Monasteries and hermitages, a faint silhouette in a shimmering light. As we arrive by car, then foot, or by tortuous road, the outline thickens against the ochre stone and cliffs. They loom as minor fortresses, angled like a prism, slim windows for spying enemies or contemplating empty skies. Such extremes, oh monks, for what? Why load your donkeys with marble and limestone, why live in spiny dry isolation far from your fellow humans? What lay on the other side of the extreme – what wretchedness, what bitterness.
What closed door to a human garden?
Then again, I’m climbing these roads for what — To stay in a renovated monastery, to sit on your stone bench by the small window, to escape what chaos, to rest in what calm.
Even as I carry my backpack dotted with buttons: “all is chaos” and “restless recalcitrant.”
