Previously: We’ve been listening to a story told by Madeline who has been vortexed into the 16th century as Samuel. In the metaphorical story, we learned about a man who wore a mask to cover his meanness, so he’d be accepted by the town folk. Madeline/Samuel is likening it to the new situation about a caring brother named Abraham who has been declared, an imposter by Abbot Richard.  

We left off in the story, with someone recognizing the person of interest, by his shoes. The revealer was urging the towns folk to remove the mask from the deceptor’s face. The mask was believed to have been concealing the face of a very mean man. We shall see. Below, are the last two lines of the story Madeline/Samuel is telling us. Then we hear more reflection from Samuel/Madeline about Abraham’s behavior and intentions:

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‘There were great gasps from men, women, and even children when the mask, of the town resident who had been accused of deception, was ripped from his face.

Beneath the mask was the face of a kind man. He had pretended so hard for so long to be a gentle person, he had become one.’

Maybe that is the case with Abraham. He helped so many of us. His kindness and self-giving couldn’t all be for pretense, not with us, his brothers. Was nothing of what he said and did, sincere? I catch bemused expressions on my brothers’ faces. I wish I could help them sort this out. 

Abraham would be able to help. He could take each of us aside, as he did so many times, working with us to sort out bewildering situations in our interactions with others and especially regarding run-ins with Prior Richard. If given a chance, Abraham would be able to explain himself. Surely, there must be some logic behind his actions.

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I sigh deeply. That is what happens, isn’t it? When we have a solid belief about something or someone, and it is shattered, we begin to feel like broken pottery. We pick up the shards, attempting to glue the jigsaw puzzle of our life back together. 

For some, it holds, but for the fragile, the recovery is never firm. I send healing on all levels for those who need it and will receive it, including Abraham. 

I need to quiet the buzzing, chainsawing my brain, causing an excruciating ache, and head for the chapel.

******

Amidst the melange of acrid body odor, lovely fragrances of the flowers, Francis tenderly grew and Joseph caringly placed, and sweet incense, I meditate, trying to soothe my savage soul.

What is that? I hear what indicates to me, I’ve found heaven. This is not the kind, religious people speak of nor has it the sexual connotation nor is it a dietary reference. This is different. Its origin is something comfortingly familiar.

One favorable thing Benedict promoted in our way of life was for anyone who had a skill or talent to foster it for the sake of the community. My talent is teaching the brothers how to milk our three Jersey-bred cows. Some of the brothers had a sweet talent that they must have continued from one lifetime to another.

Cheating, peeking through my eyelid slits, I verify the information my auditory senses are feeding me. At first, I just see fingers plucking strings, not of steel, but of what I know is called thin catgut. I don’t really know all the gross details. I guess they made it from something from animals.     

The angelic pluckers each hold a thin flat box with a good-sized hole cut in it, not as pretty as in the 21st century. 

Chords are being played on harps. Not by just one brother, but by five. I memorize who they are, so I can study them later. There is dear sweet  Cordelia, as Stephen and Evelyn, as James.  Which one is Caren, or Karin? Is that Mary Jo and Cyndy playing too? I cannot see their hooded faces, but I know they are there.

I am reminded of how, in the 21st century, these friends are taking lessons to be harp therapists. When certified, they will go into hospitals, homes, and nursing homes to play a specific set of chords to heal the sick and suffering.

We were, before this jolt of changing centuries, accompanying them as companions  while they took their harp lessons.  We were excited to be invited into the instruction area, with the opportunity to observe a fascinating demonstration of the effects of certain chords. We learned, when several notes are plucked at the same time, creating a chord, they have a different emotional, physical, or spiritual impact upon us.

It matters not to me, what chords they play on the 16th century harps. Every stroke of the string is healing. I no longer feel as isolated. I find myself studying their eyes, ‘the windows to the soul’.  

It reminds me of a poem from high school about how someone recognized a person familiar to them from the Titanic, by looking into their eyes, under the brim of a hat, seeing waves crashing, people screaming and water overtaking last gasps for air.

This feels peculiar. Unless we’ve been in other past lives together, and we probably have, I am, in the 16th century, looking to the future, with memories of experiences with these friends, not yet forged.