The Springs of the Holy Mountain

The Springs of the Holy Mountain

The sound of a rivulet had begun to fill the gorge. If one stopped to look up, one saw that the path had entered under branches of overhanging trees. Another path branched off to climb the steep ridge to the right. Looking backward, one saw the valley widen down toward the sea, with the walls of the Holy Monastery of Grigoriou perched on a rock at the base of the mountain that would lead up at last, if one had strength to follow the ridges, to the great peak of Athos.
We stood, then, in a glade in the garden of the Theotokos.

But one could not stop to look up, except to catch breath. The stony path was too precarious and uneven. All one’s attention was on the next step.

We had been climbing for almost an hour. Father Modestus had assured us that the elder’s cell was only an hour from the monastery. But he was used to walking these paths. It was an arduous climb for us, steep with switch-backs. At times, the path was almost eroded by landslides. One had to step cautiously to avoid a precipitous slide down the slope. The views, of course, were astounding, view upon view, at every turn changing; but there was no time for the view. We need to get to the elder’s cell our questions, and still get back to the monastery in time to catch the boat for the Athonite port of Daphne. We had started at first light. A strong breeze had developed during the night, and clouds had crept out of the curtains of darkness before dawn, removing the oppressive heat and making the morning pleasant.

At the bottom of the gorge, it widened under the walls of the monastery into a narrow plain. This was filled with gardens and, strangely enough, wide roads terminating in a cement plant for the monastery’s ambitious construction projects. These were most notable at the docks, which were new and complex, with bays and boat launches and roads for large vehicles to be driven up to the monastery gates.

But there was no water in the bottom of that valley, not at this season just past midsummer.
Fr. Modestus had pointed out the immense new concrete cistern. The old one next to it was no longer large enough for the water needs of the number of pilgrims who now come.
Just past the new cistern, the rivulet’s course narrowed. One could see that in the rainy seasons it would be a torrent, but now it was dry. A new concrete bridge crossed over and stood along and empty with no connecting road on either side. Obviously, a new road was planned here.
Fr. Modestus lamented the scale of construction all over the Holy Mountain. This area, where the gorge widened into a valley, had been a meadow with wildflowers, butterflies and dragonflies everywhere. Now it was a construction site with bare dirt, rubble and equipment, and wildflowers can no longer be found. They have to grow roses in their own gardens to put around the icons at the feasts. Especially the new roads for cars, he said, are destructive to the ancient footpaths, often wiping them out entirely. He insisted that the footpaths are the only way to experience the Holy Mountain.

A large plastic pipe ran above the stream bed and dived into the side of the old cistern. As we climbed alongside the narrowing gorge, we could see that this pipe maintained a gradual slope above it, supported on concrete piers, some quite tall, like an aqueduct. This kind of construction on a smaller scale, said Fr. Modestus, was more appropriate for Mount Athos The elder toward whom we were now climbing, he told us, himself had overseen the construction of this aqueduct thirty years before.

The springs of Mt. Athos give an abundance of pure water. Because of the thickness of undergrowth, we were no longer within sight of what waters had emerged within the gorge; but we could now hear their melodies.

We were approaching their source. We were climbing toward the solitary dwelling of one who had harvested their life-giving sweetness for the sake of his monastery. We dared to attempt this path toward an elder who, late in his life, had withdrawn into hesychia – into the life-giving source of pure, sweet prayer.

“The life of a hermit is the hardest life of all,” said Fr. Modestus. “It is best not to disturb such a one unless you have a specific question that really needs an answer. We benefit far more from their prayer.”

I had insisted, however, that Fr. Nicholas take advantage of this opportunity to approach an elder of hesychastic prayer. And since he, in turn, suggested that Scott and I might want to ask something, we were bold enough to tag along.

The path turned into the stream bed. It was shallow, but full and swift. We crossed it on stepping stones and made the turn that led out onto the ridge above the opposite side of the gorge. Emerging from the forest, we came out onto an open area far above the monastery and the sea, at the gate to the elder’s cell.

A monk was just leaving, climbing the shady ridge above. A pleasant garden was spread in front of the cell. Fr. Modestus informed us that St. Hilarion of Georgia had lived in this cell, as had another saint.

The elder took us into the tiny chapel to venerate the icons, then out on the narrow veranda to crowd around a small table.

Fr. Nicholas asked for direction concerning practice of the Jesus prayer. The elder insisted that work was necessary, and living according to the commandments of Christ, but that if this were done, God would provide everything. He pointed to the birds of the air with a smile, reminding us of God’s infallible promise.

Scott asked about the difficulty of raising children in America. His answer was that too much strictness can be a mistake, but that prayer was the key, and patience without limit. He spoke of the example of Blessed Augustine, and how his mother prayed ardently for many years before he returned to the Church as a young man.

I asked specifically about distractions during prayer, and especially of the difficulty of trying to pursue unceasing repetitions of prayer during the hours of work. I admitted that I had given up trying to do this. He reminded us again that everything is difficult in the beginning, but that if we make the attempt and pursue it, God will provide everything needed.

As he said this, I understood; and the prayer leapt up in my heart at that moment. It was by my own will that I began it, but I was surprised by the force with which it shouted in me. He seemed so full of joy. When I took his departing blessing, he gripped my arm with surprising strength and joy.

Christopher