TOPIC: Living in a Medieval Monastery

tonight we begin with a soft step into a world where time moves like honey, slow and deliberate, where
the air hums with the scratch of quills, the faint toll of a bell, and the earthy scent of herbs tended by
calloused hands. It’s the year 1086, and you’re not wielding a sword in some muddy battlefield or
haggling over turnips in a noisy market. No, you’re about to live a day in a medieval monastery—a place
where silence is a language, and the most thrilling event might be a goat nibbling the wrong patch of
lavender. Isn’t it oddly charming, almost absurd, that in an age of clashing knights and scheming kings,
some chose a life so orderly it makes your daily to-do list look like a drunken scribble?

If this kind of story feels like a warm blanket for your mind, maybe like and subscribe… but only if you’re
inclined. No hurry. Now, dim the lights, perhaps turn on a fan for that gentle hum, and nestle into a cozy
corner. You’re about to slip into the worn sandals of a monk, living a life of quiet purpose within stone
walls that have stood for centuries. Let’s begin, slowly, as the monastery stirs from its slumber.

You wake in a small Benedictine monastery, tucked into the rolling hills of Northumbria, where the wind
carries whispers of salt from a distant sea. It’s not a place of grandeur—no tapestries or silver goblets,
just sturdy stone walls and the faint glow of a world not yet awake. Your bed is a straw mattress, thin
and crackly, tucked in a dormitory that smells of wool, damp stone, and the lingering ghost of last night’s
barley soup. The air is chilly, even in late spring, and you pull your coarse woolen habit tighter, wishing
for a moment that someone had thought to invent a proper blanket—or at least a thicker one.

It’s 3 a.m., or close enough. A bell tolls, its low, mournful clang slicing through the fog of sleep. This is
Matins, the first of seven daily prayer services, because apparently God keeps a schedule tighter than a
tax collector’s ledger. You rise, your bare feet meeting the cold stone floor, each step a small shock that
jolts you awake. You shuffle through a dark corridor with the other monks, guided by a single candle’s
flicker. The flame dances, casting shadows that twist like silent spirits, and you wonder, half-dozing, if
it’s trying to tell you something profound. Probably not—it’s just a candle, and you’re just tired.

In the chapel, you join your brothers in a semicircle, your breath visible in the chill. The Psalms begin,
chanted in Latin, a language you’ve memorized through years of repetition, though you’re no scholar.
Your voice blends with the others, a low, rhythmic hum that feels like it could hold the world together.
The words are ancient, penned by a king who never imagined his poetry would echo in a drafty chapel
centuries later. You try to focus, but your mind wanders to a mouse you saw last week, darting across
the altar like it was late for a meeting with the sacristan. Monastic life: where even the rodents seem to
have a purpose.

You’re back in bed by 4 a.m., stealing a few more hours of sleep. The straw pokes through the thin cloth,
and you shift, searching for a spot that doesn’t feel like a penance. You chose this life—no one dragged
you here kicking and screaming. You could’ve been a farmer, wrestling pigs in the mud, or a peddler
dodging bandits on the road. Instead, you’re here, where the biggest scandal is Brother Anselm
forgetting to clean the inkpots or sneaking an extra slice of cheese. As you drift off, you wonder if the
mouse made it to its meeting, or if it’s still scurrying through the chapel, chasing its own quiet rebellion.
The bell rings again at dawn—Lauds, the prayer that greets the sun. You rise, rubbing sleep from your
eyes, and catch a glimpse of the sky through a narrow window slit. It’s painted in soft pinks and golds,
like someone spilled a chalice of watered-down wine across the heavens. The monastery is waking now,
a quiet symphony of footsteps, muffled coughs, and the creak of wooden benches. You splash your face
with water from a stone basin, the cold biting your skin like a stern reminder to stay awake. You wince,
wondering why nobody’s invented a way to warm the water, but then, comfort isn’t the point here.

In the chapel, the chants are brighter, or perhaps it’s the light streaming through the stained glass,
casting patches of red and blue on the worn stone floor. You’re no troubadour—your voice cracks on the
high notes, and you’re fairly sure you’re slightly off-key—but the rhythm of the Psalms is soothing, like a
river flowing over smooth stones. Brother Gregory, who’s been here since some long-dead king sat on
the throne, is nodding off again, his head bobbing like a buoy in a storm. You suppress a chuckle,
because laughter in the chapel is frowned upon, though you suspect God might appreciate the humor.
In a place where silence is a virtue, falling asleep during prayers is the closest thing to defiance.

