St. Francis Would Have Liked This Place - by Bud Collins

ABIQUIU, New Mexico -- St. Francis dances. So it seems, as his figure, carved in pine, appears and disappears in early morning mist that has a slow rhythm of its own in shuffling up from the Chama River.

It will soon be gone, fully revealing the saint, with birds (real and wooden) on his outstretched arms, amid the cosmos of Brother Christopher's resplendent guesthouse garden. For backdrop, the far-off buttes of Chama Canyon - rippled in shades that would have pleased Joseph’s tailor - will do just fine.

Brother Christopher, tall, a bit stooped, at 77 the patriarch of his outfit, trudges across the gravel compound with watering can, his white hair covered by a wide hat. “Morning Bro,” he says to anyone he encounters. It is very chilly. But soon the sun will fully illuminate and heat this gloriously beautiful and restful cleft in the wilds. The Benedictine monks of Christ in the Desert Monastery will peel heavy coats to go about their duties in the slate blue, hooded tunics and hardy trousers.

They’ve been up since 3, to start another day in a life of prayer. Professionals. Serious job, being a monk. Eight services a day in the small, elegantly simple adobe chapel, for themselves and any guest who cares to partake.

“It’s no fun being a monk - but I enjoy it,” says Brother Luke, a Taiwanese, with a grin. That pretty much sums up the life and times of the resident company, Prior Philip and his 15 brothers, who are far removed from so-called civilization - at times cut off when the gouged and treacherous 13-mile clay into the canyon gets muddied or snowed out. You leave Route 89, about 75 miles northwest of Santa Fe to drive the liver-quivering, unmarked dirt trail into Georgia O’Keeffe country. She lived and painted in rugged Abiquiu, doing some of her marvelous work in the heavily-forested canyon that is sliced by the Chama River.

It is not supposed to be fun at the monastery, as lonely an outpost in this high desert as one of those foreign Legion forts in the Sahara. No phones, no electric lights, TV, thankfully. (Thankfully, too, there is hot water.) Meals are silent, voices otherwise are low. Although this isn’t a monks brothers laughter, there are some Grouchoesque moments with the good-humored, warmly hospitable band.

Brother Aelred, a rotund Los Angeleno, says, “Our founder, St. Benedict, decreed that we treat every visitor as though it was Christ showing up. Even you.” He rolls his eyes.

Exactly what an I?

“A retreatant is the term,” says Brother Andre, the guest master, who assigned my cell for a week’s stay. A small, spartan room with canyon view. It is quite adequate, The brothers have plenty of nothing (they are supported by contributions) and plenty of nowhere surrounding them. They offer ... nothing ... or everything.

“What does a retreatant do?” I wonder.

“Nothing, if that’s what you need,” says Aelred. “Nothing is required. The bell will ring for services and meals.”

So I slip into the quietudinousness of it all, imbibing the sweet mountain air. I doze off in the stone cold silence in which the flutter of bird wings, stirring of insects, non Gregorian yaping of coyotes is distinct. I read. I sit for hours gawking at God’s country, and, as nightfall signals bedtime - a kerosene lamp lights the way - lets astonishingly intrusive stars drape my shoulders, a celestial serape.

I walk. I imagine all the words that apply: serenity, solitude, peace, salubrious, calm, renewal, grandeur, apartness, gladness, rest, tranquillity. Spring cleaning for the spirit. Am I meditating and contemplating? Maybe. I don’t really know.

I shamble to the refractory for meals. The monks eat smart. Lorenzo, a Filipino in charge of the kitchen sees to that. Vegetarian (and delicious) with fresh-baked bread. The main meal is lunch. dinner is soup, bread and salad.

The religion is a take-it-or-leave-it proposition; no questions asked. I find myself taking more than anticipated. Is it kosher for a non-Catholic to enter into communion?

“We don’t have your dossier,” says Aelred, indicating it’s not an FBI matter. I actually look forward to 6:30a.m. Mass and huggie time. At the pastor’s call of “Peace be with you!” a sort of receiving line of love forms. Each one in the chapel embraces everyone else.

The Gregorian chanting of Psalms is settling. Offering a studio effect, the clear upper walls of glass evoke, “I lift mine eyes unto the hills....” And there they are - the smoked salmon-toned crags rising a couple of thousand feet, attended by high massing flocks of ravens.

Advancing by retreating? Could be. I think, cocooned like this, even an atheist would have a hell of a time.

Founded 30 years ago, the monastery has “had its ups and downs,” says the boss, goateed, energetic Prior Philip, who took over 17 years ago. “At one point, we were down to three monks. I know I alienated some who left. Then I realized I had to let go. I just said, “God, if you want this to happen - do it.”

He smiles. “It turned around. We started to become healthy and grow again, to attract monks from all over ... Vietnam, Argentina, Mexico ... to go with us Americans.”

St. Francis would have liked it here, with such an array of creatures, including the lone resident female, Ms. Kitty, the 16 year old gray-striped house cat, thought to be a feline brother until transforming the kitchen into a maternity ward with a litter early in her occupancy.

Do I have a knock? Of course. The peanut butter is creamy. Why not chunky?

“Too sensuous,” says Brother Aelred, winking.

Prospective retreatants may write for reservations:
Christ in the Desert Monastery
Abiquiu, NM 87510 USA.

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