Back a Decade

We are all, perhaps, Knights of the Cross --
using our pens to inflame passions and right wrongs,
to ennoble the small and prune the deadwood ...
carrying, if not an allegorical cross,
a backpack full of regretful rocks

After retrieving this piece from my archives I explored the side-files here and discovered that 'Ebony' already fills the role described here. I post it anyway so that you know that we all dip bread in the same bowl

Pot- au- feu

My name is Frederick, but no one here remembers. Has it been that long? Brother Philip was the last of those who were here at the monastery when I came. The Abbot and the teachers call me Samuel; when I am in favor that is. Otherwise I am called 'HE.'

"HE experimented with the bread again!"
"HE didn't show up for vespers last night."
"HE doesn?t show proper respect."

For variety I am called "HIM."

"The new Knights met with HIM this morning."
"Justin has decided to leave us, after talking with HIM, of course."
"Won't you talk to HIM about letting the children into the garden?"

How soon they forget. They all have come to me at one time or another during their training. They share their fears, dreams and doubts. I stir their problems into the great cauldron of experience like vegetables in my never ending pot of stew, and usually spoon out some morsel they can savor. I am not special, just old. Each believes their particular problem or anxiety is new and unique. They usually have an answer to their own confusion; it makes my job fairly simple. A little humor, a pondering glance, a little pepper or spice and the dish is done. They always get a bowl of stew and a comforting hand on the shoulder. Sometimes the flavor is a little strong, flavored with a scowl or pointed sarcasm. Often the lumps are hard to swallow or the broth bitter, but they come back for more. It?s the stories I guess; they always get a story. Of course each of them is a story in the making and they all leave a little of their spirit here in this room. That is why it is always warm and cheerful in this cellar, even when the fire is low and the window open. Keeping the pot full but never boiling is not my job, it is my calling.

The novices call me Brother Sam, but I am not a monk. I could be, I guess; or a priest or Knight if I wished. But my work is here in the garden, in the cellar and at the stove. Actually, they call "Gordo" or "Turnip" when they think I can't hear. Sometimes, in quiet moments over a slice of bread or piece of fruit, one will ask what I wish to be called. I always tell them "STIR." This seems appropriate as I usually have a lid in one hand and a gigantic spoon in the other at these moments. Or perhaps I am turning soil in the garden or cultivating tiny shoots in the greenhouse. The name is accepted, but I have never heard it spoken aloud. It is a shared secret amongst the students and a cause for furtive glances and shy smiles whenever an instructor uses the phrase "stir" in the classroom.

It is a secret shared by the hundreds of sandals that have walked these worn granite steps; a secret forgotten when they become a Knight and go forth unto the world. Stir, stir, stir. Little do they know that the name I call myself comes from my heart and my passion. There is a song in this hearth, in touching the earth, in drawing up water from the spring. I can hear it.

I can not sing it. So I stir.