The Divine Spirit is a spirit of holiness. It is He who creates the Holy Church. He does not make it free from every stain, or make its members–even its heads–impeccable, but sets within it a source of sanctity. Just as a river runs swiftly at the middle and sleeps sluggishly at its banks or in its backwaters, so it is with the stream of sanctity in the church; and each of us, with the aid of God, may choose the pace that he wills. The essential thing is to reach these Waters.

Come, ye men, sinners in Adam, by yourselves always exposed to the danger of sin, guilt always to some degree, pitifully weak–come! Regeneration awaits you here, and with it strength and protection. –Father Sertillanges ‘What Jesus Saw from the Cross’

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“Do not fear what may happen tomorrow. The same loving Father who cares for you today will care for you tomorrow and every day. Either he will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then and put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginings.”  St Francis de Sales

The Carthusian life fits nicely.  The austere nature perceived exist, yet within there is an ease I did not anticipate.  There is a binder provided in the cell that outlines Carthusian life for a retreatant spending time at the monastery.  Words guiding a retreatant toward prayer in one’s cell demonstrates the nature of the ease with which an austere life of solitude and silence is presented.  In fact, a simple rule for you when you’re in Church would be to simply follow the monks’ postures.  When you’re in your cell, and to simplify matters for you, you may either kneel, stand, or incline on the mesirecord as your piety dictates.  Later on, when you become a postulant, God willing, the proper postures will be taught to you. Meanwhile, do what you can with calmness, peace, and recollection.  If your counting, that is three times a form of the word simple is used.  The novice master, an oriental priest, embodies the humble unpretentious manner employed toward a cloistered life centering upon prayer, solitude, and silence, obedient within the body of the Church.  His friendly disposition, emanating from a peaceful joyful personality, is unassuming in conversation.  Father is open, interested, and interesting.  He came alive when telling me the history of the Carthusian monastery in Vermont, embolden by a funny story involving the founder’s wife.  The founder was a doctor, although Father also spoke of him as a chemical engineer receiving important patens involving the nylon industry, as well as an important figure in designing atomic bombs.  He was a well-connected man with the United States department of defense.  A New Yorker, also living in California for a period, the founder decided to seek out large portions of land to purchase.  He settled upon a mountain in Vermont, the mountain he would leave to the Carthusian order, after passing away with no children.  Upon my arrival, I was led up the mountain by a man, a visitor to the monastery from Toronto, brother to the procurator.  The man led me to a mountain top mansion, strange in regard that the expensive furniture dated itself from the fifties or sixties.  The empty mansion was immaculate in cleanliness and good taste, obviously unoccupied for years.  In one sitting room, two enormous painted portraits individually displayed the husband and wife lording over the home, beautiful people of charm and distinction from years gone by.  I was left alone in the home, wandering out to an extensive wooden patio.  The nighttime view from the balcony was stunning.  There beneath me was the descent of the mountain, a valley and several rises leading to neighboring mounts.  I felt the area was desolate, yet now I saw the lights of hundreds of homes.  The surrounding population was much denser than imagined.  It was breathtaking.  I could only imagine how much the homeowners treasured their precious mountaintop view. Father explained how the founder used military connections to have a hydro damn constructed on the mountain, the monastery currently producing so much electricity it can sell some back to the surrounding community.  An interesting side note, a telling of the story of humanity, the founder is considered an invading outsider by much of the community.  He was regarded with disdain by many of the locals for coming in and buying out over seven thousand acres of prime property, offering amounts to poorer families who could not refuse his high offers.  He ended up owning the entire mountain.  Father, the novice master, told the story he found so amusing regarding the founder’s wife.  The woman was sitting on her balcony at night, watching over the community, when suddenly the lights for the homes began turning off one at a time, until eventually all the lights for the homes where silent.  During the time of the Cold War, the woman feared a Russian airstrike took out the electricity, convincing herself a Russian attack upon the United States had ensued.  It was one of the factors leading her husband to build his own massive generator.  Of course, there was no Russian attack.  Father found the story hilarious.  I found his inability to withhold his eruption of laughter hilarious.  He also made me laugh when telling me one of the workers, one of the four locals employed by the monastery to look over the property and hydro-damn, was off for the week deer hunting in Maine.  He told me how popular deer hunting was for the locals in Vermont.  I told him I understood as I stopped at nearby roadside woodcarving facility, an establishment that specialized in huge tree trunk chainsaw wood carvings of bears, deer, raccoons, and other such statues; there I heard a group of local men talking excitedly about deer season while dressed in hunting fatigues.  Father explained they determined there would be no hunting on their property since they often went for walks, plus the concern of accidents occurring.  He said the monks do not hunt because he does not think it would look right for the monks to be carrying around guns looking to shot animals.  His remark was so earnest and straightforward it aroused an internal chuckle and the words, ‘I think I see what you mean’.  He told how smart he thinks deer are because the monastery property is densely populated by deer during the hunting season.  Driving up the mountain, I remarked I witnessed three groups of deer.  Father and I held our conversation in my designated cell, warmed by a fire in the cell’s wood burner.  The wood burner has graced my visit with warmth and charm.  Centered in the room, the wood burner brings distinction to the Carthusian life.  Outside my cell, is a storage area, an entrance hall filled with stacked lumber.  The morning of my first waking I was startled to find inches of snow.  Winter was upon me and now God graced a wood burning stove.  I find it such a pleasure to work the wood burner, placing the fire-starting bark and paper first, then kindling, and finally larger pieces or birch wood.  At first, I was overstuffing the wood-burner, creating such immense heat I was forced to open my window and let the cold air in.  I have found a delicate balance, placing one piece of lumber at a time, allowing the stove to simmer by utilizing the damper, while also opening the windows when the heat becomes too much.  The wood burner reaches temperatures close to four hundred degrees thus overheating is a concern.  The rest of the monastery is quite cold, including the Church.  Concrete in construction, the walls become frigid—an austere strength and isolation exist within the confines of the monastery.  During prayers and Mass, coldness dominates.  Sunday midnight prayer, Matins for Monday, commenced for nearly three hours honoring the Presentation of Mary.  Profound in experience, it proved also suffering as the cold bore down heavy with the passing of hours.  I found myself longing for a return to the warmth of my cell, to the warmth of solitude and my wood-burner.  It is close to eight o’clock and time for sleep.

