View from the Pier

Patience with others is Love,
Patience with self is Hope,
Patience with God is Faith.
– Adel Bestavros, 1924-2005 –

Montserrat

This image was taken at Abadia de Montserrat, a Benedictine monastery nestled in a deep crevice of a craggy mountain in Catalonia, one of 17 distinct regions of the Kingdom of Spain.  My husband Tom and I journeyed here by train from Barcelona, to celebrate my 50^th birthday.

After departing from Barcelona’s Plaça d’Espanya station, we rumbled out of the city and into the Pla de Bages, the basin of the Llobregat River.  Traveling along these lowlands, we gently swayed with the rocking train, and I was torn between watching the scenery glide by, and observing my fellow passengers.  An old woman caught a catnap, seeming to doze within seconds of taking her seat, no doubt relieved to be off the grossly swollen ankles that protruded from her well-worn sandals.  A pair of teenagers lazed, enraptured with each other, fingers entwined, an aura of lust radiating around them.  A studious-looking woman sat engrossed in a book, intently twirling a strand of her hair as she processed its content.

I have come to appreciate the hours of forced inactivity inherent in travel.   Tom always shakes his head in mock exasperation at the bag of heavy books I cart around with me.  He knows that the random assortment of characters with whom I rub elbows always prove more provocative than the printed page.  He, too, is a student of human nature; we often catch one another in deep study of someone of whom at home we probably wouldn’t grant a passing glance.   Sometimes just being in a foreign land gives everyday people an air of the exotic.

The train rounded a bend and I shifted my attention back to the landscape.  Across the flat plains of the river delta, a spiky silhouette dominated the horizon–Montserrat means “jagged mountain” in Catalan.  As we neared the peaks, we were struck by their strange, otherworldly shapes in shades of pale pink, resembling fleshy fingers reaching into the sky.  The mountain is 10 kilometers long and 5 wide; the highest peak is St. Jerome at 1,236 meters.   The massif is particularly imposing as it soars vertically from the valley floor; its face has very little vegetation to soften the appearance of its steep incline.

As we continued, the range loomed larger and larger.  With each stop, we strained to hear the name of the town where we would change to the rack rail that would bring us up the mountainside to the abbey. At last, the station was called and we de-boarded at Monistrol Vila, where we immediately hopped on another train for the 600-meter ascent up the mountain. The locomotive heaved upward, hugging the cliff face. I resolutely stared out the window at the rock inches away, rather than the expansive vista in the other direction.  Terrified of heights, this endless 15-minute journey was the admission price I paid to experience the mystery of the monastery above.  Clenching Tom’s hand in mine, I concentrated on my breathing, saying to myself softly “just a few more minutes, just a few more minutes.”  I even managed a momentary semi-hysterical giggle at the insanity of an acrophobic actively choosing to celebrate another year of life by scaling a mountainside.

Hallelujah, we finally arrived!  I felt giddy with relief and bounded off the train.  We climbed a steep set of stairs, emerging to a miniature world hanging on to the mountainside.  With my feet planted firmly on the ground, I hungrily looked left and right, feeling like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, my head practically swiveling in circles.  To the left was a tree-lined road leading to a 14^th century Gothic bell tower and down a hill to a cluster of pastel dwellings huddled against the rock, each capped with the country’s ubiquitous wavy, orange-tiled roofs.  To the right was La Placa de Santa Maria, a sweeping square enclosed on one side by a row of low-lying buildings that seem to be hewn from the rock, bisected by the taller, austere façade of the monastery. A third wall was composed of a series of elegant stone arches, each spanning roughly twenty feet; adorning the supporting columns were giant niches housing graceful sculptures of saints.

Among the buildings to the left of the abbey was the community’s only guest quarters, the Hotel Abat Cisneros, which has provided accommodation for pilgrims since its construction in 1563. Happily, it underwent a renovation in 2000, and while we found our room to be Spartan and monk-like, it was still cheerful—and afforded spectacular views of the sanctuary, the arched colonnade and, beyond that, the mountain and the Llobregat Valley.  We had arrived at what photographers call “the magic hour,” and, indeed, as Tom and I stood side by side at the window, the world below was imbued with a peaceful, golden glow.

