Treskavec, Enriched

I met a Macedonian guy, studying German at the university in Skopje, and he told me about a German play that takes place in a monastery, with the description "Time stops in these walls." And it is true. Visitors come and go, sometimes they stay the night. An American came a few days ago: Randy, from Texas and DC, working with a firm in Kosovo to help stabilize the region... he specifically working to help facilitate the creation of a court system. Art students come, or architecture students, or professors from various fields.

The guys here aren't looking forward to when summer fully sets in, when the monastery will flood with tourists, all clamoring for Kallist's attention. He is a busy man, the only monk at Treskavec, a place so rich in history that it was built atop a temple of Apollo and Artemis, and the surrounding hillsides are topped by large stones, strange holes cut into them, where ancient peoples once sacrificed to more exotic gods. I've been here over a week now and I still haven't spoken with Kallist about things divine. I do not want to interrupt him when he is obviously enjoying himself conversing at dinner. And what free time he has he spends with God.

It is so easy to lose myself in the rhythm here. Days pass as easily as breathing. I can stare at the sky for hours, or write in my journal, or hang out with the guys. If I am bored, I give myself a little job to do, like picking up litter.

Or I climb a mountain. Like yesterday, crawling up the peak near the monastery, clutching at the metal cross at its top, very slowly turning my head -- fighting vertigo -- to look out at a panorama restrained only by mountains and sheer distance. Perspective loses all meaning at that height: lengths stretch and size dwindles. A flock of little birds danced in the air nearby, flying higher than the peak, clearly having fun.

I have time to think and write. I meditate on magic, and I'm clearly no closer to an impossible goal. But I have changed a bit, learned something of discipline and will. And even as I struggle to internalize these lessons, to really become this man whose ethic I am trying out, I wonder if I haven't found my personal Jerusalem, my Golgotha where an older self will die and a new man -- still resembling the old -- will be born.