Listening, Part One

            Prokhor was an unusual child to say the least. Born in Kursk, Russia to loving and faithful parents, he would speak little, watch, listen, and remember every conversation to which he was privy, glean wisdom, rejecting foolishness, and wondering why so many people regarded him as odd, when it was them who followed strange, unnatural customs which drew them away from that which made one truly human.

              From the day he could talk, he would frequently wander away from home to find anyone who was speaking, to listen, to watch, to understand, and to marvel at the behavior of so many that was clearly foolish and unnatural. As he would come upon any conversation, he would stop and listen, staring wide eyed, taking in every word and internally criticizing and analyzing what was being said, comparing to the wisdom he heard from a small handful of people.

              Regardless of time, or day, or weather, little Prokhor would travel from one end of town to the other, seeking out adults in conversation, learning what he could, understanding what he could, and remembering every detail to then hurry home and write down the rare comments of wisdom so as to fill himself with excellence rather than silly distraction as he saw in the other children.

              After a particularly long day on the streets of the city, gathering the occasional nuggets of wisdom, he returned home to see his mother sitting on the edge of his bed reading his notebook of wisdom. "What is this, my son?" she asked. In response, Prokhor explained how he spent his time, the bits of wise comments and thoughts that he would hear on occasion and his burning desire to write them down so they would not be lost. As he spoke, his small frame was racked with a coughing spell, eventually bringing blood into his mouth.

              His mother saw the trickle of blood emerge from between his lips and in a panic rushed him into his bed, urging him to stay put while she gathered ingredients to make him some soup. As she left the room, he pulled himself up into a sitting position in order to read his book of wisdom, which eventually led to his falling asleep.

              In his dreams, he saw a beautiful young woman who promised to heal him of his infirmity, but this would only take place after some days when a group of men would proceed past his house. He woke to the sound of his mother calling his voice and he leaned over onto one elbow to receive spoonful's of hot soup, which washed away the salty taste of blood from his mouth.

              As the day came to an end, his father returned home from his job and came into his room, a look of deep concern on his face and an insistence that a doctor be called, for Prokhor was his only son and to lose him would be a devastating loss. Midday the following day, an elderly man entered his room and examined the small boy with a variety of instruments, salves, and ointments that Prokhor knew would actually tell him nothing. The doctor, looking downcast, told his mother that there was nothing he could do to help the boy and his future recovery did not seem likely.

              Several days passed and Prokhor could only look out the window, sad at his prognosis, sad about his confinement to bed and his loss of opportunity to find and document wisdom. Feeling somewhat stifled, he swung his feet from the bed and slightly opened the window, relishing the cool, flesh air. As he enjoyed the change of environment, he would hear a large number of people cheering, forcing him to rise to his feet, open the window further, and lean out to try to see what was taking place.

              As he continued to lean out, he heard his mother rush into his room and pull him back inside, bundle him up in multiple layers of clothing, insisting that he accompany her outside for the Kursk icon of the Theotokos was unexpectedly approaching. Despite the rain and cold, he and she stood at the edge of the road and waited for the procession to arrive, and as it passed in front of their house, his mother lifted him from his feet and pressed his face into icon. As they approached, he realized that the woman thereon was the same woman from his dream, carrying the same kind smile with bright loving eyes.

              As his lips touched the written image, he felt as if an explosion went off inside of his chest, causing him to take in a huge breath of fresh, cold air. He and she hurried back into the house, where he was placed back on his bed, urging his mother that he suddenly felt perfectly whole and restored and no longer needed to be confined. He remained sitting on the edge of his bed, while his mother hurried down the street to bring the doctor back to their home. He once again examined little Prokhor and marveled at what seemed to be a miraculous recovery.

              After the doctor left, Prokhor undressed, took a bath and ate a normal dinner of solid food rather than the thin, hot soup that had been his staple for the past several days. Submitting to his mother's request, he stayed home until his father returned, promising to eat and rest well until the next day. In the back of his mind, he knew that with the first morning light, he would be back on the streets, listening, watching, and documenting every morsel of wisdom he could find.

