Friday, December 2, 2011

Brother Wind

Be praised, my Lord, for Brother Wind,
and for the air and the clouds,
and for fair and every kind of weather,
by which you give your creatures food.

It was cold on the mountain, and not at all like the town of Assisi, which seemed to live in a kind of eternal August afternoon.  Here, several hours north at the mountain of La Verna, the wind was chilly and the mountain covered in cloud.  I was grateful for the thin wool gloves I’d obtained from the friary thrift store, grateful for the sweater (and several layers underneath) I’d brought along from Canada, grateful for the cane which still steadied my gait, and grateful for the quality hiking shoes that covered my feet.  I’d purchased a little guide book from the retreat centre, and it told me there was a trail to climb to the top of the hill, with some interesting sites along the way.  My goal was to reach the chapel built a few hundred years after the time of Francis, the chapel of La Penna, at the top of the rise, 1283 metres above sea level.

I made my way from the friary to the wooded area above, finding the trail which rose and wound its way along the edge of the wooded mountain.  The air was of the kind that seems to freeze your nose hairs in the most invigorating way, and my breath huffed in plumes of white.  Soon, swirling, scattered snow came, carried on the currents up the face of the mountain, so that the snow didn’t seem to descend from the sky, but ascended and whirled among the trees before twirling back down and landing in my beard.  I held out my hand to catch it, and saw that it didn’t come in flakes.  It was soft, and melted in a moment, but it looked like little, white, rock candy.  As if the angels had spilled a heavenly box of Nerds.

The trail came close to the side of the hill, and I veered away to inspect the view.  Trees clawed their way through the rock, holding on to the side of the mountain for dear life.  The cliff, grey and somehow at home in its colour in this kind of weather, descended dramatically as I looked out on the green, roiling landscape below.  This green, too, was somehow alive under this sunless sky; not dreary at all, but vibrant in a different way.  As if the green which bursts with joy in the sun was now in prayer and contemplation.  I put my hand to a gnarled tree, and breathed deeply of the cool, grey sky, and it fed my senses like hungry children.  

But the trail went on, and so did I.  A stirring wind set the tall trees to scattered bursts of applause as my feet snapped the tiny twigs of the forest floor.  The cane steadied my way over slippery patches of stone and up the dubious rises of dirt.  Soon I came to a strange rock that jutted from the side of the mountain like a giant spike.  The head of the spike lay several feet away from the side of the hill, and a confident jumper might have been able to leap across.  One look below, however, and his confidence would fade quickly.  A small, white sign stood with a simple cross on the mossy rock.  In childlike script was written, “MASSO DI FRATE LUPO”.  

The Rock of Brother Wolf.

Saint Francis used to come to this mountain, far from Assisi, for times of retreat with only a few brothers.  Here, a modest church had been built for him by a wealthy count, and he would often spend weeks here in fasting and prayer.  But he was not the only one on these hills.  A thief roamed the mountain, and with him a small band of his own ‘brothers’.  He was violent, and greatly feared, and became known as “Lupo”.  The Wolf.  The Wolf terrorized travellers of the area.  He was known to take people captive, rob them, and toss them out on this small, jutting rock, keeping them there for days or weeks until a ransom was paid.  When The Wolf heard that Francis and his brothers were praying on “his” mountain, he was not pleased.  The Wolf came prowling down to the friars’ chapel, threatening to kill them if they didn’t leave.

But Francis had experience with robbers, and especially with snarling wolves.  He was known to admonish his friends about such men.  “Our Master Jesus Christ, whose Word we have promised to observe, says that the healthy don’t need a physician, but the sick.  He came not to call the just, but sinners to repentance.  This is the reason he sat down and ate with them!”  

And so, when he spoke to The Wolf, he spoke as no one had before.  He spoke without fear.  What exactly Francis said isn’t known, but when the outlaw saw the serenity of Francis in the face of such threats, when he saw that these threats of violence were meaningless to the frail little friar, he also saw something else.  For the first time in his life, he saw love.  Francis looked into the soul of the thief, and saw not a criminal, not an animal, but a brother.  The Wolf fell at the feet of Francis, and wept.  Francis took him tightly into his arms, and welcomed him as Frate Agnello: Brother Lamb.

And a simple cross and a simple sign now stood in simple testimony to a life remade.  

The wind began to blow harder, even through the buffering trees, as the trail continued upward.  I found the rhythm of breath, step, and cane, stepping over knotted roots, treading through fallen leaves and grass.  The rock candy snow had now become a steady rain, falling through the holes in the green canopy above, or blowing straight through the columns of trees.  It fell in drops on my fake tweed cap, and splattered on my face like a spit take.  And it felt good.  

I knew there was supposed to be a chapel at the crest of this hill, but each time I came to what I thought must be the final rise, the trail went further up and further on, teasing me onward, daring me to take chase.  At last, I stepped between a knot of trees and looked ahead.  The rain had turned to mist, and there, standing in majesty and modesty, was the small stone chapel a little known man named Carlo built in 1580.  I smiled and shook my head, and took my cane to a near sprint up to the fabled chapel.

It stood just a few feet back from the precipice of the mountain, nestled like a little brother into the shoulder of flat rock which lay beyond it.  I approached the humble little holy place, placed my hand on the old stones, felt their cold roughness under my fingers.  I have a strong affection for old things, and whenever possible, I like to touch them.  (Though of course here in Italy, a chapel that’s only 430 practically has that “new church smell”.)

A metal door now stood in place of the old wooden one, and it was locked.  But I peeked through the small, square window in the door, into the darkness of the sparse chapel, and imagined the crazy little man who built this place at prayer inside.  I imagined him carrying these blocks of stone from God-knows-where, to this crag at the edge of the woods.  Or did he hire men to do the job, and did they simply shake their heads and thank the Lord that they were getting paid?  

“Clearly, you were quite insane,” I remarked to the long dead brother.

I turned toward the outcrop of rock, which was patiently waiting for me to take in a spectacular view.  I stepped out, my hat now tucked into my bag as the wind grew stronger, pulling at my beard and mussing my hair like an over exuberant uncle.  I opened my arms wide and let the mountain gale play.  I looked out before me.  The view did not disappoint.  Below me were the rolling hills, the valleys, the fields, and beyond it all, the crests of the mountains of Romagna and Umbria.  Small smatterings of houses with white walls and terracotta roofs dotted the earthbound knuckles of the mountains.  To my right, and far below, tiny tufts of white were sprinkled about a meadow of brownish green that lay amongst great swaths of trees.  .  In time I realized the tiny tufts were moving.  A flock of sheep grazed the grasses of a shepherd’s field.

I looked above, or rather to what was now eye-level, at the clouds that came rolling and breaking away from the mists.  They turned and rocked, and patches of sunlight were beginning to break through.  A cloud rolled liked dough over the peak of the mountain on the other side of the valley, slowly but surely making its way over the jagged ridge.  I looked down toward the shepherd’s field again, and my mouth fell open at what I saw.  There, descending from the clouds like a bridge from heaven to earth, was a rainbow of red and yellow and blue and every colour in between.  

Once again, He was being ridiculous.

The wind came again to tussle my hair, and I felt as Adam must have felt, rising from the dust, awakened by the breath of God.  

1 comment:

James Harrison said...

This is one of the most amazing things I've ever read. Thank you!