The Monastery (Final Draft)

           The moment I told my family I wanted to become a monk, quiet swept over the house. That was the experience I plainly recollect above all, which was followed by snippets of time.

            My family had observed me doubtfully when they considered the idea of a female monk. I had invested little in the ambition, but a person’s mind works in peculiar ways as it perseveres to accomplish what can’t be done.

            “What kind of schooling will you receive?” my mother had asked.

            “I may not attend any formal school,” I replied, going on to explain that I considered a life away from the mistakes of society refreshing. Finding the way I fit into the world could lead me down the path of helping others, like I’d been taught to do as a child.

            A scholar would have been an acceptable occupation, or even a librarian at a minor school. Even though this lifestyle was implied, I knew somehow it wouldn’t work for me. That sort of life felt like molasses, the trapped, sticky indulgence my friends would consume when we were kids. It was a luxury for all of two minutes, and then the point would fade to grey. In my family, nevertheless, every member had followed a scheduled path of normality.

            Afterwards at home, I was asked if I was certain in my career choice.

            “Why would you want to leave home and your life here?” my brother and sister said.

            My positive affirmation hadn’t been enough to calm my family, who hovered over me like a nest of bees. Instead of seeking to dismember my train of thought when it came to the topic, I was unguarded against hours of persuasive comments opposing my wish.

            “What if you don’t find yourself? What if you get lost traveling parts of the world where none of us could find you again?” asked my father.

            Doubt had begun to form in my mind, as I did hope to return to my family someday after my travels. However, becoming a monk meant leaving any home I lived in, to give up physical dwellings. I didn’t know how to make the anxiety stop that was caused from these repeated conversations, until I decided to leave home.

            Living on the same block, watching the same styles of living pass before me, was a perpetual occurrence for seventeen years of childhood. I have repeatedly circled back to those positive, clear memories. The trees, small homes and busy streets included an intelligent group of people who were confused me. A more confident version of myself might have glanced back to relish the thought of baffling such a logical, educated community, but I wasn’t that person.

            In the spring I could sense dew under my feet when the youngest dog wanted to sniff the world at five in the early morning. I inhaled the scent of herbs my Italian family would pluck from the small garden before I carried the basket into the house. The wafting steam of pasta would slide onto the table, a taste of sauce not soon to be forgotten. Fall would follow but I never got the chance to rake leaves, or smash them as I fell to the ground. The crinkling sound of leaves could calm my thoughts.

            I had been told stories of the origin of my name, how I was named after a beloved artist. My parents often repeated the tales of my grandparents’ adventures in Sicily. They had studied ancient manuscripts and befriended members of the neighboring monastery, and simply sitting listening to the story inspired me to travel there one day. Living a simple life in a monastery appealed greatly to me.

            Gullibly, my family taught me to search for spirits below mushrooms in front of our house. If a circle of mushrooms grew at night, that meant a day to search had been picked for me. A bridge over a running river sit in the woods nearby, a place assembled for trials of strength and dares.

            By the time I was eighteen, I had crossed the bridge so the younger children would no longer be scared by its presence. I had cut down the mushrooms from the ground to feed hungry mice from the forest. I had learned my family’s pasta recipe, then had moved onto perfecting Asian dishes they abhorred. After I offered it up as a new, beneficial spice palette, the town dubbed me as strange, but at least friendly. My friends were convinced that social gatherings were something I enjoyed, but rarely was this the case. I was commonly holed up in my room as a child, reading every book in the town’s library, dreaming of far off places to visit one day. Socialization was healthy, so I gritted my teeth through every conversation. This went on for repeated years, often enough for me to still get a toothache once in a while.  

            My family, to some extent, did understand me. An appreciation for literature, music and art flowed through each member of my family. An appreciation pure enough to disregard fame or wealth that could come with possessing abundant knowledge. My parents had gone to school, and had emphasized to their children that education was important, but the pressure to continue learning was apparent when I became an adult. There was my mother, who could remember every plot point in classic books. My father read in various character voices, leading to a combination of accents when he was tired after a day of work. Although we had our disagreements, my family members shared most of the same opinions as I did. A close Italian family stayed together no matter what.

            When I was growing up, they communicated with me that my kindness must develop. Most children in town dismissed these lessons, but I could sense the desperate, melancholy feelings of the poor with the kindness taught to me by my family. I could spend time recreating a picture of my life, filled with volumes of emotion, yet being able to empathize with others never included homesickness. While being in close proximity to my family, I spent time realizing that traveling elsewhere was my goal, combined with giving back to the people around me.

            Once I left America, I talked with enough people to soon understand how common missing home was. Being empathic made me used to the sensations of severe happiness, sadness and aggression that others could feel on a smaller scale. I fell into the habit of believing this was my weakness.

            Even so, I never was without pride for my family. A happiness had overlapped the fears of telling my wish to others. I had never imagined their reactions, but for the first years of my childhood, I pictured them delighted.

