2015

“Richie, can you do me a favour?”

“Of course sweetheart, what is it?”

“When you’ve got time, could you look at my uncle’s manuscript? It’s 200 pages long and handwritten. He died last year and it never got published. It’s his life’s work and it would be such a shame for it to be just left in a box in the attic, never being read and eventually end up being thrown into landfill. It’s a difficult read. I can’t do it, I don’t have the time or the knowledge and I don’t really understand it. I loved him dearly and don’t want to throw away his legacy, his passion, his memory…you’re a writer, you’re the only person I know who could make something of it…”

Beth handed me a large, weighty, padded envelope. I pulled out the contents and saw the beautiful, immaculate script of the title page: Monastic Wanderings by Lionel A. Teear.

“Ok, leave it with me, looks interesting…”

Six months went by, the manuscript remained unread in its envelope, sitting amidst a stack of other stuff in my chaotic pending tray. Then, one night, I got it out, settled down on the comfy chair with a double scotch and a large cheroot, and began to read…

MONASTIC WANDERINGS

PREFACE

There was a time – and it was a long time – in Europe’s past when, for good and for ill, spiritual matters were an integral part of the life of virtually every person, a time when, in Richard North’s phrase, “religion drenched our spirit”. Nowadays we live, for good and for ill, in an era of widespread secularism and large numbers of people may be said to inhabit a post-religious world.

I recall the occasion when I was browsing in a gift-shop attached to a Scottish monastery: three holiday-makers whom I took to be a married couple and their teenage daughter diffidently approached the open doorway; on noticing that many of the articles on display were of a religious nature, together with the singing of a monastic choir on tape in the background, the man grimaced, uttered the single word, “religious”, whereupon he and his female companions turned away and headed for the adjacent village, where they would be sure to find things that were familiar and more acceptable to their tastes.

I relate this incident solely to illustrate the fact that Christian belief and observance have clearly become marginalised in the lives of many in the West, while for some they have no significance at all. The shopping mall and the television set represent more potent symbols in our contemporary consumer culture than the church or shrine; pilgrimages to sacred places are being overtaken by trips to Disneyland. At the same time, of course, spiritual and idealistic values continue to be alive and active, though today they often find expression in fresh forms, allegiances and avenues, especially among younger people.

Addressing the older generation, John Bowker makes a shrewd observation: “If you think sometimes, as a parent, that your children are losing their faith, don’t forget that it may be your faith they are losing, while they find their own”. A new pluralism is emerging to challenge old orthodoxies; change vies with tradition.

Where do monasteries fit into this evolving picture? Patrick Barry, a Benedictine monk in England, refers wryly and revealingly to the not uncommon notion that they belong to history and “look best in ruins, with its presumed corollary that monks are best safely dead”. He tells this anecdote: “Quite recently I met a group outside the Abbey Church at Ampleforth who asked me: ‘Is this an Abbey?’ When I told them it is, one of them said in a sceptical and disappointed voice: ‘Then where are the ruins?’

Ruins indeed there are, dotting the landscapes of Britain and Ireland and many other countries, reminding us that nothing human beings build is permanent. In Ireland with Emily, John Betjeman writes of cycling through the countryside,
Till there rose, abrupt and lonely,
A ruined abbey, chancel only,
Lichen-crusted, time-befriended,
Soared the arches, splayed and splendid,
Romanesque against the sky.

Peter Levi deeply appreciates the appeal of medieval monastic remnants: “the beauty and the residual meaning of these places survive. The massiveness and the delicacy are both reduced to extremes, and the unworldliness intensified by ruin. Not even municipal or ministerial uniformity can take away their desolate magic”. And yet, as Patrick Barry points out, there is another more immediate truth: “It is the fact that monks still exist and, however alarming that may seem, they have a significant contribution to make to the future of Christianity in our world today.”

