Voluntarily lost in the Paradise of the Mountain of Saints.

Wandering in caves and on mountains.

"Mount Athos demands strong legs," "Walking—that is what the Mountain is all about"—I hear this time and again. And I agree. To share in the way of the ancients, at least in the act of moving about, if not in all else. To breathe in the forest’s breath and have every question vanish regarding why this specific geographical place was chosen for the creation and flourishing of the monastic commonwealth. To crush dry leaves beneath your soles and feel the urge to apologize even to them for disturbing their peace with your superfluous presence. To drink water from springs and holy wells, sensing the salty aftertaste of the sweat of ascetics that has dripped there for centuries. To meet a fellow human on your path and exchange the Resurrection greeting. To sit upon a rock that might well shelter sanctified relics beneath it. And sweetest of all: to know that this is for a short while—a very short while. To know that you will depart for your place of ministry thousands of kilometers away. This—the Lord knows how—heightens the sweetness of the place. So much so, in fact, that it leaves you insatiable for it all.  Photograph:

Voluntarily lost in the Paradise of the Mountain of Saints.