and pieces, I grabbed a little plum and started to eat it the way I always do, taking small bites around the pit—but
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