As the friary slowly shrinks in my rear view mirror, I can almost hear my tense back muscles unbraid. After spending well over a month running from pillar to post, I can hardly believe I'm finally getting away. As I turn up Yonkers Avenue heading towards the parkway, a little door in my head swings opens and out tumble a hundred and one reasons why I should stay home. I almost have to swat away these thoughts as they buzz about my head. Yet, I put all this nonsense to rest by reminding myself that as Community Servant I should at least obey the rules. Our Constitutions state, "every month the friars will take at least one day away for personal prayer." I fight the urge to catch up on the news and turn onto the parkway heading north.

Although Saint Francis never had to run for a phone, send a fax or fight traffic, he also felt the need to flee the world and head for the hills. I must admit, his hiding alone atop a mountain crag or in some dark cave was an embrace; for me, it's an escape. Never once have I spent my monthly time in solitude keeping vigil throughout the night lamenting my sins with tears. No, the sad fact is I spend more time reading than weeping; wrapped in my sleeping bag than being rapt in contemplation. "Well," I say to myself, "this month, let's give it another shot."

When most people think of Saint Francis they immediately think of birds and bunnies. They should consider mountain goats! Why? Well, some years ago, when visiting Assisi, I saw the places Saint Francis would spend in solitude. Most were atop high mountains. Not only were the vistas breathtaking, but so too the climb! When Saint Francis went away, he went up, up and away! It is also interesting to note that although the Saint insisted that his friars never receive money, he graciously accepted a nobleman's gift of a mountain! Yes, it would be on this mountain called La Verna, he would meet his Lord. No doubt, my time of prayer will be far less dramatic, yet what Saint Francis hoped to find on a mountain near Assisi, I hope to find on a farm near Albany.

I must admit the word "farm" may be a bit misleading, evoking images of animals and bright red barns brimming with hay and bustling with activity. Actually, the only animals on this farm live in the woods, and there's plenty of them: deer, wild turkeys, even coyotes. As for the barns, being on the brink of collapse, we tore them down years ago. Only some stone foundations and rusty farm equipment remain as half-buried monuments to the farm's former glory. Pigs and cows are fun to look at, but this farm has what I now need - peace and quiet!

My journey from car alarms to crickets takes about two hours up the Taconic State Parkway. Actually, the trip itself is a part of the retreat, especially in autumn when all the elms and oaks along the way become ablaze and almost look electric. The parkway is somewhat serpentine yet when I exit, I fly straight as an arrow past farmers markets and fields thick with corn. The final stretch slithers through small hills studded with squat fruit trees ornamented with either oversized apples, or dull, copper colored pears. Finally, at a "Dead End" sign riddled with bullet holes, I turn then proceed past another sign that flatly states: "No Exit." Here the road becomes rutted and rocky and you hope your shocks survive. No wonder even the locals scrunch their face, scratch their head and say: "now, where is your farm?"

Actually, the farm is not ours. We simply have the pleasure of enjoying this small slice of heaven through the generosity of the Schenk family. Yet, we are responsible for its' upkeep. That's why about twice a year small squadrons of friars descend on the property with hammers, paint brushes, and chain saws. But honestly, the only real worker is Butch, a stocky Slovak-American neighbor who is the caretaker. With a tractor held together by tape, twine and a prayer, he keeps the property from turning into a wilderness. The farm is very quiet except during summer storms and when Butch plows the fields listening to the Mets. Over fifty years ago he used to play on the Schenk farm, now he plows its fields! If indeed we have a farm, Butch is the farmer.

Although the chicken coops and corn cribs are long gone, the old Schenk homestead still stands, a simple, almost spartan structure built into the side of a hill. At some point, plumbing and electricity were installed, but to this day wood burners supply the only heat. Besides a simple stove and fridge, conveniences are few. The clothes washer is a scrub board which sits in a porcelain sink and the dryer is tied taut between two trees.

Like most country homes, the heart of the house is the kitchen, especially in the winter. The friars love to linger in the warm kitchen with its big wood burner, whitewashed walls, and sturdy wooden table, but they eventually make their way upstairs. You could probably guess what's there and what it looks like - no vaulted ceiling, marble floor, or ornate gold leafing. In fact, the only thing that glimmers and gleams in the chapel is the sanctuary lamp which throws its blood-red rays on a humble wooden tabernacle. Here sitting barefoot and cross-legged on the rough, unvarnished floorboards appears quite proper - at least for Franciscans!

Outside the farmhouse, in almost opposite directions, stand two hermitages named Blessed Giles and Saint Joseph. In these rustic one-room cabins constructed by the friars, you plug nothing in and turn nothing on. If the house is "low tech" the hermitages are definitely "no tech." If Century 21 had to list these, it would read: "Friars' dream house. Fully equipped - wooden table complete with chair. Cast iron wood burner. Big windows. Cozy porch. Friendly field mice."

Personally, I find the most attractive selling feature of the hermitage to be the porch. Admittedly, "cozy" is a bit flattering. Some porches wrap around the house, these wrap around you! But who needs space? Give me a hot mug of coffee, a fist full of biscotti, a good book, and I'm set for hours. Here from the hermitage porch, you can enjoy God's on-going beauty pageant. Whatever the time or season, you're front row center. In spring and summer, everything outside is lush and alive, buzzing, digging, climbing. In autumn, the brisk breezes comb the trees clean creating massive lemon, crimson, and copper colored carpets. While in winter everything quietly slumbers under a thick white wool blanket and a steel gray sky. "Yep," I can hear Butch say, "the best seat in the house."

