Mea Culpa

My understanding of the Abbey changes daily and I am now debased of the foolish notion of ease and perfection. Yesterday and today have been terrible days for me. My faults, sins, shortcomings, whatever I or anyone else choose to call them, have tumbled down on me like pots and pans from an overfull cupboard.

Writing ideas have appeared in tangled masses and have refused to unsnarl no matter how much I work on them. The beautiful manuscript page, so clear in my mind, lies in physical ruins, due to impatience and lack of focus. And the worst of it, my cell window is once again small, high and unreachable. It still lets in the light, but denies me the beautiful view of the sea that was mine for so short a time.

Two nights ago, after having shared the beauty of a lingering sunset with Oreo and Tookey, I rested in my cell content to read and eager to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for the joys and miracles of the week. Before bed, I climbed the chair one more time, leaned my elbows on the sill and took deep breaths of the cool salty air. An inky blue sky above me was sprinkled with stars and the full moon laid a milky white path on the calm sea. I did not think anything could be more beautiful.

The following morning I arose early, determined to hurry through work in order to make my way down to the lovely beach just visible beneath me. Oreo left, Tookey soon flew off, and envious of their freedom, I found myself unable to concentrate on my journal. Curious about the new members of the Abbey, I wondered if I might meet one or two of them on the beach. A longing for the ocean convinced me that my promise to write and draw every day was unrealistic.

Still the promise had been made, so I took out my manuscript page and began to ink over the sketched letters. In my hurried state a slight imperfection blossomed into a major mistake when I tried to thicken a line I'd drawn too thin. Like a haircut gone awry, each attempt I made to repair one part made the rest look out of synch.

Finally I gave up; there was no way to salvage the page. Disgusted with myself for choosing a project so far beyond my limited ability, I decided to abandon the entire idea and try for something simpler. But not right then. The day had treated me cruelly, the Abbey had disappointed me, and the talent of the other artists had robbed me of my self-confidence.

I didn't bother putting my drawing things away, just stomped out, leaving the room a mess and made my way down the long row of doors until I came to the one leading down to the sea. It had opened so easily the day before, but this time it wouldn't budge and I thought it had been locked again. I tugged and pulled, stubborn and determined to open it and get my reward for the abominable way I'd been treated.

I nearly fell over backwards when it finally let go. Inside, the stairwell seemed darker than the last time and colder. I wished Oreo had come with me. I remembered the unpleasant feel of the damp walls from before but, without a railing to guide me, I had to hold on to something as I descended the uneven stone steps which were slick with moss and slime.

I started counting them after about two ordinary flights, they seemed to have no end, and the way never got brighter or warmer. I arrived at the bottom at eighty-seven and found myself in a bleak cave with crabs scrabbling about my feet and the stink of rotting sea weed and dead fish in my nostrils. The ocean was gray and as angry as the black clouds that littered the sky. A cold wind was whipping up the waves and, with an ungodly screech, a gull flew into the cave. I put up my arms to protect myself from the huge wings as they came straight toward my face, then turned and fled back up the stairs slipping and sliding all the way.

Shaking with fear and cold, I slammed the horrible door behind me and ran to my room where light poured in as bright and sunny as when I had left but from a small, high, unreachable window.

It was too much. I couldn't stay alone in my cell, not then. My head pounded as I headed to the garden and I offered a quick prayer of thanksgiving when I found it in the same spot, bathed in sunlight, sparrows twittering in the quince trees, a cluster of sulphur butterflies fluttering over a bed of marigolds.

I sat down wearily on one of the benches and noticed how filthy my brown robe was; there was a tear near the hem, and my shinbone was aching. I must have fallen coming up the steps and not even been aware of it. At last, I took a deep breath to calm and center myself and noticed an unpleasant odor coming from the plant nearest me. The bluish-green leaves were attractive, but they were definitely the source of the smell. "Rue," the marker read, "often called the herb of grace or the herb of repentance."

It sank in after a bit and I slowly realized I'd been the cause of everything that had befallen me. I listed all the faults I'd been guilty of: impatience, lack of focus, envy, self-pity, willingness to go back on a promise, demanding instant gratification, comparing myself to others, stubbornness, anger, lack of perseverance and, perhaps worst of all, a lack of gratitude for the gift of my own talent.

Seeking to quiet my troubled spirit, I took out my Bible, turned to Psalm 94 and read, "When I said, 'My feet slippeth;' thy mercy held me up. In the multitude of my thoughts within me, Thy comforts delight my soul."