Travelogue 1248 – 14 May

My Cell

Sometimes I return to the cell at San Marco, settled within its white walls, and I recollect the sounds there, the echoing halls, their hollowness a hint of God’s nature; the birds in spring, as the day breaks, as Lauds approach; the rustlings of being human.

Forty-four cells there, and endowed with a small fresco by Fra Angelico. I dream in the cell with the picture of St Dominic kneeling at the crucifixion with a scourge over his bare shoulder. They say this picture is Gozzoli’s, in fact. I don’t love it less for that.

My floor is red tile, less than two metres each direction. I have one window, small and arched, with a heavy wooden shutter that I swing shut in winter.

From the hallway, all sound is echoing. From outside, all is sharp. I am content to pray while the sounds find their place.