“…I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.” — Basho
The temple bell stops
but I still hear the sound
coming out of the flowers
–Basho
I am thinking about bells and time — about the search for the intersection between time and timelessness. In both the west and the east, bells are an ancient call to prayer and meditation. If I accept this sound as a time to stop doing (or thinking) and listen, then the part that is operating in the to-do list of time pauses and can sense another kind of time. This shift can also happen when making or writing is a daily practice. Let me give you an example. When I show up in my studio not because I have a great idea, or because I feel like it, but because it is time — the bell is ringing — eventually something does happen. The muse wants to know that I am serious, that I will show up in spite of my sense of doubt and failure and impatience. I take refuge in this practice, entering another kind of time. I take refuge in the part of us all that is not changed by time, in the part that remains intact in spite of all the troubles. I take refuge in the part of each of us that has something to offer, and still trusts in this world.
Leisure is not the privilege of those who have time. It is the virtue of those who give each thing they do the time it deserves. — Br. David Stendhl-Rast
In Europe the bells are still a part of the culture, the rhythm of the day. I had my first profound experience of bells when I was teaching at a monastery in Germany some years ago. It was the end of a week-long retreat and we were standing in a circle of silence. Out of this wordless moment and completion of our class, the Angelus bells began ringing. The bells resounded through the open windows of our classroom chapel on the top of the ancient monastery. We were all washed over, baptized by sound, and after the last tone had trailed off, burst into spontaneous laughter.
I am not Catholic, but I am grateful for the privilege of being able to retreat at St Meinrad Archabbey, where I teach each spring. I am spellbound by the sound of real bells rung with real hands — — something that is still a part of monastic life. When I asked my friend Brother Martin about St. Meinrad’s bells, he told me stories about when he was a novice tasked with ringing the bells. To ring the large bell, you jump to grab the rope, which then lifts you about six feet in the air, until you come down again — whoosh! Brother Martin was just learning, and he had been instructed that it took a lot of strength to ring the bells. On his first attempt he yanked so hard that the entire fifty yards of rope came tumbling down. Later, the largest bell cracked, and was sent all the way across the ocean to Holland by ship to get re-cast in bronze. This bell is so huge that one wall of the tower had to be removed to restore it to its proper place. The restoration process took one year, and is the job of the custos, the custodian of the bells, and every thing in the church.
The custodian of the bells! How lovely that such a person exists. Our deepest pattern, the one of departure and return, is sounded in bells: the exuberance of bells pealing: beginnings, birth, announcements, weddings — and the grief of bells tolling: endings, loss and death.
Some of you may know this story from when I was teaching in Italy:
It was late morning when I went to Orvieto for the first time. This is a time of day when the small Umbrian towns are bustling, so I was puzzled when almost all the shops were closed. I found one that was still open, and walked inside to question the owner. She explained in Italian that a young man, a teenager, who had designed all the beautiful T-shirts in the shop next door, had died. When I left, she too closed her shop.
Our class continued walking up the hillside to see Orvieto’s magnificent fourteenth century cathedral, famous for the facade of black and white stone, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. We proceeded along cobblestone streets to the top of the hill, and stood at the foot of the broad, wide steps, but did not go up the stairs to the giant bronze doors of the Duomo. All was silent — the funeral inside had begun. Around us in the piazzo were the closed cafes and shops with their vacant street-side chairs and tables, so we sat in the silence and waited.
After some time, the cathedral doors opened and people poured out. The silence was deep with grief as six young men carried the black coffin down the long cathedral steps. There were no words — only the sound of the coffin-bearers’ footfalls making a slow punctuated rhythm and muffled sobs from men, women and children. A silent sea of figures in black flowed down the steps. The coffin proceeded slowly. When they reached the shiny black hearse at the bottom of the stairs, they opened the back and slid the casket in. When they slammed the door shut, the bright red roses on the coffin pressed crimson against glass.
At that moment — the slamming of the rear door, and the image of red roses — at that moment, out of the hush came, as if from another place, a spontaneous, robust burst of applause. AlI at once every single person was clapping vigorously. All at once the the air was filled with sound. I have never seen or felt anything like this. I found myself joining the applause that seemed a kind of urgent prayer or invocation. It is as if they were saying, with all their hearts — to the family, to the lost child, to each other — we are with you, we are with you, we are with you.
And then the bells began ringing.
What takes you outside time? I’d love to hear from you.
