9
On the last Friday of May, I take the path through the woods not to the hermitage, but to the base of the hill Mount Sergius is named for, where there is a labyrinth made of limestone rocks half sunk into the earth. In the middle of the labyrinth is a cluster of benches, and on those benches are scattered several monks. Others sit on the shady ground or lie on their backs with their eyes shut, stealing a few moments of sleep. One is pacing, his head down and his forehead furrowed, and someone else is humming what I’m reasonably certain is a Harry Styles song.
It is the last Friday of the month, and so it’s time for Lectio Lexapro.
“Ah, Brother Patrick,” Brother Matthew says. “Is that everyone?”
I scan the brothers assembled as I reach the center. Brothers Matthew, Stephen, Denis