I am able to vouch for the continuing existence of monks, and their female counterparts, because of my brief yet numerous visits to monastery guest-houses in England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland in the 1980s. Then for an extended period from mid-1992 I stayed as a ‘working guest’ at various monastic communities, especially those of the Cistercian Order, in the Irish Republic. This book is essentially an account of some of my experiences and observations during that sixteen months’ venture. My personal standpoint may well be regarded as decidedly unusual and paradoxical within a monastic context as I am entirely without religious belief and accordingly may be said to wear the label of secular humanist. “One man’s faith,” as Anthony Storr observes, “is another man’s delusion”. That fundamental incompatibility of outlook, the contrasting ways in which we interpret the universe and our human place within it, did not prevent me from wishing to spend some time within the peaceful and edifying seclusion of religious houses, nor did it prevent the inmates of those houses from accepting my presence warmly and generously.

The tranquillity of the monasteries encouraged reading and reflection, and facilitated my increasingly compelling urge to write about my sojourn within them. In this task I received the support of numerous monks and nuns and fellow visitors to monastic guest-houses. In one of these I met the writer Patrick Skene Catling and he was particularly influential in spurring me to put pen to paper. Having completed the first draft of my manuscript, I consulted the Superiors of the monastic houses where I had stayed and submitted to each of them for perusal the section that was relevant. They all gave permission for their house to be included in my story. They made many valuable suggestions and saved me from a number of inaccuracies and infelicities – those that remain are obviously my responsibility because they are my creation. I am hesitant to pick out individuals from amongst the many who have assisted me in this literary undertaking, yet special thanks are due to Abbot Benedict Kearns of Bolton Abbey, Moone, for his wise counsel and unfailing support – it was with great sadness that I learned of his death as work on this manuscript was in progress; to Father Nivard Kinsella, Prior of Mount Saint Joseph Abbey, Roscrea, for his stimulating company and trenchant comments; and to Patricia, a beloved friend and discerning critic, whose depth of faith was a salutary counterpoint to its absence within me: she makes no more than a brief, belated appearance in the concluding pages of this book, yet has had a profound effect on my life since she entered it during the course of my monastic journey.

To literary ambition was added catharsis: my monastic nomadism was just four months old when one of my brothers died in tragic circumstances and on my return to Ireland after the funeral, I channelled some of my distress by accelerating the process of chronicling aspects of my temporary world of monastic apartness. Monastic Wanderings is the result and it has been written in honour of my late brother Alan and his wife Jill.

***

Peter Levi has posed the intriguing question as to what extent monasteries exist “for the sake of outsiders”. Whether situated unobtrusively in hidden valleys or conspicuously on hill-tops, monasteries in their grand physicality glorify God, provide an all-purpose home for their members and also send a message to the world beyond their walls. The lives of monks are indeed part hidden, part conspicuous: though in essence following inner, private paths, monks are, as Levi states, “always in some way missionaries”. As an example, the monastic drama of shared prayer and worship, with its pageantry and elaborate ritual, is being enacted before us, radiating spiritual light and energy, whether the faithful (and other recipients too) are close by or far away; the dramatis personae constitute a holy caste, whose cyclic, celebratory performance serves as a testimony, a focus, a support, a reminder, a spur, a promise, to its public audience; there are also darker elements in the script, of fault, guilt, reproof, warning, for God punishes as well as rewards, and so there is a continuous need to declare our sins, to repent of them, and to appeal for divine mercy. A multiplicity of litanies is of course recited regularly and familiarly by very many Christians, though in our modern age there are – to continue the theatrical metaphor – fewer players on the ecclesiastical stage and falling numbers in the auditorium, as many look elsewhere for other comforts and challenges, for different answers to their difficulties and dreams.

Levi also wonders whether the silence of monks is meant to be “a silence overheard by us, and haunting us”. Once again, some people are still listening, others not. For myself, very much an outsider, I would want to record that my stay with the Cistercians and Benedictines of Ireland was a time of much serenity and fruitfulness, and echoes of their creative silence, alongside their gentle words and actions, will remain with me for the rest of my days.

“O God,” petitioned St. Clement at the end of the first Christian century, “make us children of quietness, and heirs of peace”. Nearly two thousand years later, the quest for that peace, within us all and between us all, is as vital and as elusive as ever. As for Catholic Ireland, I would suggest that reports of its death have been much exaggerated and that within it, monasteries provide valued pointers in that ongoing quest: as sanctuaries wedded to stillness and concord, they offer example and encouragement to body and spirit in a noisy, restless world.

