Abbot Earl is eager to speak with me, but it’s not yet sixth hour and we’re committed to our vow of silence. Seekers of every variety wander the grounds, searching out God, themselves, their pipe dreams, and their sins. They seem to enjoy the bread though, and a certain amount of pride fills me. The trick is to knead the dough for at least twenty minutes, until your wrists begin to ache, before placing it in the oven. And raisins, use lots of raisins. More pilgrims, acolytes, alcoholics, and the insane arrive every day. Some are irritated and bitter, some driven by their fears and nameless needs. They wear the cowls hoping to lose their desires within the depth of shapeless robes, but that almost never happens. They walk the wire across the chasms of their own souls, looking down into the great depths as, step by step, they cross to the distant side. On occasion they’ve learned something by the time they get there, but not always, and usually not what they expect. Each to his own method.
