The refectory, or dining room, is one of the places where those lay people requesting prayers, if allowed inside our hallowed stone walls, would be able to make an assumption that the height of our difficulty may, be, partaking of meals.

I see a wooden plate at my designated place at the table in the refectory, as I sit down for supper. Whaaat no coffee? There is hot water for some herbal tea, looking like wet seaweed in my wooden cup.

Only the crackle of the wood in the fireplace, wood scraping against wood and a monotoned reader could be heard. There is an occasional slurping. 

No worry of criticism for bad manners as I grab a chunk of the loaf of acorn bread passed to me. I hesitate to eat it, acorns are so bitter tasting. But so is this life. Surprisingly, the bread tastes fine. 

I never would have anticipated our eating equipment. I won’t call them utensils because that denotes metal. It was as if they only had the large kitchen cooking forks and spoons for us to use to consume our food. 

I’ve read if we are attracted to, or repulsed by, something, such as a culture, artwork, music, stories, or movies about a particular era, event, or persons, we are possibly connecting to a past-life experience. I think I have found the reason for my aversion to wet wood. 

It gives me the ‘heebie-jeebies’. As a child in the 1950’s, whenever I finished eating a popsicle or fudgesicle, I had to clean the wooden stick off with my teeth while avoiding any touch of the tongue.
 
I wonder about people who scrape their teeth across their metal, stainless steel forks as they eat, shaping ridges on their top teeth. Are they still practicing that same defense in this lifetime, giving me more chills? 

What am I to do with giant wooden spoons and giant wooden forks as tools for eating vegetables, vegetable soups, yummy gruel, or eggs of every sort on slimy slippery wood?

All along, we are being droned at, by one of the senior brothers, reading, from none other than, ‘The Rule of St. Benedict’. 

This is one of Benedict’s methods to dull the senses, never to have a private moment. The food isn’t anything we’d want to savor anyway, in case that was one of his aims.  

I use the time to study who everyone is and who they might have been reincarnated as, in the 20th. century. I think I have figured a few out. 

My speculating is startled into reality when I feel a familiar tapping on my shoulder. That’s the way Cordelia always brings me back from my mental wanderings. It made me miss her more.  

It is Brother Stephen on his knees. When I look into his bright alert eyes, I know, through my inner dowsing, recognizing his soul, he would eventually be reborn into the 19th century in the United States as a girl named Cordelia, who would become my dear friend. 

I miss her so much.

I know I’ll soon be going from brother to brother, just as he is, in a most humiliating posture, kneeling, whispering, ‘Please Brother, may I have some food?’.

A weird feeling washes over, surging through me, embarrassed for Stephen and extremely humiliated and irritated, being asked for food. I guess this is just one more act of penance. 

I’m obviously not supposed to be enjoying my meal anyway. Heaven forbid that happen. I guess we were to take sustenance, those nights, from ‘shame soup’.    

When the reading of the section of The Rule of Benedict is completed, there is absolute silence, except for the knocking of wooden forks or wooden spoons against wooden plates or bowls. Ewww. Wet wood. 

When I, in the past, or should I say, ‘in the future’ have offered to wash friends’ dishes, I didn’t realize there was a surprise waiting for me. 

Dipping into the dishpan, my unanticipating fingers made contact with several cooking spoons made of wood. 

My teeth would grind together with the similar reaction people have to fingernails on a chalkboard.  

Although, I’m uncertain about how many are able to relate to that analogy. I hope I never have to do dishes in this here and now, monastery. It just might put me over the edge. 

*******

After an anticipated truly disgusting supper, I was spared from wet- wood-handling duty.  Still, in penance, I had to high-tail it to stand in preparation for the evening prayer, Vespers.  

As you can see, there weren’t any extras for a little sweet treat. This is why I earlier spoke of how we would have to sneak stuff without getting caught. 

We just have to make sure, we draw no closer, than approximately five feet, from Brother Richard, lest he smell sweetness on our breath or detect crumbs on our rosy cheeks.

Vespers are to quiet us down for the night. I don’t know how much quieter we can be without becoming comatose. We chant some psalms from a prayer book. The material does not seem to have any substance. 

It’s just more about the fighting among the Babylonians and whomever they are battling in said psalm. Barring the subject matter, the chanting is beautiful.  

I’m not sure when we’ll hit the sack…er…board. I will need to be at the entrance to the chapel for the 3 am Lauds. This is not showing much sleep in my future. 

It turns out, the darkened room you witnessed me ‘landing in’, must have been a guest room of some sort, which explains why there was no candle. None of us sleep in a single room like that.

Rather, we all sleep in one large room, where each of us is doled out, a woolen blanket, some lighter-weight cover, and a pillow on a mat-covered board, identical to the one I banged into, while searching the original room.

In an effort to prevent temptations, we must each sleep in our own bed, with a senior monk between any of us, from the same set. 

Furthermore, there is someone who supervises our sleeping, as we lie there clothed, girded with belts or chords. If any have swords, they leave them at the door. 

I guess the powers-that-be are afraid there might be fights.  ‘No swords or knives in bed’, might save some of us from accidentally running ourselves through with our own sword or knife. That would be a cutting irony.

A lamp burns the entire night ‘til morning’s light. We are to be at the ready for any need to get up for the prayer hours I’ve told you about.

I’m uncertain if we will be allowed to return to our bed after 3 am Lauds. I suspect we will just meditate, which is believed to be more restful than R.E.M. sleep.

Another hop-skip-and a jump and I will be expected to be an informal undesignated greeter at  Prime at 6 am. 

 Lastly, I am to arrive one hour early for 9 am prayer, serving my penance, will be nearing its completion. Just a few hours away. I can almost taste freedom. 

I promise, I will never be late for prayer, ever.