I loved my monastic cell. Though many people's bathrooms are larger than the 7 x 10 (or thereabouts) room I slept in, I never felt the need for more space. Of course, not having many possessions helps -- a lesson which, perhaps, we should all learn living in the secular world. All the cells in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus are pretty much the same; the only real difference being which side of the room the sink is placed.
Let me take you on a tour of the cell I occupied while I was a postulant (I lived in three during my two years and four months there).
Cell #5 in the novitiate is happily situated in a corner of the building. Upon entering, you'll notice that hanging on the wooden door, by means of a metal coat hanger rod, the kind that hooks over the top of the door, is a narrow white muslin curtain that reaches almost to the floor. When the rod is placed near the edge of the door and the door is left about a foot ajar, the curtain fills the opening, providing some visual privacy for the inhabitant while still allowing air to circulate from the hallway. Ingenious contraption, this, one that I have actually replicated for my current bedroom door.
At the opposite end of the 10-foot long room is a window. It spans almost the whole 7-foot breadth of the wall; its sill is about waist-high and its top edge almost reaches the ceiling. It is comprised of two panes that slide open. A screen keeps the hungry Lufkin mosquitoes out. The window in cell #5 affords a view of -- oh, joy! -- my beloved woods. There are the ranks of pines rearing their spiny heads to the heavens; there to the left is the fish pond, home of a snowy white egret and watering hole for thousands of migrating birds; there is the gravel path, making a wide loop around the central sloping patch of open ground; and there, too, is the "hermitage," the A-frame green-shingled roof of the monastery's original chapel, which today provides a quiet open-sided shelter for meditation.
But before we become too engrossed in the enchanting view, let me take you round the rest of my tiny domain. In this cell, the sink is on the right wall as you stand in the doorway (in some cells, it's on the left). This small sink is surrounded on both sides, and on top and bottom, by cabinetry that takes up most of that long wall. At one end is a very narrow closet, the size of an ordinary broom closet, in which hangs one of my postulant's uniforms (I'm wearing the other), my coat, and bathrobe. There is also a dust mop, found in every cell, and absolutely necessary given the inexplicably fast rate at which dust bunnies grow in this otherwise impeccably clean building. The rest of the cabinetry houses plentiful drawers and, well, cabinets. Around the sink is enough room to keep toiletries, which of course, are kept to the bare essentials, and above, a narrow shelf upon which perches a hand mirror (with no handle) just large enough to check the placement of your veil. There are no other mirrors in the building, not even above the sinks where the toilets are, and certainly not in the individual shower and bathtub rooms.
Going back to the window for a moment, you'll notice below it a quaint contraption called a convector. This provides much needed air-conditioning in the sauna-like summers, and enough heat in the winter to roast a pig. In fact, getting the right temperature in the cell in winter is quite a difficult feat, especially if one prefers to sleep with the door closed, as I do. If you leave the heat on, you'll be cooked to a perfect medium-well in ten minutes and are in danger of suffocating in twenty. If you turn the heat off, you spend the night shivering and chattering. Eventually, I opted for an extra woolen blanket and to crack my window open an inch. On the coldest nights, I reluctantly left my door ajar (with the ingenious door curtain veiling the gap) to let in the heat from the hall convectors.
Tucked into the corner of the cell, next to the window, stands a small writing table. Actually, it was in another life a dressing table, the shape of an elongated kidney, with one shallow drawer. Before the table is a straight-backed wooden chair. No swiveling office chair with casters, cushiony leather, and lumbar support. You either learn to sit up straight, or risk lower back pain.
Lastly, we come to the infamous monastic bed. In days of yore, this consisted of a couple of sawhorses, a couple of planks, and a hay pallet. The modern version is slightly less rustic. In all honesty, it is the most comfortable bed on which I've ever rested my weary bones. Instead of sawhorses and widely spaced planks, we now have a wood slab (an old door, in this instance) or long planks tightly nailed together. The six sturdy legs, replacing the sawhorses of old, are footed with casters which are essential when putting on new sheets (remember, the cell is only about 7 feet wide). The headboard is of the most rudimentary kind, just a thin wooden board, with a towel rack affixed to its back. There is no footboard, just the wall against which the foot of the bed is snugly pushed. Only one pillow. Then we have the hay-free mattress: at the most, 8 inches thick, at the least, 6 inches. No boxspring. No system of cylinders that adjust to the various curves and hollows of your body. You sit on the bed, expecting it to yield to your weight, but -- clunk! You do get used to it, quicker than you'd think. And once you are used to it, an ordinary bed feels downright uncomfortable. All the beds are covered with the most basic cotton/poly spread in a soothing shade of midrange blue.
Well, that concludes our tour. I hope you enjoyed this peek into a typical cell at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus. Thank you for coming, and please tell your friends!
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