Teachers I

Decades ago, one old monk at school told us the following story: as a young novice, it had been his task to rise especially early, before the others in his community, and fill and light all the oil-lamps in the Abbey, in preparation for the first prayer of the day.

In the days before the mass electrification of the country, one can imagine how a bitter English night must have felt inside the dark vaulted interior of the place; the pale limestone walls cold and echoing, whilst one slight and shivering figure shuffled a jerry-can of black lamp-oil from station to station, with only an old set of wooden library steps to assist him in reaching up for the empty lamps, then replacing them again, full and unwieldly, with increasingly tired outstretched arms.

One morning, due to whatever combination of cold and tiredness, the inevitable occured, and, in some dark corner behind the alter, down fell one of the lamps, full of bitumous liquid, though, luckily for the mortified novice, not yet lit. The porous stone almost immediately soaked up the oil, and despite his best efforts that day, and for years to come, the floor of the Abbey remained indelibly marked with a dark splash where the old oil lamp had shattered.

Our old monk probably never forgot the lesson, about taking care of the smallest things, as everything leaves a lasting impression; last February, in an Abbey now better heated and lit, like everywhere else, after the old monk's funeral, I went looking, and, there, still, was a faint darkening in the smooth stone floor.

Not all mistakes are bad, not when they can still teach long after the teacher is gone and forgotten.