“A brother came to Sectis to visit Abba Moses and asked him for a word. The old man said to him, ‘Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.’” [1]
While visiting a monastery in North Carolina one of the brothers shared with us the wisdom above: that the Desert Father, Abba Moses, had shared with a young disciple. Years later this monk as a young initiate had also been instructed to: “go into your cell and let it teach you.” Initially, I was struck by the idea that a simple cell, a small barren room, could teach one anything. The instructions stuck with me, I was intrigued by the discipline it might take to sit and listen to four walls, I was awed by the humility it might take to allow oneself to be shaped by space, I was curious what a cell might say. Since that day I have on occasion wondered if my cell was indeed trying to teach me; attempting to say something and perhaps was getting drowned out by the sq. feet; or my constant moving from one room to another interrupted any instructions that were being imparted. Perhaps, the lessons were getting shoved into the corner as I was making more space for busyness and experiences. Was the wisdom of the Desert Father, of the monastics, meant for the rest of us? Was there something more holy in the four walls of a monk? What were my walls saying?
In Lesotho I live in a traditional Basotho house: called a rondaval. My house, my cell if you will, is a single round room made of concrete with a thatched roof made painstakingly from dried long grass. The thatched roof is a wonder, trapping the heat from my stove in the winter and keeping my home cool in the summer months. My interior walls have been lovingly painted a cheery yellow that greets me as if smiling.
Furnishing my house is: a small bed, a desk, a few chairs, a wardrobe, bookshelf and a cabinet for food. I cook using a two burner gas stove and bathe in a series of buckets. I fetch my water from a nearby pump (nearby meaning about a ten minute walk) and carry it on my head back to my round abode. In order to charge my devices and lights I use a solar panel. Aside from the obvious, living without the modern conveniences, could my circular dwelling teach me?
My house has one room, two windows, and no corners. I don’t have four walls trying to speak but one curved continuous wall that hugs me as I listen to it whisper bits of wisdom. There are no corners for me to push the lessons I want to avoid into. No extra rooms for me to escape to, few amenities calling for my attention distracting me from the class currently in session in my cell, distracting me from growth.
At first glance my rondaval might appear quaint, resembling a hobbit hole, yet on further inspection, its potential and possibilities are endless. It’s as if by living in a circle I have quite literally moved “outside of the box.” My cell is one thing and all things at once. It’s a kitchen, a bedroom, a living room, a closet, a gym, a library, a dance floor, a laundromat, home theatre, an office, a classroom. The list of lectures I’ve listened to and the lessons I’ve learned from this round cell could fill pages and pages, journals on top of journals. However, I’ve also learned that the cell doesn’t make the lessons, the cell doesn’t determine the syllabus. Even here, in my life without corners, I avoid the growth that requires the most work, I embrace the knowledge that feels good, I reluctantly accept the changes my cell is asking me to make.
Being confined to my hobbit hole of a home has ultimately taught me that it is not the cell, who does the teaching, or the walls that hold the secrets. The cell and the walls hold us still long enough for us to confront ourselves. It’s the intentional time we spend with ourselves, facing ourselves: listening to the silence, rather than filling it. Abba Moses knew that the cell held no real power; he knew that even the most dedicated, disciplined and faithful among us can get distracted, can chose avoidance, can fail to listen and grow.
Whether your house has ten rooms, corners or curves, a thatched roof or cheery walls, go into your cell; go into your cell and let it teach you. Be still, the walls aren’t speaking yet by straining to listen- you just might hear.
Blessings as you listen,
Bren
[1] Benedicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers (Kalamazoo, MI, 1975), 139.
Brenda Kay Hafer 