****

After Lauds, you head to the lavatorium to wash your hands. The abbot insists on cleanliness, quoting
scripture about purity, but you’re pretty sure he just enjoys watching everyone shiver under the icy
water. Breakfast follows, and it’s as lavish as you’d expect from a monastery: a chunk of coarse bread,
gritty enough to remind you of your humility, a sliver of hard cheese if the stores are generous, and a
mug of weak ale. The ale’s safer than water—rivers around here carry more surprises than a peddler’s
cart, and not the good kind. You chew slowly, the bread’s texture catching in your teeth, and wonder
what the nobles are eating. Roasted pheasant? Spiced wine? Things you’ll never taste, and that’s fine.
Simplicity is the point, or so you tell yourself as you take another sip of ale that tastes faintly of regret.

By 7 a.m., you’re in the scriptorium, the monastery’s intellectual heart. It’s a room of slanted desks,
inkwells, and the faint, leathery scent of vellum—calfskin scraped and stretched until it’s smoother than
a noble’s flattery. Today, you’re copying St. Augustine’s Confessions, a text sodense it feels like wrestling
a theological ox. You dip your quill, careful not to drip ink, and begin. The Latin flows, or at least it tries
to. Your handwriting’s passable—neat enough to avoid a scolding from the scriptorium master—but
you’re no illuminator. Those monks, the lucky ones, get to paint golden vines, tiny saints, and the
occasional dragon in the margins. You’re just transcribing, line after line, your fingers cramping by the
tenth page, your eyes squinting in the dim light.

The scriptorium is silent, save for the scratch of quills, the occasional sigh, and the faint creak of a stool.
Silence is the rule, but it’s never absolute. There’s always a rustle of parchment, a cough, or Brother
Thomas muttering about a smudged letter like it’s a personal affront. You glance at the window, where a
bee buzzes against the glass, trapped and frantic. You know the feeling, though you’d never admit it.
The monotony can weigh on you, but you push it aside. This work matters. These books will outlive you,
maybe by a thousand years. Some scholar in a far-off future—say, the year 2025—might read your copy
and think, “Decent work.” Or they’ll curse your uneven lines and the ink blotch on page 47. Either way,
you’re part of something eternal, a chain of knowledge that stretches across centuries.
Around noon, it’s Sext, another prayer service. The Psalms again, always the Psalms. You wonder, in a
fleeting moment of irreverence, if God ever tires of hearing the same verses, day after day. Probably not
—he’s got eternity to kill. Back in the scriptorium, you notice Brother Anselm’s desk is empty. Word has
it he’s in the infirmary, felled by a stomachache from sneaking extra cheese at breakfast. Monks aren’t
supposed to indulge, but cheese is the monastery’s forbidden fruit, a temptation even the holiest can’t
always resist. You smirk, then refocus, dipping your quill. The bee’s still at the window, buzzing with less
enthusiasm now, as if it’s resigned to its fate. You hope it finds its way out, but you’re not optimistic.

After Sext, you’re sent to the herb garden, where the monastery grows its food and medicine. Self-
sufficiency is the rule—nobody’s running to the nearest village for a bundle of sage or a sack of leeks.
You’re weeding today, tugging stubborn dandelions from the soil while bees hum around you, oblivious
to their trapped cousin in the scriptorium. The garden’s a peaceful place, with neat rows of lavender,
thyme, and something called “wormwood” that sounds like it belongs in a bard’s tale or a witch’s brew.
You’re no herbalist, but you know enough to avoid nibbling the wrong leaves. Last year, Brother William
decided to “taste the garden” and spent a week in the infirmary, pale as a ghost and swearing he’d seen
visions of St. Benedict himself. You’re not sure if it was the wormwood or his own guilt, but you’re not
taking chances.

The sun’s high now, warming your back through your habit, and for a moment, you feel content. The
world’s troubles—wars, plagues, tax collectors—can’t touch you here. This is why you stay: these quiet
moments when God feels close, and the world feels small, manageable, like a well-tended row of herbs.
Then a goat wanders in, munching the mint with a glee that feels almost sinful, and you spend the next
half hour herding it back to the pasture. You’re no shepherd, and the goat knows it, eyeing you with a
smugness that’s distinctly unmonastic. You sigh, brushing dirt from your hands, and head to dinner.

The midday meal, served at 2 p.m., is the day’s main event, though “event” might be generous. It’s
vegetable stew, thick with barley, carrots, and the occasional turnip, another hunk of gritty bread, and a
tart apple that makes your lips pucker like you’ve bitten into a lemon.

*****

The refectory is quiet, save for the reader—a monk reciting Ecclesiastes while you eat. “All is vanity,” he
intones, his voice a steady drone, and you glance at Brother Gregory, who’s sneaking an extra spoonful
of stew when he thinks the abbot isn’t looking. Vanity, indeed. You chew slowly, savoring the warmth,
and wonder about the goat. Did it tell its friends about the mint, or is it grazing alone, plotting its next
raid?