We made our way back out to the square, crossing it and following a small scattered crowd of people through one of the five arches leading to the basilica’s atrium.  A bell tolled, signaling the beginning of a Mass.  We hung back while the flock entered through heavy doors for the service.  We admired the heights of the basilica’s pale stone, decorated with incredibly ornate statuary.  Its towering exterior cast gray shadows across the atrium’s black and white marble floor, as dusk descended. We were alone as we stepped into the open-air square, the hush interrupted by the sound of our steps, which in turn prompted a squadron of resting pigeons to flap their wings and spiral away.

To the left of the atrium we found our way to the Ave Maria Path, a walkway running alongside the mountain and the basilica’s wall, covered with domed glass.  Along the length of the corridor and against the rock are thousands and thousands of votive candles, in jewel tones of ruby, emerald, and sapphire.  Here, at the end of the day, the chamber was awash in the luminous light of a vast multitude of prayers, untold flickering demonstrations of faith, the sight of which inspired a deep feeling of connection to these unknown seekers.

We enjoyed a meal of traditional Catalan cuisine in Hotel Abat Cisneros’ Saló de Pedra or “Stone Dining Room.” Formerly stables in the 16^th century, the ceiling here is formed by a great stone arch, while the walls are bare rock.  Despite the humble surroundings, dinner service was reverential, with an autocratic maitre d’ presiding fussily over the wait staff as they presented each course.

A night spent at a monastery is a quiet affair and we resigned early to bed, in part because photographing the sunrise here was a primary motive for our visit. Soon enough I was awakened to Tom’s low call from the window, where he was shooting the first light of day.  I got dressed in the near-darkness and grabbed the camera gear, Tom headed back in bed, his job done.

I felt as excited as a kid in a candy store—so many views, such fantastic light!  I was overwhelmed, not sure which direction to head in, not wanting to miss anything.  I stood still in St. Mary’s Square, closed my eyes, took a few deep breathes, and said a steadying prayer.  I spent the next hour floating from one vantage point in the clouds to the next.  The fiery sphere of the sun slowly rose above the horizon and the mist parted to reveal layer after layer of the strangely-shaped rocks extending out and down.

Later that morning, we were at the door of the basilica leading to the chapel of the Image of the Mother of God.  According to legend, in the year 880, on a Saturday night when the sun was going down over Montserrat, some shepherd boys saw a bright light coming down from the sky, accompanied by beautiful music. The following Saturday they returned with their parents and the vision came to them again. On the following four Saturdays the Rector of Olesa went with them and everyone saw the vision. As soon as he heard about what had happened, the Bishop of Manresa arranged a visit. In a nearby grotto, an image believed to be of the Holy Mother of God was found. The Bishop suggested that the image be taken to Manresa, but as soon as it was lifted up, it became so heavy that it could not be moved. The Bishop interpreted this as the manifestation of the will of the Virgin to stay in that place. He ordered that a chapel to Mary be built and that she be worshipped here on the mountain of Montserrat.

We entered the basilica, following a hallway to the shrine, stopping to peep in a sumptuous side chapel.  An elderly couple was in the room and we exchanged nods as we entered.  Signs are posted that discourage photography in the presence of pilgrims; in the interest of being respectful, Tom and I headed to the back of the room to wait for the husband and wife to depart before beginning to shoot the incredible colors and imagery in the room.  As the minutes ticked by, the man periodically looked in our direction.  His wife gestured to him several times, speaking in an angry whisper. He would then turn his gaze in our direction again, with an expression that could only be described as a cross between belligerence and smugness.  Tom rolled his eyes and walked out of the chapel.

I felt anger rising up and the chords of ELO’s song “Showdown” began reverberating in my mind.  The man stared at me, as his wife let out an exasperated sigh and she too left the chapel.  I returned his stare, threw back my shoulders, crossed my arms and stuck out my chin, laying siege to his sanctimony.  Then, in a moment of grace, I realized I was provoking an argument in a chapel featuring a poem by Catalan Salvador Espriu to St. George, asking that his country know only peace.  And so I moved on, to another chapel, which featured a massive painting of Jesus, Mary and Joseph’s exodus to Egypt, surrounded by light and fog reminiscent of the morning’s sunrise scene.

