The Sounds of Mourning
On Mandolins, Sunshine, and Prayer
I live in Berkeley, Calif. in an old building that used to be a monastery for a couple of different orders over the years. For the past decade, it’s been an intentional community for seminarians and doctoral students at the Graduate Theological Union. All Souls Episcopal Parish owns it. We residents participate in the life of the parish in various ways (preaching, teaching, making music, leading retreats, etc.) to off-set the subsidy. Given the need we students have for community and the insane cost of living in Berkeley (studio apartments starting at $2500/mo), the arrangement is almost perfect.
I say “almost” because the building is an albatross around the neck of the parish. Originally constructed in 1904, it is a ramshackle collection of additions, old wiring, ancient plumbing, and nary a 90 degree angle in the joint. It has survived fires and earthquakes, but like any creature that survives such things and lives for more than a century, it bears the marks of it all. It was also neglected by the monastics whose resources could not meet the general upkeep needs of the building.
Peeling paint is my favorite part. I try to keep my four-year-old son from eating it as he peels it off the siding. Varying degrees of success there.
People have asked if it were not a crack house or a meth den. There’s an air of intentional neglect. I like to say, “No. It’s just an old monastery. So…same/same?” That usually invites a strained and confused giggle stopping the conversation.
Here’s the good news: The building will be razed to the ground sometime in the next year or two. The paperwork has been filed and all the hoops are being jumped through. All Souls and a not-for-profit who specializes in such work are going to build affordable housing for seniors and retirees. The building will be comprised of studio apartments, a space for support staff to stay, offices for the parish, and a large apartment to serve as a rectory. It’ll meet LEED standards, too. It’s a great project and I could not be more pleased for and proud of my parish.
Here is the bad news: The building will be razed to the ground in the next year or two. Yes, it’s the same news. Yes, it cuts both ways.
This morning as I sat in my folding chair and played little tunes on my mandolin while watching the sun come over the hill, I imagined a future without this kitchen, this view, this sunshine, and opportunities to noodle on the mandolin here. I was sad imagining such a thing, but it’s coming. I am grieving the loss as much as I am celebrating what is a great project.
I have always tried to find places wherever I have lived where I can sit quietly, gaze outside, and play music. This kitchen has been my favorite place thus far. This old chair from Chicago has been with me for two decades. The mandolin, too. It’s just that kind of thing, you know?
These practices get into our bones. They shore us up when nothing else will. They help clear the mind and restore the soul. They give my heart room to breathe.
Now, of course, wherever we live next, I will find a place to play. I will find a way to practice.
For now, however, I’m giving myself room to mourn what will come to pass sooner than I would like.
