Breathing, Part Two

 

            Swimming in a sea of conflicting emotions and thoughts, Prokhor woke that morning several hours before the rising of the sun, struggling to construct a plan for departing to the northern forests to live in solitude, distinct from and separate from the noise of the world and the attention of the monks and abbot. Fully awake and frustrated, he rose from his board and blanket to creep through the moonlight, moving from shadow to shadow to finally find his rest in the chapel before the icon of the Theotokos.

              He enjoyed two hours of solitude before the other monks arrived for the first service of the day, filling the chapel with activity, light chatter, and a feeling of ambivalence. The service progressed like it always did, drawing him into a state of bliss, glory, beauty, and a feeling of unity with his fellow monks and all those who had reposed over the past nearly two millennia. In an effort to not draw attention to himself, he exited the chapel with all of the others and blended into the background as the others disappeared to their various obediences.

               When the courtyard had cleared, Prokhor slipped back into the chapel and returned to his kneeling position before the icons. As this had become his normal routine for the past two years, he had begun to develop the practice of breathing in a square shape, whispering the words of the Jesus Prayer, top left, bottom left, bottom right, top right, to repeat the process until darkness settled upon the monastery.

              Once again creeping through the darkness to return to his cabin, he kneeled once again in his private corner and continued his labors until the moon reached its zenith, to then steal four hours of sleep before beginning the cycle again. Something clicked within him that particular morning, feeling stifled, frustrated, controlled, and hindered, instead of returning to the chapel, he disappeared into the forest and walked for over an hour, coming upon a hollowed out tree. He scraped the build up of debris from inside and knelt therein to continue his prayers.

              He felt as if he had entered heaven itself, with no sound or disturbance from his fellow monks, no need to distract himself with remaining obscure and unobserved, he prayed from the first rays of the morning sun until the moment of exactly midnight, to steal four hours of sleep. He made the occasional deviation in order to find enough food for one partial meal a day.

              Several months had passed and the first few flakes of snow began to fall, which brought a sliver of concern to his mind, as he had no source of heat or stored food stuffs as the ground would soon be frozen. When the next morning arrived, he made the decision to return to the town of his childhood, as it had been a number of years since he had seen his parents. Walking a path wide and clear of the monastery, he found the small road to the town to then enter a city that he no longer recognized.

              He found the home of his youth, tired, old, and worn out, to be greeted at the door by his mother, who informed him that his father had passed away two months prior, leaving her with no income, protection, or company. He was pleased to learn that the priest and parish members put in extra effort to provide for her needs and occasionally visit to assuage her loneliness. Though he hated the idea of losing his independence and solitude, he knew that caring for his mother was the loving thing to do.

              He spent the rest of the week gathering firewood, organizing and cleaning the home, and performing a number of odd jobs to earn some money to purchase food for he and his mother. The coming grip of winter cold was close and his responsibility for he and she pressed upon him to sacrifice in a way that he had never before had. By the end of the week, he had filled the wood bin, started the fireplace and stopped up the many cracks and crevices that were allowing in cold air.

              The transition from solitude to regular company and small talk of things inconsequential was a difficult path, but he knew his mother needed him and that sometimes change was good and necessary. Three more days into a new routine, he slipped away from the house to find more work in order to buy groceries, to find himself surrounded by more than a dozen children, all vying for his attention, as he was a new face to them, who seemed kind and considerate.

              After cleaning horse stalls for most of the day, he received his payment, stopped at the grocer, and was followed home by the same group of children, who then followed him into his house, bringing a level of excitement and joy to his mother. As he was the only child, she had no grandchildren and ultimately became known as Mother Agathia, with more and more children finding their way into her home and into their hearts, Prokhor finding himself a new man with a love for children that radically changed his perspective on everything.

              As the winter drew to a close and the life of spring began to make its appearance, he became well known throughout the town, as the parents of these children too began to interact with him. He began to tell stories to the children of monks and saints from recent times and from the distant past, eventually telling them about his private hermitage in the deep north, to give them directions to come visit him any time.

              When the temperatures rose to a livable level, he walked to the edge of town, knelt before all of the children, who surrounded him like ants at a picnic, to bless them all, to always obey their parents, and to always do what was good, right, and loving to others and to God. He made his way back to his hermitage, steering himself clear of the main monastery with its abbot to easily slip back into his former cycle of prayer, controlled breathing, a little sleep, silence, and the occasional meal.

              The overpowering heat of summer arrived and brought with it a visit from easily two dozen children, who swarmed the area calling his name until he finally emerged from his hollowed out tree stump, overjoyed with their arrival, their innocence, and their excitement. He called them all by name, asking for updates on their behavior, their obedience, and their relationship with their parents.

              Summer began drawing closer to fall when nearly a dozen men arrived at his tree stump and informed him that they would be building him a proper cabin in response to his love for them, for the town, for his mother, and for the children. He tried to persuade them otherwise, but they insisted and began the work despite his protests. Within three weeks, the small cabin was complete, and Prokhor decided to use the cabin for sleep and for eating, and to continue to use the tree stump for prayer.

              He returned to his cabin late one evening to find a note attached to the door, informing him that his cabin would be sufficient for his needs during the winter, and that the families of the town would care for, interact with, and provide for his mother. Realizing that his future had been decided for him by God through the hands of the townspeople, he began to gather firewood and food to keep him through the coming winter.

              His life became a glorious pattern of prayer, visits from children, providing guidance to visitors from the town, and eventual separation from the passions that troubled him. He could feel himself growing older and weaker until one evening the woman from his visions once again visited him, instructing him that he must continue providing advice and direction to those who came to him, the number of which would greatly increase over the next several years.

              Prophesying his soon repose, he wrote a note that read, "Acquire the spirit and thousands around you will be saved," and then he pinned it upon the outside of his door. Like a dream or a vision, he could see his own grave being regularly visited by hundreds if not thousands, eventually coming to realize that his prayers, his lampada oil, and the dirt from his grave would be the source of healing for those in need. 

            Though he did not know when, he knew that it would not be long until his time of struggle in his hunched and aching body would eventually come to an end.