              At the end of his third day on the streets seeking wisdom, he saw the parish priest and inquired of the location of the Kursk icon that had passed his home a few days prior. The priest took him by his hand, led him to the parish and showed him exactly where the icon hung near the iconostasis. A burning erupted in his chest, and he sank to his knees in front of the icon, where he remained until the full darkness of night fell. It was only when his father arrived that he was forced to go home and sleep in his own bed.

              The next day with the first morning light, Prokhor rose from his bed before either of his parents had woken and hurried to the parish to once again kneel before the icon. Within an hour, he was joined by seven men dressed in all black with long beards and strange circular little, black hats. Even while gazing up at the icon, he could overhear them talking and he marveled at the quality and insight of their words. They spoke like no one he ever before had heard and he put in extra effort to remember everything that they said and within a short time, they all left as a single body.

              As the noon hour arrived, the priest entered the parish and knelt beside Prokhor, asking if he had been there all day. Prokhor confirmed that this was true, and he then asked who the seven men were who had come earlier. The priest explained that these were monks visiting from an ancient monastery found deep in the northern woods and that he would be happy to take Prokhor there for a visit, if his parents approved.

              The priest then left and returned a few moments later, to confirm that his mother gave permission to take Prokhor to the monastery and after walking for an hour through the thickest and deepest of forests, he and the priest arrived at a collection of small huts and a small chapel. It was at that moment that Prokhor knew his time of wallowing in the foolishness of those in the city was over. For the next seven years, he would walk every day for an hour through the forest to this collection of small, dirty huts in order to listen to, embrace, and document the wisdom from these radically different men.

              On the day of his 18th birthday, he approached the priest and asked if he, now an adult, could go and live among the monastics, for the noise, chaos, and emptiness of the city had no appeal for him. The priest agreed but only once Prokhor would first inform his parents of his desire to do so. Within an hour, he returned to the parish wearing a massive copper cross, a gift from his mother, which she trusted would be something to remind him of her and his father while he was away. She begged him to come visit on occasion, and he told her that he would do his best to make that journey, though his heart was not inclined to return to the vacuous nature of the city.

              Young Prokhor joined the other monks, moving into one of the small huts in order to have a place to sleep that would offer protection from the cold and the rain. Every day he would follow the other monks around, listen to their wisdom, offer to do work for them simply as a means to spend time immersed in their wisdom.

              After a time, he gained the nickname, "the listening one", and eventually began imitating their speech, their movements, and their schedule, trusting that he too could one day share wisdom with others. Seven years passed, and he returned to the city to visit his parents, to see the overjoyed response in their face as he showed up at their door. The noise and ugliness of the city made him feel lost and dirty and after the sacrifice of a visit to his former home, he vowed to never again return to this ugly, empty place filled with people of ugly, empty souls, who seemed to care more about earning money, being comfortable and being well fed.

              He returned to the monastery and after two more years came to understand that he had surpassed all of his monastic brothers, prompting him to request permission from the abbot to withdraw into the forest further north in order to be alone, focus on silence, prayer, and destroying the passions. Receiving the blessing to do so, he disappeared into the deeper, more secluded forest, to then fall ill. In his solitude, he knew that he was incapable of remaining in such a state in solitude, so he returned to the monastery to become bedridden, once again, but this time for three years.

              His thoughts returned to his childhood sickness, his dream of the beautiful woman, and the Kursk icon that passed in front of his home. As he drifted in and out of dreams, wakefulness, and consciousness, he cried out to the Theotokos to visit him once again. After the passing of how much time he did not know, the Theotokos and an older gentleman appeared to him in a dream and she pointed at him and spoke to the older man, saying, "He is of our lineage." She then reached out and touched him, setting off the same sort of explosion within him as he experienced in his youth.

              As he fully expected, a massive intake of cool air filled him and brought him back to full health, reviving in him, once again, the desire to flee into the solitude of the further northern forest. He shared his desire and request to the abbot but was declined until he officially became part of the monastery, being ordained as a hierodeacon, and committed to speaking his wisdom to any who would hear him. 

            Prokhor submitted to the abbot's direction and guidance, to then commit himself to a different kind of solitude, where he spent all of his free time in the chapel before the iconostasis, immersed in prayer. Though he was alone, he still spent all of his time listening, thinking, and embracing the wisdom that came to him from his visions of eternity and of angels.