Garden of Nectarios

Strike Two. My Second Monastery Visit is (Mostly) a Dud.

It only took my second failed attempt to see a monastery to figure it out: monasteries are often closed to visitors. It would seem the monks or nuns living a communal life of prayer have more important things to do than to cater to my unannounced visits. No surprise there.

That day I was running out of time. My flight out of Albany was leaving in just a couple hours, and I still needed to gas up and return the rental car and manhandle my broken luggage into the terminal. “If I can just snap a picture I’ll be happy,” I thought to myself, glancing at my watch. “What the heck, I can push it another few minutes,” I decided, “running through the terminal isn’t that bad.”

I turned off the two lane country highway onto a gravel path and turned up steeply to the left. The angle meant I couldn’t see over the hood; whenever that happens I get the slightest fear that I might hit something or someone. This time, as every other time, I pressed the accelerator slowly in cautious faith. Topping the hill, I parked the car in front of the first notable building. It was a brown structure with a sharp a-frame structure and rustic brown awnings, like something from an old Brothers Grimm fairy tale. I zipped up my rain jacket and left the car, leaving the keys on the seat. I stopped, chiding myself: “You should always lock the car, especially a rental! But then again… who steals a car at a remote monastery?” I pushed the thought out of my mind, grabbed my camera and climbed the few steps to the entrance. I entered the small lobby area, getting relief from the rain, but the second door to the monastery itself was locked.

In the small entry room I saw a doorbell; the sign beneath instructed me to ring it and one of the sisters would come. I rang and waited. Peering through the second set of doors I saw there was a small gift shop. I turned to examine the lobby and saw pamphlets and order forms for baked goods including cheesecakes made by the nuns. I waited a few minutes and thumbed through the pamphlets. Minutes had passed and I turned to leave. Suddenly a middle-aged man came to the door and seemed surprised to see me. He explained that he worked for the monastery but was not a monk himself. He opened the door and showed me into the small gift shop where there were icons, handprinted cards, books and other small things. I gravitated to the wall of books.

At the bottom of the bookshelf I saw a used book section. There is nothing better than finding a treasure at a good deal, so I knelt and flipped through the hodgepodge collection. I found two books by Thomas Merton, someone I had already read and deeply respected. One book was on the desert fathers, the other on spiritual direction. Rising with these in hand I saw something completely unexpected: a table with books and instructional CDs on dog training and obedience. It seemed the monastery trained German Shepherds, but for what purpose was not quite clear, and I was starting to feel the pressure of my upcoming flight. ‘I’ll learn more later’, I promised myself. After a little trial and error with the electronic card reader I was finally able to check out. ‘I have to bring cash to these places going forward,’ I told myself. Exiting the gift shop I caught a glimpse down the hallway and I wanted so badly to walk down and explore. I don’t know what I would have been be looking for, maybe just proof that people live here, evidence that holy lives can be lived in such a humble place. Placing my newly acquired treasures into my rain jacket for protection, I exited the building, hopped down the steps and ran back to my rental car.

New Skete Monastery, Cambridge NY, July 2022