After dinner, you’re assigned to the brewery, where the monastery makes its ale. It’s not a tavern—no
one’s toasting or singing bawdy songs—but ale’s a staple, safer than water and easier to store than milk.
You stir a vat of barley mash, the steam rising like a dragon’s breath, and check the fermentation. The
recipe’s ancient, older than the stone walls around you, passed down through generations of monks
who probably also grumbled about the smell. You’re good at this, though. There’s a rhythm to it, a kind
of alchemy that feels almost holy, transforming grain and water into something that sustains the
community. You’re not drinking for pleasure—monks don’t do that—but you appreciate the craft, the
way each batch carries a hint of the past.

By 4 p.m., it’s None, another prayer service. The chapel’s warm now, the afternoon sun slanting through
the windows, painting the floor in soft colors like a painter who forgot to finish the canvas. You’re tired,
your hands sticky with malt, and the Psalms blend into a familiar drone. You catch yourself wondering
about the goat again—did it find its way back to the pasture, or is it still scheming? Focus, you tell
yourself. God’s listening, or at least the abbot is, and he’s got a sharp eye for daydreamers. You stand
straighter, mouthing the words, though your mind’s half in the brewery, half in the pasture.

The rest of the afternoon is yours, or as “yours” as it gets in a monastery. You walk the cloister, a square
courtyard framed by stone arches, and let your mind wander. Before you took your vows, you were a
farmer’s son, destined for a life of plowing fields and praying for rain that never came. Here, at least, the
work feels eternal—books, ale, herbs, all part of something bigger than a single harvest. Still, you miss
your mother’s bread, warm and soft, not this gritty loaf that feels like a test of endurance. You shake off
the thought. Nostalgia’s a luxury monks can’t afford, like spices or a bed that doesn’t creak.

As evening falls, it’s time for Vespers. The chapel’s lit by candles now, their flames flickering like tiny
beacons in the gathering dark. The chants are slower, more reflective, and you feel the day’s weight
settling into your bones. You’re young—maybe 25—but monastic life ages you in odd ways. Your knees
ache from kneeling, your fingers are stained with ink and malt, and you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten
how to laugh without sounding like a startled goose. The Psalms wrap around you like a blanket, their
rhythm steady and sure, and for a moment, you feel at peace.

Supper’s light: more bread, a handful of dried figs, and a cup of water that tastes faintly of the stone
well it came from. The refectory’s quieter now, the reader droning on about Job’s trials. You sympathize
with Job, but at least he didn’t have to listen to Brother Thomas’s snoring, which you’re certain could
wake the dead. You finish eating and head to the chapter house for the daily meeting. The abbot reads
from the Rule of St. Benedict, urging humility, obedience, and silence. You nod, but your mind’s on the
goat. You hope it’s safe, munching grass somewhere peaceful, not plotting another mint heist.

The final prayer, Compline, comes at dusk. The chapel’s dark, save for a few candles, their light pooling
like liquid gold. The chants feel like a lullaby, wrapping you in calm, and you sing of rest, of God’s
protection through the night. For a moment, you believe it completely. The world outside—kings, wars,
famine—feels distant, irrelevant. Here, it’s just you, your brothers, and the rhythm of this life, steady as
a heartbeat.

After Compline, the Great Silence begins. No speaking until morning. You shuffle to the dormitory, your
footsteps echoing in the quiet, and settle onto your straw mattress. The ceiling’s familiar now, its cracks
like a map of your thoughts. You think about the day: prayers, quills, goats, ale. It’s ordinary, repetitive,
but there’s a beauty in it, a purpose that carries you. You’re part of something that will outlast you,
something that’s been here for centuries and will be here long after you’re gone.
As you drift into sleep, let’s linger on the monastery’s rhythm, because that’s what holds this life
together. Days here aren’t marked by grand events—no battles won, no treasures unearthed. Instead,
it’s the small things: the weight of a quill in your hand, the smell of barley in the brewery, the soft clatter
of plates in the refectory.

*****

You’ve learned to find meaning in repetition, in the way each prayer, each task, builds something larger
than yourself.

You think of your brothers, the monks who share this life. There’s Brother Gregory, who’s been here so
long he claims to remember when the chapel’s roof didn’t leak—a bold claim, since it’s leaked for
decades. There’s Brother Anselm, recovering from his cheese-induced penance, probably dreaming of
softer beds and milder flavors. And Brother Thomas, whose muttering in the scriptorium is as reliable as
the bell, a constant undercurrent of complaints about ink and parchment. They’re not perfect—nobody
is—but they’re your family, bound by vows and shared silences, by the rhythm of this strange, quiet life.

