Above the guesthouse, there is a spacious room called ‘The Abbey’. What an august name! Maybe slightly ostentatious? Let me tell you the story of this special place that rose from the rubble of a century-old farm building.
When we purchased the property, we knew that we would be able to go ahead with the conversion of the farm buildings into a residential centre. The technical report stated that the basic structure and the foundations were solid. There were no cracks nor leaks likely to endanger the buildings and bring them down. Previous owner’s had already installed bedrooms on the first floor of the main house and we were told that we could continue to do so in the adjacent buildings.
We found a local architect who immediately saw the potential and went to work. He came up with a design articulating transparency and fluidity: transparency by inserting big windows where there had previously been heavy wooden barn doors; fluidity by connecting all the rooms, both on the ground floor and the top floor, creating inspiring passageways.
Above the outhouse there was a rudimentary flooring, a pile of straw that had never been taken away and a lot of old appliances and rubbish. Treading very carefully, it was possible to get a sense of the space and I would gingerly make my way through the chaos watching the mice scuttle off in search of a hiding place.
Once we had approved the plans and signed the constructor’s contract, the workmen dumped a portacabin in front of the property and moved in. The first thing they did was to put in a new roof with eight Velux windows. This made sense as work inside would start in January and they wanted to be sheltered from the notoriously bad winter weather. Then, they took away all the accumulated debris and gutted the building, throwing out the precarious flooring. It was quite an experience to stand under the newly laid roof and gaze into the naked structure of the hollowed out building with only a few transversal beams holding the outer walls together.
The workmen checked over the original beams and replaced those that were too weak to bear the weight and carry the structural tensions. They added a longitudinal beam to reinforce the new floor in the top room designed for a maximal occupancy of 100 people. Bit by bit, plank by plank, the floor was reconstructed leaving an opening for the staircase to which a sturdy ladder was strapped so as to safely get to the top with all the necessary reconstruction materials.
The first time I stood in the room, once the base work had been completed, was a breathtaking experience and overwhelming in beauty. The workmen had left and it was late afternoon on a winter day. The last of the daylight was pouring through the roof windows creating pools of light on the coarse floor. On the east side of the room, the original window openings had been left in with space for a round window above a traditional four-pane window: two square windows above, two rectangular windows below. The new windows were stored below and plastic sheets and rough pieces of wood outlined the space for inserting the windows. That is when I saw the archetype: a crucifix surmounted by a rose window.
It was a powerful experience to say the least, all the more so because the round church of Østerlars lies to the east of the property and the top of the church can be seen from this window. I instinctively knew that I was standing in a sacred space, a naked church before its ornamentation and consecration. It was a touching moment, filled with a strange mixture of awe and. This is when the name ‘The Abbey’ floated in, a very apt designation since an abbey is a building occupied by a monastic community.
The encounter with ‘The Abbey’ was so strong that I wanted to stay as long as possible in the singularity of existence of this moment. I wanted to stop the renovation work, or at least slow it down, before moving into the next phase. Clearly, I was cleaving to the light and the revelation, unable to let go and trustfully surrender to the regeneration I had set in motion. Nonetheless, I enjoyed a few days during which the newly-born Abbey rested in its nakedness before work resumed on the inner structure and the stairwell.
Over the next months, work continued to create a dry, warm and spacious room. Thick insulation was installed under the roof with a thickness that produced admiration and respect among the neighbours inspecting the work. The rockwool padding was then sealed under strong plastic sheets and slabs of white concrete (more insulation). Plywood was used to create a storage space running along the room and to build the stairwell. Finally the floorboards were laid and everything was painted white.
As much as I understand, and appreciate, the work carried out to create a big open space, both well-designed and adequately insulated, as much I mourn the loss of the original template emerging from the previous chaos. In that moment, gazing into the prototype of a primeval church, the distinction between inner and outer worlds had momentarily vanished.
At first, I thought the hefty insulation would seal me off from the porosity between inner and outer worlds, creating a barrier with the outside world. In that case could the room become a sanctuary? A place of succour and help? A seed of regeneration and deep transformation? I was bewildered which, in itself, is good news. Little did I know, at the time, that I was being directed towards desert experiences and contemplative awareness. Then I remembered the words from the Song of Salomon that have found their way into religious choral music, “Put a seal upon my heart”. The words brought to light the many meanings lodged in the action of sealing or putting a seal on something.
The original template is no longer available in the form that engendered my direct encounter with a higher order of reality. Yet, it has not disappeared simply because it has been covered up. It remains present, diffusing the light, forever alight. I did see it, I did recognise it and it changed me forever.
The final chapter of the work on the room was the lighting and a very enthusiastic electrician let loose his imagination. He was keen to avoid dazzling people with spotlights flashing from the beams and opted for indirect lighting. For this he used the transversal beams to set up strings of small led lights turned towards the ceiling and the skies, the same device used in theatrical productions to produce rivers of light. The effect was stunning with warm white light and dimming effects to create softness.
But what was even more astounding was the blessing of light bestowed on the day the work was completed. It was late November, a year after the renovation had started. The painters had put on the last lick of paint and removed the protective materials. The room was finished and ready to be used. The horizontal winter sun was pouring through the large window on the west side: a winter sun with fiery hues, a blaze of light that completely filled the space.
I never cease to enjoy the pools of light falling into the Abbey fluctuating in intensity and colour with the season. They always return me to the blessing bestowed upon the room when the original template appeared. They remind me that this is a sanctuary for the weary, a crucible of love and contemplative awareness, a light forever alight in the temple of one love. Once seen, what is no longer visible cannot be forgotten.
The Abbey is an open space of 145m2 that can be arranged in various ways to accommodate contemplative practices.
At the top of the stairs there is a hygge corner with a large sofa near the west window overlooking the fields. It is a great place to chill out. The light is good for doing fine needle work or any delicate art work that requires powerful light. It is also a great place to watch the cycles of nature slowly unfolding in the crops and the birds on their migratory flights.
The window is a great observation post for gazing into the skies at night-time, with dark velvety starlight nights free of light pollution and sequinned with shooting stars when we pass under the meteor shower of the Perseids, or the calm presence of the moon following the arc of the sun. In daytime, the caressing sun of spring warms up the parts of us coming out of their winter hibernation, the glaring summer sun casts our shadow clear, the autumn glow softens our pain and sorrow, and the winter sunsets illuminate the treasures surfacing in the fields of memory
My workspace is at the other end of the room, under the original template. Surrounded by my books and art work, I look down the room and regularly turn to look out of the windows and contemplate life, both within and without.
In-between these two contemplative outposts, there is an empty space, both fluid and flexible, constantly inviting the caller to settle down and wait to see what emerges in the silence, stillness and solitude. There is a meditation circle which is not a fixed feature.
The use of the Abbey is included in a contemplative retreat. Retreatants are encouraged to first sit quietly in the room and listen to the invitation made for the duration of their retreat, in particular the art form they are encouraged to explore. Then, we proceed to whatever arrangements are beneficial for a fruitful retreat.
There is no obligation to sit regularly in the meditation circle unless decided otherwise. As a principle, I suggest alternating times of solitary meditation, indoors and outdoors, with intentional collective sittings. I favour a simple format for group meditations: a duration of 30 minutes set at regular times; a bell at the beginning and the end; a lit candle in the middle of the circle; no sharing afterwards since we enter and leave the space in noble silence.
As a reminder the Abbey is a place of silence and deep listening conducive to contemplative awareness which calls for conversations with little words.
For the time being the room is not available for rentals by groups wanting to hold their own workshops or gatherings.