            I hid emergency money deep in my closet where no one else could discover it. I had never thought I’d use my inheritance to run away. The money was passed down to each member of my family, as the parents intended for us to use it later when we became adults. I had saved all of the money I’d received through the years. Figuring out my destination had been the easiest part of my plan. I’d heard stories for years of a monastery in Sicily near where my grandparents were born. I’d be welcomed there and maybe I could inquire whether my wish of becoming a monk was even possible, as women usually were only allowed to become nuns.

            I had traveled to the monastery on the path of emotions alone as they had directed my actions since I was a child. My empathic self was my shadow, a force that never faltered in following around my shape. I was driven by selfish, determined thoughts. I never pictured my family’s expressions the next morning when they woke to hear the front door close, see the front gate open behind me and wonder how I could’ve misunderstood them.

            I began walking. Looking back, I smile slightly for believing that if any person could walk the length of the world, I could. A boat took me across the most unnavigable distances where land was separated by sea. Without seasickness, I could feel the flourishing of the waves below the ship and watch the sky transform. Craggy shorelines, aged statues and vibrant gardens replaced the mismatched houses and outdated eateries of my town.

            When I arrived at the peninsula, I searched for the town where my grandparents lived. By the end of the day, I had spied the towers of the monastery. Sunburnt and fatigued, I had stumbled to the entrance where monks and nuns had greeted me. Once I explained who I was and my wish to lead a modest life, a room and humble dinner were offered to me. After dinner, I had learned I could become a nun in the monastery, but fasting was taken seriously. Not wanting to insult those who had offered me shelter, I had agreed that after seven months of assessment, I would attempt to fast. I had no wish to become a nun, but I couldn’t insult their beliefs.

            The turrets built in a European style held my attention once I first entered the monastery, but now they receive an occasional glance from me. I take the time to observe the workmanship of every piece laid down to accommodate architecture and sculpture. Centuries have been seen by this building, as its purpose has been changed to a mosque and several leaders have watched over its activities. I glance at the book I am writing in. It is a documentation of every plant, animal, insect and piece of artwork I have been uncovering in Sicily. Since three days ago I had begun my fast, seven months had been put into its production, but I haven’t decided what I would do with it. It is too personal to be published and isn’t impressive enough to show to the people working in the monastery.

Beginning the book had given me time to reflect on how I left home, so I’d sent a letter to my family. To my surprise, I had received a letter back from them three days ago. Their letter had made more sense than anything they ever said in person. They took the time to understand the need I had to return to my family’s homeland. If I came home one day after becoming a monk, they wanted to make it up to me with a graduation party for my success. Laughing to myself, I hadn’t had the heart to tell them that monks don’t traditionally have graduation parties.

            Now I travel through the monastery’s enclosed walls, only reaching the wide spaces when I study its construction outdoors.

             Sitting in the open air, vines and shrubbery climb the walls behind me. I do nothing to stop them, and was doing little otherwise, before I spot the apple. Not once, in the seven months I’d stayed at the monastery, had I seen fruit grow from the flora outdoors.

            I eat the fruit before any other thoughts are processed and guilt explodes in my mind where homesickness had not. I have interrupted my vigilant fasting, a schedule I have sworn to obey. I could alone chastise my mistake. No one yet knew I was outside this morning to work on my book.

            I rush up the monastery’s flight of stairs, a task unknown to me. I never neglect to pause and take in the art around me, a sight I appreciate more than anything. I barely feel my feet against the hard stone as curved archways pass over my head.

             Once I reach the tiny room I have been staying in, I march over to my desk with hands shaking. I feel their actions led by humiliation and fury. I drop the book that I have been assembling on the desk. I have only one page left to complete.

            I separate the bindings. They are ripped through as I feel bitterness spread in me. Pages flutter to the ground in my room. I ease away the cover and spine, taking no pride with each action. Every silencing of the words on the book’s pages cripple my legs. All the notes, sketches, descriptions and new discoveries I have made are tarnished. It doesn’t matter anymore, as I could never become a monk. I am fooling myself, pretending that being a nun is my wish. Through being a monk I can assist more people in the world, instead of being a nun who serves only the monks. By the time the sheets are hanging by threads, my arms have grown stronger, but my legs threaten to plummet underneath me. Still I can’t quit from my act, ruining something that no one would miss except me. Now a slow notion of minutes are around me, unable to stop what I am doing. Tears are absent from my face, a face that permanently appears older than eighteen. The pages fall onto the stone, near where the bottom of my brown robe curls at the floor.  

            Even as I stand alone in the room, I see a shadow slant to my left side, directed from the light of the window. The pieces of the book lay discarded on my desk, making me wonder what my frustration has accomplished. I reach for my quill, ink and paper. I begin a letter to my family, asking them to take care of the extra copy of the book I had sent to them. As I set down the paper, I feel my emotions arrange themselves. My legs stretch as I stand up. I’m left with one emotion I can now understand: homesickness.