On the path to the monastery (Photo: Emily O'Dell)
On my way to this mountain monastery in Lebanon early Sunday morning–not long after Saturday night’s bombing–I was just as drawn to the humble cells of the hermits carved into the rock on the left, as I was to the breathtaking view on the right. The first sound I heard as I walked on the path was the voice of this young girl, speaking in Arabic to her grandmother–who was struggling to climb back up the hill…
Yesterday I drew myself from the noisome throngs and proceeded into the field until I reached a knoll upon which Nature had spread her comely garments. Now I could breathe.
I looked back, and the city appeared with its magnificent mosques and stately residences veiled by the smoke of the shops.
I commenced analyzing man’s mission, but could conclude only that most of his life was identified with struggle and hardship. Then I tried not to ponder over what the sons of Adam had done, and centered my eyes on the field which is the throne of God’s glory. In one secluded corner of the field I observed a burying ground surrounded by poplar trees.
There, between the city of the dead and the city of the living, I meditated. I thought of the eternal silence in the first and the endless sorrow in the second…
— Khalil Gibran