I stopped reading and put the manuscript back in the envelope. I had read the five-page preface and there were still nearly 200 pages plus postscripts and notes to digest. Thinking about it over the next few days, I doubted whether there was anything I could do with the manuscript other than offer it to a niche publisher specialising in religion. Being an out-and-out atheist, I presumed I was obviously the wrong person to be dealing with this and, although I rather liked Lionel Teear’s earnestness, seriousness, intellect and intelligence, to say nothing of his exquisite hand-writing, I found his claims to be a ‘secular humanist’ disingenuous to say the least, given his tacit acceptance of religious ideology, philosophy, themes and culture. Without having to plough all the way to the final chapter, I felt certain he was going to conclude with the sort of wishy-washy endorsement of the fundamental tenets of ‘nice’ Christianity that can be read in numberless previous books. Since there are whole libraries of similar material I actually doubted whether it was publishable, particularly as the writing style was so stiff and old-fashioned. Hmm…what should I say to Beth? I decided to bide my time, sit on it and see if any ideas emerge. I put the envelope away somewhere safe for another day, planning to carry on reading it when I had the time – after all, perhaps Lionel’s account of his visits to eight Irish monasteries between June 1992 and October 1993 did have unexpected surprises and perceptions in store.

Time passed. Life’s roller-coaster ride of ceaseless happenings swept me through year after year. Beth never mentioned the manuscript to me when we met and I was so busy with my own writing, my relationships and the never-ending renovation of this 140-year-old house that Mr Teear’s manuscript faded from my consciousness and I forgot all about it.

2021

One day it suddenly popped into my head to pick up where I left off and do something with that manuscript. Feeling guilty for neglecting it for years and wanting to give Beth some positive news, I decided to tackle it properly and maybe turn it into something special. Now, where was it? I searched my office, the likeliest place, but couldn’t find it there. I searched the attic, but no joy. I searched book shelves, chests of drawers, the bottoms and tops of wardrobes, the utility room, kitchen cupboards, filing cabinets, hidden zones behind furniture, the car boot and even the garden shed – but still it was nowhere to be found. I knew for sure that I hadn’t thrown it out and it had to be somewhere in the house; I started the search again. In the searching process all the junk, pointless memorabilia and unwanted things accumulated over decades were cleared from the house and deposited in the corporation dump; the attic was at long last completely emptied; space was gained in every room; the house was transformed for the better, becoming the fit-for-purpose, efficient, minimalist home of my dreams – but STILL I couldn’t find that fucking manuscript. Oh no! How would I ever explain this to Beth?

2025

More years galloped past, during which Beth never asked me about the manuscript and I never told her it had disappeared. Perhaps she had forgotten all about it? But that was no solution. Nothing had made me change my conviction that it was in the house somewhere. I always kept an eye out for it and stubbornly clung to the faint hope that one fine day it would somehow just materialise in front of me.

And then, last week, that is exactly what happened!!

In preparation for having a roller blind fitted in the office (as I laughingly call it), I needed to clear the space in front of the window that was occupied by a low sideboard packed with folders. One by one, I shifted the bulging folders to another room and then, as I moved the sideboard away from the window, there was the unmistakeable padded envelope, covered in dust and cobwebs, squeezed underneath the sideboard’s stumpy legs!

The relief was huge. I hadn’t let Beth and her Uncle Lionel down! I’m not going mad! I immediately decided to cheat a bit and turned straight to the very end of the manuscript and Lionel’s postscript.

POSTSCRIPT
OUR OWN TIPPERARIES

Does life have a meaning and where might we discover it? Laurens van der Post wrote that for him life’s purpose lies “in the search for the answer”. William Wordsworth felt that there was no ultimate meaning and that to find heaven and hell we need look no further than within ourselves and at what happens around us:
Not in Utopia, – subterranean fields, –
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us, – the place where, in the end,
We find our happiness, or not at all!

For Siegfried Sassoon, however, this world was not enough and his poem The Tasking focuses on what was for him the inescapable spiritual journey towards God:
To find rewards of mind with inward ear
Through silent hours of seeking;
To put world sounds behind and hope to hear
Instructed spirit speaking:

Sometimes to catch a clue from selfhood’s essence
And ever that revealment to be asking;
This – and through darkness to divine God’s presence –
I take to be my tasking.

