Summer 2010 SE - Part Six - The Bell at Gethsemane

Blue lines on the maps are the planned route. Red lines are deviations.

“With my hair almost on end and eyes of my soul wide open I am present, without knowing it at all, in this unspeakable Paradise and I behold this secret, this wide open secret which is there for everyone, free, and no one pays any attention.” Thomas Merton.

6. The Bell at Gethsemane

It sure is nice to leave Fort Boonesborough Park behind. I pretty much ran the North/South length of Kentucky today. Well, not quite. I took the Bluegrass Parkway out of Lexington after 2 hours at the Triumph dealer waiting for a damage estimate, then down 55 past the Abbey to Campbellsville.

I doubled back to Lebanon when I realized I’d gone too far again, and made it to Gethsemane just in time for the 2:15 choir. An odd stylistic mix of medieval sacred and American folk, I think. I can confirm Merton’s description from Seven Storey Mountain, the choir of monks is unpolished, but quite pleasant. The Cistercians – Trappists – have a rigorous practice of work, silence and singing, yet there is a light touch to everything they do. A breathy old organ played simple two note chords to accompany the singers. Today I did notice a modest and artful cross outside above the entrance to the church. That was the only one on the property that I could see. A large and stark one is on the hill across the street, to which one may ascend and sit on two plain benches.

The same two women are at the gift shop. “I’m here for the #12 bell, the big one” I say. “Oh but we have bigger ones” one of the women says. “Really? Where are they?”

They discuss it and one looks under the counter. “Are we all sold out?” she asks of the other. “We have more on order, they should be here by the weekend. A number 13, that’s $60 and a bigger one. Do you like the sound of this one?” she asks.

“Uh huh. The number 12 will do nicely. You do a big trade in bells, do you?” “Oh yes.”

I paid for the bell and a book by Merton on Buddhism, which I may have read already, and arranged for shipping.

Then it’s down Highway 31E past the birthplace of Abraham Lincoln, near Hodgenville. Nina Simone’s birthplace I'd go out of my way for. Abbey Lincoln’s I would too, but Abraham has plenty of admirers without me stopping. I did stop at a place advertising guns, ammo, sandwiches and cold drinks. I looked at the guns, nothing special, and bought a Diet Coke. Right turn on Highway 70 to Mammoth Cave National Park.

It’s a lovely campground; cheap too. Many bird voices up in the tall trees and a fat robin is hopping around my campsite. A young buck roams through the campground, his doe-friend stays further out in the trees and brush. I booked two nights.