The discovery of mediocrity first in others and then in oneself is a step towards an even more disconcerting discovery. Holiness, perfection and virtue — all these qualities which, without realizing it, we believed to be reflections of the Absolute within ourselves — begin to vanish. Everything which tends to make the ego a point of reference or an autonomous centre must disappear in order to conform with the resurrected Christ who is but pure relation to the Father. Even his humanity is now endowed with divine names. All created riches have been stripped away in order to be nothing but pure relation.  —Carthusians 

“Praised be the Lord,” said the priest and placed the candlestick on the table. Goldmund murmured the response, staring straight ahead.

The priest said nothing. He waited and said nothing, until Goldmund grew restless and searchingly raised his eyes to the man in front of him.

This man, he now saw to his confusion, was not only wearing the habit of the fathers of Mariabronn, he also wore the insignia of the office of Abbot.

And now he looked into the Abbot’s face. It was a bony face, firmly, clearly cut, with very thin lips. It was a face he knew. As though spellbound, Goldmund looked into this face that seemed completely formed by mind and will. With unsteady hand he reached for the candlestick, lifted it and held it closer to the stranger, to see his eyes. He saw them and the candlestick shook in his hand as he put it back on the table.

“Narcissus!” he whispered almost inaudibly. The cellar began to spin around him.

“Yes, Goldmund, I used to be Narcissus, but I abandoned that name a long time ago; you’ve probably forgotten. Since the day I took the vows, my name has been John.”

Goldmund was shaken to the roots of his being. The whole world had changed, and the sudden collapse of his superhuman effort threatened to choke him. He trembled; dizziness made his head feel like an empty bladder; his stomach contracted. Behind his eyes something burned like scalding sobs. He longed to sink into himself, to dissolve in tears, to faint.

But a warning rose from the depths of the memories of his youth, the memories that the sight of Narcissus had conjured up: once, as a boy, he had cried, had let himself go in front of this beautiful, strict face, these dark omniscient eyes. He could never do that again. Like a ghost, Narcissus had reappeared at the strangest moment of his life, probably to save his life—and now he was about to break into sobs in front of him again, or faint? No, no, no. He controlled himself. He subdued his heart, forced his stomach to be calm, willed the dizziness out of his head. He could not show any weakness now.

In an artificially controlled voice, he managed to say: “You must permit me to go on calling you Narcissus.”

“Do, my friend. And don’t you want to shake my hand?”

Again Goldmund dominated himself. With a boyishly stubborn, slightly ironic tone, like the one he had occasionally taken in his student days, he forced out an answer.

“Forgive me, Narcissus,” he said coldly and a trifle blasé. “I see that you have become Abbot. But I’m still a vagrant. And besides, our conversation, as much as I desire it, won’t unfortunately last very long. Because, Narcissus, I’ve been sentenced to the gallows, and in an hour, or sooner, I’ll probably be hanged. I say this only to clarify the situation for you.”

Narcissus’s expression did not change. He was much amused by the boyish boasting streak in his friend’s attitude and at the same time touched. But he understood and keenly appreciated the pride that kept Goldmund from collapsing tearfully against his chest. He, too, had imagined their reunion differently, but he had no objection whatsoever to this little comedy. Goldmund could not have charmed his way back into his heart any faster.

“Well yes,” he said, with the same pretended casualness. “But I can reassure you about the gallows. You’ve been pardoned. I have been sent to tell you that, and to take you away with me. Because you cannot remain in this city. So we’ll have plenty of time to chat with each other. Now will you shake my hand?”

Hermann Hesse ‘Narcissus and Goldmund’ Chapter 17.