Strange what triggers the flood of experiential memories—as if one were transported in time so as to be continuous with the events remembered.
Fr. Paisios arranged for me to go to Lakkoskiti for a couple days, for which I am immeasurably grateful. I was picked up by Vasile at Agiou Pavlou (which is about a 40-minute walk from Nea Skiti). I didn’t know who was picking me up, and he didn’t know who he was fetching. He knows more English than I know Romanian, but not much. He kept saying “American?” To which I would reply, “Da. Lakkoskiti?” To which he would reply, “Da. American?” After a while, he signaled, with not much confidence, for me to get into his black pick up. He entered also, put his hands on the wheel and sat there in silence, clearly perplexed. Obviously he knew he was supposed to pick up an American, and obviously, I was not whom he expected. Finally, and thankfully, he pulled out his phone to call Fr. Ștefan in hopes for some clarity. I don’t know much, but I was elated to hear the resonating voice emanating from Vasile’s phone, “Bine! Bine! Bine!” My heart was filled with joy at hearing the starets’ voice, and all the more because of the enthusiasm he expressed. Humbling.
And Vasile, probably several years my elder, was set at ease, and happily began the 35-minute journey over the central ridge of this holy peninsula. Once we were over the ridge, descending toward Lakkoskiti, I was filled with familiar sights, including my first viewing on this trip of the Holy Mountain itself (the peak is not visible from Nea Skiti, and it was mostly in the clouds when I arrived via ferry).
And closer up:
I traversed these roads countless times four years ago, and seeing them again brought forth a torrent of affectionate emotions, feelings that photos can’t capture. The view looking down on the Skete as you descend the final switchbacks:
And a little closer up:
What joy! Fr. Ștefan is still the superior, of course, and looks to me to have gotten younger and stronger, maintaining the same infectious joy. Frs. David and Ioan still oversee their vestment making and embroidery work. Fr. Paisie, is now, along with the above three, the fourth priest in the community. He continues to work on translations of Greek texts into Romanian. Other monks continue in their previous work making incense, tailoring, cooking, etc.
A tour ensued, especially of the new church which was just being started four years ago. They will consecrate it on July 12th, dedicated to St. Paisios the Athonite. The view of the Altar:
The same new structure also contains several rooms for their embroidery, sewing and tailoring, and making incense. Amazing work they do. Their largest embroidery machine:
Brother John (Frate Ioan, about whom the final post of my 2015 trip was written, here) is now Rasof Ioasaf. Bucura! Sadly I was unable to see him as he is terribly ill. Please pray for him.
Two are no longer here: George, who has Michigan roots, has gone to a hermitage and been tonsured Monk Germenos. And Bogdan, the older man I wrote about here still visits but has had health problems and is not able to stay for long periods.
Several new faces are here, totaling 12 in all. The most recent among them is Vasile, a kind and gentle man, who—after his initial hesitancy—treated me with tender honor. More humbling.
After we had finished catching up, Fr. Paisie took me to my room. Some of you will recall that on my previous visit I was placed in the infirmary for two weeks, ostensively because that was the only room they had, but the metaphor was not lost on me—nor on them. No longer the infirmary; now the protocol! My own room with a comfortable bed, a desk, and its own bathroom and shower! Wow! And this is Athos? I feel like royalty.
All of this, and much more, was wonderful, but it was not until I sat down at the lunch table and saw the customary bowls of red onions, garlic cloves, and lemons that time stopped, or rather, was transformed. It’s mystical, I suppose, in the way Orthodox like to use that word. Transcending time, language and conception, one simply experiences the ‘Today’ of salvation. Temporality disintegrates in the Face of eternity, and incomprehensible love defies discursive recollection. The existential dissolves the rational, and one is left with the simple stillness of Presence.
Strange it is, what God can do with a couple pungent root vegetables and a yellow fruit.