You dream of the garden, of the goat that wandered in, and wonder if it’s still out there, grazing under
the stars. You dream of the books you’ve copied, their pages traveling to distant lands, read by people
you’ll never meet. You dream of the ale, bubbling in its vats, and the Psalms, rising like smoke to the
heavens. It’s a simple dream, but it’s yours, and it’s enough.

In your sleep, your mind drifts to the world beyond the walls. The monastery isn’t an island, not really.
It’s tied to the land, to the villagers who bring grain and wool in exchange for prayers, to the lords who
donate land in hopes of buying a spot in heaven. You’ve heard stories of the outside—tales of wars, of
kings crowned and deposed, of plagues that sweep through towns like divine judgment. Here, those
stories feel like whispers, half-heard and easily ignored, like the wind rattling the chapel windows.

But the monastery has its role. The books you copy will teach priests and scholars, preserving knowledge
through a world that seems determined to forget. The ale you brew will feed the poor who come to the
gate, their faces lined with hunger and hope. The herbs you grow will heal the sick, or at least ease their
pain, offering a small mercy in a world that’s often merciless. You’re not changing the world, not in the
way a king or a knight might, but you’re holding it together, one quill stroke, one prayer, one weed
pulled at a time.

You think of the pilgrims who visit, weary travelers seeking blessings or miracles. You’ve seen them in
the chapel, kneeling on the cold stone, their eyes bright with hope or clouded with despair. You don’t
have answers for them—nobody does—but you offer what you can: a bowl of stew, a prayer, a moment
of peace. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep them going, to send them back into the world a little
lighter.

As the night deepens, your sleep grows heavier, and the monastery fades into a soft blur. You’re no
longer just a monk in 1086—you’re part of a chain, a tradition that stretches back to Benedict and
forward to a future you can’t imagine. The bells will ring tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after
that. The Psalms will be sung, the books copied, the herbs tended. The goat might wander again, and
Brother Gregory will probably doze off mid-prayer, his snores blending with the chants.

This is the monastery’s gift: the eternal now. Each day mirrors the last, yet each is new. You’re not
chasing glory or wealth—you’re chasing something quieter, something that feels like truth. You don’t
always understand it, but you feel it in the rhythm of the hours, in the weight of the quill, in the warmth
of the sun on your back. It’s a life of small moments, woven together into something vast, something
that endures.

In the stillness of the night, as you lie on your straw mattress, you reflect on what this life means. It’s not
about fame or fortune—those are for knights and merchants, for people who measure their days in coin
or conquest. Here, success is quieter: a page copied without error, a row of herbs free of weeds, a
prayer sung without faltering. You’ve learned to find joy in these things, to see the divine in the
mundane. The world outside might chase fleeting pleasures, but you’ve found something steadier,
something that anchors you.

You think of the other monks, each with their quirks and quiet struggles. There’s Brother William, who
still tells the story of his wormwood misadventure, embellishing it with each retelling until it sounds like
he wrestled a demon. There’s Brother Stephen, the novice who’s still learning the Psalms and blushes
every time he stumbles over a Latin phrase. And there’s the abbot, stern but kind, who watches over
you all like a shepherd with a particularly stubborn flock. They’re your brothers, your companions in this
strange, silent life, and you wouldn’t trade them, not even for a softer bed.

As you drift deeper into sleep, you imagine the monastery’s future. These walls will stand long after
you’re gone, sheltering generations of monks who will sing the same Psalms, copy the same books, tend
the same herbs.

****

The world will change—kings will fall, empires will rise, and maybe someone will finally invent socks—
but the monastery will endure, a quiet constant in a chaotic world. Your work, your prayers, your small
acts of devotion will ripple forward, touching lives you’ll never know.

You think of the books in the scriptorium, their pages filled with your careful script. They’ll travel to
other monasteries, to cathedrals, to scholars who will pore over them by candlelight. They’ll carry your
mistakes, too—the ink blotch on page 47, the slightly crooked line on page 82—but that’s part of it.
Perfection isn’t the goal; faithfulness is. You’ve done your part, and that’s enough.

And so, you’ve lived a day in a medieval monastery, a world of bells and books, of silence and small
triumphs. It’s not a life for everyone—most would balk at the endless prayers, the gritty bread, the lack
of anything resembling excitement—but for you, in this moment, it’s home. Sleep well, listener. Let the
monastery’s rhythm carry you, let the bells sing you to rest. Maybe you’ll dream of goats and quills, of
ale and Psalms, or maybe you’ll just drift, held by the quiet beauty of a life long past.