Immersion.
Two years ago I landed in a holy place, fully unintentionally. I hadn’t set out
on a religious experience; wasn’t looking to eat, pray and love my way around
the world. Although the eating part I have down now – Germans really know their
bread. I have also perfected the art of praying - ‘Dear God, what am I doing
here?’ But, trying to love, beginning with myself, is proving to be more
challenging.
The
convent, built like a fortress, rose on uneven cliffs high above the point
where the Nahe river bumps into the mighty Rhine. The rocks morphed into
rolling wine hills overlooking a river valley so spectacular tourists began
flocking here, like geese flying north, even back then.
It was
called Rupertsberg in honour of St. Rupertus who, along with his mother, Berta,
was laid to rest in the dark crypt below the high altar of the church. The
three-naved sanctuary was 30 metres long, with the main nave 7 metres wide and
each side nave 4.35 metres. The choir faced the river and possessed a
half-rounded apse with a crowned pediment. Two imposing towers flanked the naves
like lighthouses protecting a ship.
Built in
1150, the curtained stone walls of the convent enveloped the gardens, a
vineyard, servants’ quarters, a school, and the dormitory. Behind the farm
buildings inside the wall was an arched gate leading to the town of Weiler.
From the south nave down stone steps lay the sunken cloistered courtyard. And,
nestled within the deep wall, accessible from both sides, was the Nikolaus
chapel. This was a convent for the daughters of nobility.
When people
hear my story, the first question from old friends is usually, “Where have you
been?” and from new friends, “Why did you leave beautiful Canada to move here?”
In response, words are tossed back at me like ‘brave’, ‘fearless’,
‘adventurous’, although I honestly feel none of those things. I am searching…hobbit-like
(and if I continue the metaphor with a golden ring, the cheesiness will be too
much) for meaning; for roots. Possibly, in the earth that Hildegard planted, I
will find it all.
Hildegard von Bingen. Sage. Prophet. Naturalist. Healer. Composer. Pharmacist.
Author. Witch. She has had many titles, the newest one: Saint. Hildegard was
searching too. Her quest, though, was directed quite literally by God himself.
She had the advantage of having heard His voice as clear as a bell, beginning
when she was just three years old sitting on her mother’s lap. If only I had a
Charlie-like speaker telling me what to do and where to go.
After
achieving notoriety in 1147, when the pope read from her latest book; attention
like Oprah reading from her newest favourite thing, Hildegard received another
vision. She called her visions ‘living light’ and this time it told her to
build a convent on the banks of the Nahe and Rhine rivers. So, against the
wishes of the monks, together with twenty other nuns, she headed north (a seven
hour walk according to google maps) and built up Kloster Rupertsberg above the
castle and cathedral dotted town of Bingen. It is at this exact point where I
now live.
Hildegard
wrote about natural history, medicine, spirituality. She wrote the biographies
of saints and composed music. She was involved in politics; becoming a trusted
advisor of Kaiser Friedrich I Barbarossa. So unconventional for a woman, her
opinions were sought out by clergy, emperors, princes; along with farmers,
priests and the normal folk. But what she spent most of her time and energy on
was building up her herb gardens and developing medicines to heal not only the
body, but soul and spirit. After hearing a voice telling her to “write all that
you see and hear!” she did that. Hildegard von Bingen has left behind tomes and
treasures; directions for listening to God = a healthy spirit, recipes for soups and salads
= a healthy body, and herbal remedies = a healthy life. All to be found outside
your front door. Or, to be exact, mine.
It all looks
different now. That was almost 900 years ago. The cliffs are cut short now,
chopped off, with a naked face but for the abundance of ivy hanging like much
too-long bangs. Through various wars with Sweden, France, and who knows who
else (Europe has quite the rocky history), the convent had become a shell of
ruins and rubble. Unapologetically, and with only slight deference to history,
the national railway bombed away the entire cliffside in 1857. What remains of
the convent are six pillars now inside of an office building; and a portion of
the crypt excavated into a long, arched
chapel open to visitors.
And where
the imposing Rupertsberg once stood atop craggy cliffs, now a three storey
stone house with gabled roof sits beside the riverbank; water in the front
yard, railway and cliff wall in the backyard. Built in 1860 it had been home
for rail workers and their families. Now other families fill it with laughter
and the smells of apfelstrudel baking in the oven.
I like to
think that the grasses, herbs, weeds and plants are still the same though. Possibly
the same seeds nestling in the same dirt, waiting to inspire and nurture again.
So, I tend. I cut. I search. I look. I write. I eat. With bread.
(a submission for my creative non-fiction class)
References:
Hirscher, P.
Heilen
und Kochen mit Hildegard von Bingen.
2011. TRIAS. Stuttgart
Know the Ways-Scivias Hildegard of
Bingen. Rheinland-Pfalz Ministry for Education,
Research, Youth and Culture.
Bingen
www.landderhildegard.de