Not only do the seasons vie for first prize, but so too does the time. If you set your alarm clock, you'll catch deer cautiously stepping out of the woods into the clearing then standing like statues, ears erect, as the morning mist rises from their feet. If you're a night owl, you can step outside and see a star splattered sky and play astronomer by finding both Dippers or Orion's Belt. I honestly wonder how it is some people don't believe in God. Who else could put on such a show?

Franciscan mystic and theologian, Saint Bonaventure, described the world about us as a book. He called it "The Book of Creation." Here's a book even the illiterate can read. Look all around, read its pages, what do you see? - order, harmony, beauty, proportion, purpose. I suspect some so-called smart people should stop writing books and begin reading this one. Saint Francis called himself an "idiota," an ignorant, unlettered man, but in reality, he was an Einstien of the spiritual life. In God's classroom you don't have to be intelligent, but you do have to pay attention!

As I sit here sipping my coffee and scanning the horizon. I can't help but think about heaven. I say to myself, "how can heaven be more beautiful than this?" Almost in reply, I hear the apostle Paul chiding me: "Remember: 'eye has not seen, nor has ear heard, nor has it even entered into the mind of man what God has prepared for those who love Him." As I ponder the spectacle before me, I begin to wonder why in the presence of all this goodness and beauty I can still be so ungrateful. I suspect such thoughts reduced Saint Francis to tears; yet here I sit dry-eyed.

While pouring my second cup of coffee, I ponder. The beautiful and pleasurable things in this world are gifts from God, therefore they all are good. Yet when we only enjoy the gift while ignoring the Giver, we get ourselves in trouble. The very things God created to be a blessing for us then become a burden. What God made to catch our attention, becomes a distraction. This is why, I suppose, God in His mercy designed us with a built-in breaker box. Meaning, He created us with a limited capacity for earthly pleasure so as not lose our desire for the delights of heaven.

For example, two cups of coffee are fine, but how would I feel after downing two pots? A few slices of homemade pizza tastes heavenly; how would I feel after a few pies? - like hell! A twenty minute hot shower - ahhh! A twenty hour shower - aggh! I mean, how long could you enjoy a striking sunset, a brisk back massage, or blaring bag pipes? Yes, it's a question of capacity. On earth God allows us to taste tiny crumbs which fall from the heavenly banquet table. He doesn't want us to spoil our appetite for the special supper He has prepared for His children.

Yes, what Dante did with pen and Michaelangelo did with paint, we also must do, that is: imagine eternity. No doubt, if we seriously thought more of heaven we might do better here on earth. The things we love in life are but bait the Master Fisherman uses to pull us up from our world to His. What do I love which makes me think and long for heaven? I love the smell of fresh Basil right off the bush or clean linen warm on the line. I love the sight of an elderly couple holding hands and an infant asleep in his mother's arms. I love the feel of a friend's warm embrace or a hot bath after a long winter's walk. I love the sound of children playing, or better yet, praying. Finally, I love the taste of almost anything homemade and eaten outside!

As Saint Paul wrote: "Eye has not seen nor has ear heard...what God has prepared for those who love Him." The way that I figure it, if indeed heaven is better than anything we can hardly imagine, then hell must be much worse. That means, if the heavenly banquet tastes better than my late Aunt Pasqualina's lasagna - hell is far worse than liver!! You would think I would begin to love God more!

With all this heady meandering. I hardly noticed the sun had already set. The hills in the distance have turned the color of ink and the trees stand silhouetted against the evening sky. A quick chill in the air nudges me as if to say, "all right, show's over, time to hit the hay." So I stand and stretch, then pick up two small cedar logs from a pile off the porch. Another chill makes me quickly leap back on the porch and hussels me inside the hermitage. The room is dark except one small vigil candle burning beneath an icon of the Virgin. I squat down and swing open the warm iron door of the woodburner to peer inside. A bed of glowing gray and orange embers warms my face and appears alive and iridescent, like the tongue of some infernal creature. I toss in the two logs, they immediately ignite; I then shut the monster's mouth with a clang.

My eyes feel heavy and I instinctively yawn as I pick up my alarm clock. Realizing where I am, I stop and smile, then with an almost adolescent defiance, loudly snap the alarm to "OFF." As I crawl into and zip my sleeping bag about me, I feel excited like a kid bedding down on Christmas Eve. From the floor I can see the moon through the window panes bright and bloated, balancing on the sharp tips of some tall pines. As I grope for my rosary sitting somewhere beside me, the candle suddenly begins to flicker and flutter. Hungry for more wax, the flame wildly begins to lick the thick blue grass dry. In a flash, the Virgin disappears. Everything is still except the ticking of the clock. I can hardly believe the peace. I make the sign of the cross and begin my rosary.

I turn my pillow over, then slowly sink the side of my face into the cool fresh linen. As the fragrant cedar hisses and pops in the burner, I curl up a bit and say to myself, "Now this is heaven." Yet, almost immediately, I hear something small scurry across the floor, then hear the crinkling of the biscotti bag I left open on the table. So I sigh, turn over, and whisper aloud to the cool wooden wall beside me: "Heaven? No, not yet, but almost."