The author of today’s quote, Adel Bestavros, was an Egyptian Supreme Court lawyer and a fervent servant, preacher, and scholar of the Christian Coptic Orthodox Church.  In a website set up by his children, he is described as having “represented all types of clients, from world-wide organizations and corporations like the World Bank and the Lloyds of London, to individuals who could not afford legal representation.  From a very young age, he developed a passion for biblical studies. During his high-school and college years, he participated in Bible studies organized by British evangelists in Alexandria, Egypt. In 1946, when asked by these evangelists to leave his mother church, the Apostolic Coptic Orthodox Church of Egypt, on the grounds that it was a backward, dying church, led by a cohort of uneducated clergy, he proclaimed: ‘If my Church is dying, then it is my duty to resuscitate it’. “

Today, the image of Our Lady of Montserrat, popularly known as La Moreneta, “the Dark One,” due to the dark color of her skin, is a beautiful 12th-century Romanesque carving. Pope Leo XIII proclaimed Our Lady of Montserrat the Patron Saint of Catalonia in 1881.  In 1947, this image was enthroned in a silver altarpiece, paid for by popular subscription and installed in the upper section of the basilica apse.  The figure of the Madonna stretches out her right hand, which holds a globe, symbolizing the cosmos. Her left hand is on her child’s shoulder. With his right hand, the child gives a blessing, while his left hand holds a pine cone, symbol of fertility and everlasting life.

In late morning, as we headed back to Barcelona, I caught a glimpse of life everlasting.  We were the only passengers on the first rack train leaving the monastery.  Settling in the first car, I saw the driver—a woman, to whom my now ancient 50-year old eyes looked very young, as in adolescent young.  I exchanged glances with Tom who shrugged his shoulders and smirked; in the unspoken parlance of a married couple, I read his mind: “OK, don’t tell me you have any issues with a female driver, now, do you?”  I took another deep breath as we lurched forward and began descending, rapidly.

The train suddenly slammed to a stop, well out of the station and very much on the edge of the mountainside. I grabbed Tom’s hand and squeezed it hard.  The driver began speaking in rapid-fire Catalan to someone on the other end of a hand-held radio, as we stood still on the precipice of the world as I knew it.  A voice crackled back and she jumped up and came back into the car, opening a locker next to us with a jumble of keys, and pulling out a manual, flipping pages hurriedly with one hand and yapping into the walkie-talkie with the other.

Any composure I had went out the window, and I followed it over the edge emotionally, bursting into sobs.  Tom took the situation and me very seriously, talking in a very even, low voice, telling me that these type of trains are highly mechanized, and extremely well-maintained, that nothing would happen, that we would be on our way any minute.  The situation was alarming enough that I had absolutely no self-consciousness about my lack of self-control, and I continued to cry.

The doors burst open and a team of uniformed men came in.   I could only wonder later where they had materialized from.  There was more jabber in Catalan, and the noises of buttons being pushed, switches being flipped, the crackle of the radios and then…a humming sound, and we were gliding down.  My wailing wound down into a whimper.  Tom rubbed my back and smiled, and I managed a feeble grin in return.

We pulled into Monistrol Vila station, from where we would get the regular train to Barcelona.  On the platform was a gray-haired, robust man, with walking poles and a heavy backpack, who told us in an Australian accent that he had just hiked down from the monastery.  We excitedly told him of our entire adventure, and in doing so, the source of my fear and angst magically transformed into what it continues to be today, a little story of patience, love, hope and faith.

Patience has never come naturally to me.  Bestavros’ view of it as a spiritual practice has been like a candle in the darkness for me.  I can now choose to consider patience an action that I have the opportunity to engage in over and over, whether coping with idle hours between destinations, or confronting phobias or antagonism.  I can recognize and honor when I am the recipient of loving patience.  And I can thank God that Montserrat won’t be the last mountaintop from which I enjoy the view!

For more images of Montserrat, see Store http://www.cafepress.com/viewfromthepier/6861225

http://www.bestavros.net/adel/

http://www.abadiamontserrat.net/angles/index.htm

http://www.gencat.cat/turistex_nou/benvinguts/angl2.htm