Life as a search, a journey, a quest, a pilgrimage, is a recurring theme in the writings of philosophers, poets, storytellers and many other seekers of truth. Even a short, simple song, written in 1912, very soon became amid the carnage and horror of the Great War an anthem of hope, Tipperary taking on the allurement of a distant destination of release and desire. For my heart lies there, sang many soldiers, tired and resilient, frightened and brave, poised between life and death in the ghastly realities of the Western Front.

During my Irish travels I came to know parts of County Tipperary and was drawn to Desmond O’Grady’s striking poem, Tipperary, which was published in 1991. It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go – so when should our journey begin?
If you decide to go to Tipperary
Set out while you’re young, plucky;
At that age when you’re bright-eyed with visions
Of radiant horizons of revelation and achievement
And you know nothing of twilights or the dark;
That age when all creation, all life shines clear
As spring sunlight, bright as light – catching gold.

And do we need company or equipment for the journey? O’Grady advises against:
When you set out you must go alone,
There are no maps of the way to Tipperary.
Your only compass is your own heart. Trust that!

He warns us against false detours and hollow distractions along the way, and asks us to be single-minded and determined:
Hold to your main road. Keep going!
Once you’ve decided to go to Tipperary
You’ll realise you no longer belong to yourself
But must keep Tipperary in your sights daily –
Although you can’t see it. Purpose is all.

At the same time, there is much to be learned and gained from what the journey itself offers:
On the way to Tipperary keep your eye open
For signals of direction, encouragement:
That nod of understanding, comradeship,
A cherishing arm on your pillow. You’ll see
Beautiful sights on the way to Tipperary:
Man’s mirage tales, imagination’s monuments.
You’ll behold the endless vistas, panoramas
Of vision. Be curious about them all
For the gracious gifts they will afford you.
Without them you’d live that much the poorer.

And what glorious riches await us at journey’s end? What kind of Arcadia, Eden, Elysium, Paradise, Shangri-la, Utopia, will be revealed to the successful traveller? O’Grady paints the humblest of pictures:
It’s a long way to Tipperary
And when you get there
Nothing awaits you. You’ll find no roadsign,
No brassband and welcoming committee
With a banner proclaiming you’re in Tipperary
And a medallion to hang around your neck.
You’ll find only what you brought with you
In your heart.

And what happens once we reach our goal?
Then, what you must do
Is make and leave some record
Of what your Tipperary means to you –
As witness for all those behind you
On their ways to their own Tipperaries.

May we each find the Tipperary we are looking for, the Tipperary that is most precious and meaningful to each of us, for, as O’Grady concludes:
It’s a long way to Tipperary
But all our hearts lie there.

Having read this postscript, I’m inclined to think that Lionel Teear’s work is ultimately about his, and our, mortality, with ‘Tipperary’ acting as a metaphor for death. This is a field that will always fascinate humans, even if all ponderings will always be in the shadow of the superb ‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy, spoken by Hamlet in Shakespeare’s play, which has never been surpassed as an exploration of ‘the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns…’

Lionel lived for more than 20 years after he wrote the manuscript, but for some reason failed to get his work published. Perhaps he lost confidence in his writing and never really tried. Regardless of that, I think his work deserves to be published and, having got used to his style and his preoccupations (as well as being someone who actually travelled to Tipperary during my hippy-era wanderings in western Ireland in the 1970s), I am beginning to tuck into the text between the Preface and the Postscript and increasingly finding it a gripping read while warming to his character and understanding his foibles. I don’t think it should join the untold multitudes of writings that never saw the light of day – especially in a world where mountains of celebrity crap, robotic AI plagiarism and genre trash is published at the drop of a hat; a dying, war-torn world of book-burning and book-banning where his existential explorations are more relevant than ever.

To that end, I invite anyone in, or connected to, the publishing sector who is reading this and might be interested in helping bring the manuscript to fruition to get in touch. I cannot take on that task, mainly because I’ve got enough on my plate completing and getting published my next book (currently 75% done) as well as maintaining this website. Meanwhile, I can’t wait to tell darling Beth what’s been going on!