Above the guest lodge with its three bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchen, there is a spacious room which is called ‘The Abbey’. Why such an august name? Isn’t it a bit ostentatious? Let me tell you the story of this very 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 my plan of converting 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 comprised of the stables cum storage areas, on one side, and the barn, on the other side.
We found a local architect who immediately saw the potential and got the impetus of the transformation in waiting. He came up with a design based on 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 to consciously move through transitions.
Above the stables and storage building, there were a few planks making up 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 used to 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 contract with the constructor, 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 roof 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 buildings, 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 building with everything ripped out and 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, 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, for the time being, there were plastic sheets and rough pieces of wood outlining the contours. 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. Was this another aspect of continuity that had found its way into the architectural design? 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 humbleness as I bore witness to the nakedness of the cruciform nature of reality and the light within. This is when the name ‘The Abbey’ floated in, a very apt designation since an abbey is a building occupied by a monastic community. This is the promise to be fulfilled, namely through founding, in due time, a community house.
The encounter with ‘The Abbey’ was so prevailing that I wanted to stay as long as possible in the singularity of existence of this moment. I longed to dwell in the state of being felt as I stood in the empty room gazing into the original template. 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.
Work to create a dry and warm spacious room continued over the next months, relentlessly, slowly covering up the archetype. Thick insulation was installed under the roof with a thickness that produced admiration and respect among the neighbours coming to inspect 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. Surely, this had been my first taste of contemplative awareness, something I was being called to grow into. Unfortunately, or maybe purposefully, for the evolutionary thrust to follow its course, the original template had to disappear so that I would set off on the odyssey to uncover restored alignment in wholeness.
At first, I thought the hefty insulation was sealing 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 founding a hermitage conducive to 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. They remind me of the promise flowering from an intimate relationship with higher will, the pledge setting the bearings for the odyssey with wholeness.
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. In this moment of telling the story and remembering the initiatory event, I finally grasp the full gamut of the human experience when meeting the divine. I am chuffed by the knowledge that the numinous is now ‘hiding in plain sight’ in the Abbey, another biblical reference to the mystery of creation.
The final chapter of the work on the room was the lighting and a very enthusiastic electrician let loose his creativity. 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 filled the space opposite the template of the primeval church set in the wall on the other side. Different sources of light were reaching out to touch each other with, between them, the empty space of luminous presence: a space to step into, a place to inhabit and dwell in.
Since, pools of light caressing the space are constantly appearing. They remind me of the blessing bestowed upon this room since the apparition of the original template. It reminds 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 orchestrated 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 and listen to music on a state-of-the-art sound system. 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 passages of 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 curve of the sun to achieve fullness, gently gleaming through the roof windows to console us when we enter the house of suffering and pass through the dark nights. In daytime and through the seasons, the caressing sun of spring warms up the parts of us coming back from their winter hibernation, the glaring summer sun casts our shadow clear, the autumn glow softens our pain and sorrow, 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, delighting in the porosity of the rim of intelligibility, the invitational aspects of the new thresholds of understanding that I have come across charting the odyssey with wholeness.
In-between these two contemplative outposts, there is an empty space, both fluid and flexible, constantly secreting the invitation 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 and unmoveable. The circle is where I sat daily and at regular hours for the first five years, mostly on my own, sometimes with others or with guests. I now sit in my private rooms. I have positioned my meditation chair in the stream flowing from the round church. There I can catch the dawn-light and the rising sun. I feel the rush of warmth and light slowly infill and enfold me.
The eight windows have been decorated with blown glass and artefacts from Bornholm. Beyond my workspace, each window ornamentation is a different colour displaying the spectrum of a rainbow, the seven colours of the chakras running through the pathways to selfhood. The eighth window, close to my desk and the original template, is furnished in white and gold in representation of the higher frequencies of light beaming from the archetype in origin.
The space between is open to all creative endeavours and more specifically to the practice of an art form, be it movement with dancing, Qigong or Yoga, creating a writing bubble for intimate journalling or composing lyrics, alternating sitting meditation with slow walking meditation, or wildly splashing colours to create art work, to name a few options. This is the liminal space where we sit, wait and actively listen. We breathe in the devouring silence, the raging stillness and the chilling solitude of the combustion chamber releasing us into the pregnant silence, the quiet stillness and the full presence of solitude blossoming in the refiner’s fire.
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 practicing the chosen art form.
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.