Crossing the Hudson River, nearing Massachusetts, an awareness settled that my pilgrimage to the Maronite Monastery was blessed. God is good and all giving. The Spanish, or more proper Castiliano, audio lessons went well. I am positive that in six months my Spanish, along with family members, will establish a sound foundation for exploring the country of my mother’s birth, the homeland of the saints Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross, Peter of Alcantara, Ignatius of Loyola, and Alphonsus Rodriquez. The monastery guesthouse had a wonderful coffee table book displaying photo images from Marian shrines throughout Europe. Our Lady of Pillar in Zaragoza was provided with delightful coverage. Now, relaxing within downtime, I recognize the Holy Trinity Monastery profound in practice. It is a treasure. The Eucharist truly centers the community, providing a presence to the charming small community nestled in the backwoods of the east coast. The evening service, the first I attended, distinguished the order as mature, spiritual advancement easily expressing itself. The church possesses remarkable ‘ambiente’, a Spanish term supposedly not translatable with its meaning of a profound presence, a quaintness, comfort, and overall perfection of a locale regarding hospitality. I have determined I will start to express myself in Spanish while writing. The Maronite Monastery, honoring Saint Sharbel extensively, host the Eucharist respectfully. I have purchased the current and founding abbot’s autobiography ‘A calling’. I look forward to reading his story, the story of an Irishman who is drawn to the Maronite faith, leaving a vocation as a Trappist monk in order to found a Maronite Monastery.  If you follow the link, notice the header photo of the monastery, the dog in the forefront.  He is an Irish Setter ubiquitous in presence.  I must mention a sublime moment during the evening prayers, when the monks, adorned in black robes, concluded their evening prayers with a focus upon Mary. A spotlight was placed upon an Our Lady of Guadalupe painting as a Marian hymn began. After the hymn, or maybe during, exact details elude, one of the monks moving ponderously, removed the Our Lady of Guadalupe painting, holding it with both hands, extending it toward the monks, making a slow deliberate sign of the cross with the image of Mary. The offering of a blessing with the Mary painting proved gracefully soothing. I found the effort marvelous. The final thirty miles of my drive to the monastery traversed away from main highways, snaking me through pine forest, marshland, and hills desiring to be mountains. Road signs warned of the danger of moose, yet none were observed. I stopped a couple miles from the monastery in order to stretch and change shirts, noticing while outside my rental car the oddest herd of goats being farmed at the crossing of two rural roads. Just before the monastery, I was forced to sit and observe a cement truck being pulled from a snow embankment by a large tow truck. A local police officer was friendly in greeting. I chuckled during the event as the last town I passed through, Granby, I witnessed the aftermath of another strange traffic incident as a driver managed to put his car almost vertical by missing a left hand turn. Somehow, the old man plowed through a rock garden, standing his car up on large monumental boulders.  I have met a man from Ohio, living a large portion of his life in Cleveland.  An interesting man, he presents a spiritual approach based upon psychological healing, recommending my reading of the book ‘Healing the Eight Stages of Life’.  A man in a later stage of life, he pursues the call to live the life of a hermit, recommending that I seriously consider life as a hermit.  .