I had wished to go to the monastery of Deir Mar Musa, about 60 miles north of Damascus, for some time. Its unbelievable restoration underneath a charismatic Italian priest, his tragic disappearance and presumed demise throughout the Syrian civil battle, and the inspiring interfaith work of the monastery’s remaining monks and nuns all fascinated me.
Whereas mountaineering in a rocky valley behind the sixth-century hilltop monastery this summer season, I got here throughout a singular mulberry tree, its branches laden with ripe fruit. I hesitated. It appeared unimaginable that such a tree may exist in such dry environs, however curiosity overtook me. I greedily picked them off, at first one after the other after which shortly by the fistful, leaving darkish, bloody drops of juice on the tree branches and my fingers. The mulberries have been one of the best fruit I had ever tasted.
Reader, I’m not a believer. However some a part of me feared I had tasted forbidden fruit and I nervously awaited a stomachache or another divine punishment, which by no means got here.
Later that night, I attended candlelit prayers within the monastery led by Deir Mar Musa’s present spiritual chief, Father Jihad Youssef, and drawing from biblical scripture in addition to Jap Orthodox Christian and Sufi customs.
By then, I had managed to clean a lot of the mulberry stains off my arms. I marveled at the fantastic thing about the ceremony, of the church, of the fruit, and I gave silent because of whoever was listening.
For extra Far-Flung Postcards, click on right here.
