Held Gently
A remembrance of Alex Kirby, my abbot on Guemes Island, and what a short stay in a hermitage taught me about stillness and seeing people as they are.
A few days ago, I received a message from a mutual friend. Alex Kirby had passed away.
Alex was my abbot at Our Lady of New Glastonbury, on Guemes Island, Washington. My time there was short, less than a year. Its impact on my life has been profound.
The island
Guemes Island sits off the coast of Anacortes, a short ferry ride across the water. It had a general store, and not much else in the way of town. It was heavily forested, and it smelled like pine and the sea breeze.
There was a stretch of rocky beach near the hermitage. I spent a lot of time walking there. Thinking.
The hermitage itself was a two-bedroom house. Outside stood a yurt that served as the chapel: tan canvas walls under a green roof, a green awning over wooden double doors, and a small wooden deck out front.
The remoteness and the beauty drew all kinds of people to that island. Alex was one of them.
Arriving
In 2003, I arrived at New Glastonbury failing at university. I was looking for something more valuable than anything I could find there: a purpose. I wanted a chance to engage with spirituality, and to find purpose in my existence.
I didn't know exactly what was wrong. But I knew something was. That's how I found Alex.
The first month, I slept. Almost literally.
Alex
Alex was tall, six foot four or five, and thin. Gaunt, even. He had a dry sense of humor, and he was a conversant host. Anyone who came to visit found themselves talking with Alex for hours, whether they had meant to or not.
He was openly gay, and he was living with HIV. He struggled to reconcile his faith with his identity, and it wore heavily on him. Even so, his priority was always to serve.
He was the first gay man I had known in my adult life, and the first person I knew to be living with HIV. I learned a lot from him. About identity. About disease. About mental illness.
He was also a big fan of the Socratic method. Every idea I had was interrogated, about myself and about the world. It was never overwhelming, and never annoying. It was like sparring with a master of peace. Though I doubt he ever felt like a master.
Formation
In monastic life, the process of becoming a monk is called formation. It begins with living alongside the community, learning its rhythms and practices, before moving into the novitiate. I was at that first stage.
We spent hours on church history, on the Bible and how it has been interpreted, on the Rule of St. Benedict, and on how to live like a religious.
My formation, to me, was like opening a door. It let me see the world from a new perspective, and I haven't seen it the same way since.
Alex was the first decolonizing voice in my life. He held up a mirror and asked me how I felt about what I saw. He did it in the gentlest and most amazing way.
Friends told me they were worried I was being brainwashed.
I was. My brain needed it. It was full of so much useless and misdirected hate and anger, and I didn't even know it.
What he taught me
He taught me to stop multitasking, and to focus.
He taught me to sit with stillness. And to sit with myself.
He taught me that the chaos was a choice.
He taught me that even a life of movement and change can be peaceful and stable.
I learned to accept people as they are, as he accepted me. To try to understand who someone is without first judging them. And to recognize the spirit of a higher being in all living things, and in moments.
He taught me to see people as they are, rather than as I believe them to be. To question my own understanding, and to stay open to things being different from what I had learned.
Still
I didn't fully understand those lessons on Guemes Island. I've been living them ever since. They're close to the heart of everything I try to do here: a life that moves, and still has roots.
I write about places, and the people in them. Alex was one of the people who taught me how to see them.
Thank you, Alex.
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