This morning, Tuesday, I'm sitting under a shade tree on a bench outside the gates of Philotheou with this view:
On the map, Philotheou is here:
On Sumday afternoon I left Prodromou and returned to Lakkou for a night to gather up belongings and say my goodbyes. I was hoping for an early start on Monday morning to walk to Philotheou before the heat of the day, but I didn't leave until 11, having taken over three hours to say good bye. That included a little tour of their workshops which I had been hoping for. One highlight was seeing their (largest) embroidery machine, easily 25 feet long. Here is about 2/3 of it.
They produce beautiful vestments here.
Fr. Stefan spoke with me through a translator for about 20 minutes before I left. He told me to live the liturgy and then everything else will fall in place. He gave me much from his own experience and from the holy fathers that amplified this theme, but this is kernel of the life giving word he offered me.
I leave Lakkou for the last time on this trip with that beautiful blend of joy and sadness. Just how life should be.
The trip to Philotheou is about 17km or so, over/around three ridges. As you can tell from the maps, I'm walking away from the mountain itself and thus, while still plenty hilly, it gradually becomes less steep and more rolling (at least on this side of the peninsula). For last couple kilometers before Karakalou (a monastery a few kilometers before Philotheou), which I wanted to visit on my way, I was picked up by a monk named Theologos (who thus shares my heavenly patron). He said put on your zone (seat belt) because I'm in a hurry. I was surprised because I haven't noticed anyone hurrying around here, and also because the rutty and rock-infested dirt roads do not lend themselves to speed. My experience until now was that people just meander along their way, letting their destination be patient. Theologos had a rather different approach. The roads were not a problem simply because for most of the trip we were airborne. Fortunately we would usually contact ground shortly before the curves so we could make the turns and then take flight again. I'm sure my entire life passed before my eyes on several occasions. Theologos seemed to be having the time of his life--not a care in the world.
The experience reminded me of some words from Abbot Athanasie from Prodromou: in the context of all the work they had done on the facilities there over the last few decades, and all the work there still is to do, he said that we can't let physical labor become more important that spiritual labor; when we work on physical things, we should labor like we'll live for a thousand years, but when we work on spiritual things, we should labor like we will die tomorrow. I'm grateful to Theologos for reminding me so vividly and experiencially of this beautiful truth.
Philotheou has stunningly beautiful iconography. I wish I could just sit in the church, or in the trapeza where the fescos are breathtaking, for hours on end. The two meals I ate here, I ate quickly (even by monastic standards) so that I could spend time looking at the iconography. Sadly, in my view, these two places are locked when not in use so viewing time is limited.
I had a delightful experience last evening in Compline. During the Akathist to the Mother of God, an elderly monk next to me decided to teach me when, and how, to bow. He never spoke a word, but would motion with his hand and exaggerate his own actions so I would get the idea, exactly the way a parent would teach a young child. This went on for some time, giving yet more evidence that I'm a slow learner. As time went by I stopped noticing his movements and started to notice his face. I had unconsciously assumed that he was displeased with me--"another dumb American", I assumed he thought. But his face showed no displeasure at all, no sternness; nor was there permissiveness as if anything goes. No frowns and no smiles. I obviously couldn't stare at him, in the very darkened church where his facial features were only illumined from nearby candlelight. But I was drawn to the mystery in this old monk's worn face--and then it was clear to me: gentleness. There was nothing but unhurried, relaxed gentleness in his face. Not the slightest bit of tension could be found in him. He wasn't teaching me how to bow, but how bowing in worship (proskenesis) dissolves every worry, every care, every fear, every evaluation, every criticism, every judgement. The place where patience is no longer a struggle but a way of being--the ground of love.
When I entered the church for the morning services today, I recognized those features in other faces, ones that are positioned immediately before my assigned seat:
That old monk was becoming an icon, and he was teaching me how to become one too.
