Breakfast is a particularly special time at the friary. I have always loved breakfast, probably because I am a glutton and the thought of not eating for ten hours straight is painful even now (sitting at my desk with a cup of tea). But breakfast at Hilfield is one of the few times in the day when it is really practical to simply zone out and just be.
You don't have to talk to anyone (we eat in silence at breakfast), you don't have to acknowledge anyone (everything is within reaching distance) and there is no reading or purpose to the thing to make us think together, except to get snouts in the trough.
This makes breakfast a perfect time for a spot of people-watching. I love people-watching, and I often have that awkward moment in cafes or train stations when you've been staring at a complete stranger for a matter of minutes, utterly without realising it, just thinking about what their life might be like.
***
Well, my people-watching at breakfast has turned up some pretty interesting stuff. When you come to visit a religious community, your behaviour changes. You may come with no expectations at all, or you may come with enough emotional and theological baggage to last you till the end of time, but everyone changes... pretty quickly as a matter of fact.
There seem to be three stages. On the first day, guests arrive and experience a phenomenon called 'gushing.' Common gushing involves, "Oh, isn't this place wonderful" and "Gosh, isn't there a sense of presence here." If they've been before it might be, "Oh, this is even better than I remembered it." And at breakfast the intial gush takes on a subtler form. Never 'on the outside' could people derive so much pleasure, such sheer delight, from watery porridge, or sip over-brewed tea with such gusto. The Gusher fully believes that here he or she has found the apogee of happiness.
A benedictine friend of mine ominously refers to this as 'the honeymoon period.'
On to stage two. A day or two into their stay, the Gusher reaches Nirvana. They start walking incredibly slowly. Objects which hitherto had been completely uninteresting now captivate their attention for an inordinate length of time. Sighing can be heard. Porridge is no longer enjoyed, so much as absorbed, sometimes over a period of twenty minutes. The tea is not gulped, but sipped through barely open lips. The Nirvana Retreatant often spends most of breakfast with his or her eyes closed, or looking out of the window, fingers teasing the spoon or mug.
Bloody annoying if you are waiting to wash up.
No, you will get my dishes when I am done... sunning myself
In stage three, the illusion of Nirvana is brutally torn from the Nirvana Retreatant, as he or she re-enters reality. After a while taking an eternity to eat and drink really does get boring, and closing one's eyes too much can cause one to drop off (I've not yet seen anyone faceplant porridge... but I'm waiting). This realisation that it was all a dream can cause the Nirvana Retreatant to become irritated, but soon they settle in. They enter the Meh phase. Yes, it is just tea, and it is just porridge, and the brother at the end of the table did just fart, and someone did just spill their breakfast down their front, and that person is chewing really loudly...
... and they realise that life in its common day-to-day there-ness is just wonderful.
All of us, when we live in a community of any kind, or really live in any place, go through these stages, whether it is a new job, a new flat, or whatever. I really do give thanks that some days (like this one where my trifle didn't set) I do just think, 'meh.' Not, 'AAARGH' or even 'YAAAAY' but good old steady 'meh.'
It is the best sign that where you are... you have arrived.
About bloody time.
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