The hidden cloister, the imagined cell.
Because it isn’t a real cloister but rather an imagined cloister, a place of emptiness within. (As if any cloister could be just brick and stone, pillared, a sealed fountain, a courtyard with herbs and flowers, a private sanctuary for the external life.)
It is primarily if not altogether metaphor and this is my way of working with that metaphor.
The idea came to me as I was thinking about Charles de Foucauld this morning, watching the dark blue dawn sky above the locquat tree. The desert within.
“Let us concern ourselves with those who lack everything,” he stated, “those to whom no one gives a thought. Let us be the friends of those who have no friends, their brother. The love of God, the love of men, that is my whole life, that will be my whole life, I hope. When we can suffer and love, we can do much, the most that one can do in this world.”