Eric Morlock is a distinguished prose writer and playwright from Seattle, WA USA. Over the past year, he has published two short stories and an essay. His talent in playwriting was recognized when his one-act comedy received an honorable mention at the 2023 ThinkingFunny radio play festival in Redding, California. Eric’s evocative personal essay, “Among Brothers,” was published in the January/February 1996 issue of UU World, the Unitarian journal. This piece vividly recounts his week-long stay at a Benedictine abbey near Puget Sound, where he sought to reconcile his deep-seated animosity toward his brother by immersing himself in the serene and gentle environment of the abbey. Through his writing, Eric continues to explore complex human emotions and relationships, captivating and engaging his readers.

Among Brothers

By Eric Morlock

I wanted to write about my brother. Since I am contemplative by nature, I decided to go on a spiritual retreat and spend some quiet time reflecting on certain childhood events involving him. I meant to capture and hold every terrible moment in my mind. My idea was that by embracing the demons I could exorcise them. I expected something close to a spiritual revelation from this venture – and substantial grist for my mill. I would keep an impeccable journal, then later work the material into an essay. A trenchant commentary on sibling abuse.

At the local library, I found a guidebook to West Coast sanctuaries. I supposed that the spiritual inclination of most of these hosts would be mystical, and that an emphasis would be placed on solitary and communal meditation. Given my ecumenical beliefs, most any of the traditions could apply: Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, Sufi, Kabbalah, New Age, Old Age – whatever. My main criteria were affordability, solitude, and a beautiful natural setting, conditions met by at least a dozen sanctuaries within a few hours’ drive from my home in Seattle. How to narrow them down? The answer turned on a literary conceit.

A major element of my essay involved the contrast between my hated brother and the fine souls I would surely encounter at the sanctuary. Whether Western or Eastern in orientation, most monasteries would have an abbot or abbess, a few priests, and some monks or nuns. But only a Catholic monastery would have “Brothers.” So I made a week’s reservation at a Benedictine abbey at the southern end of Puget Sound.

In my mind, I began to write my essay even before I arrived. Would I strike up a friendship with some charismatic or compassionate monk whom I could successfully contrast with my brother? Possibly. Would I find a Bible story like my own that would provide some solace? The only one I could think of was Cain and Abel, and although close to my story in spirit, I was still alive…so any other stories seemed doubtful. Would I share my pain with a wise Father confessor, whose patient counsel would resolve my dilemma and help turn my life around? Not bloody likely.

My first impression of Brother Edward, the guest house manager, was not favorable. Tall and somber, with an impressive salt-and-pepper beard, he certainly looked every inch the mystical monk. But he had a marked air of resignation, as if he had long ago grown weary of this tired old routine – showing guests their plain but comfortable rooms, explaining the house rules, reciting the chapel hours. Evidently the role of humble host, as Saint Benedict would have it, did not sit well with Brother Edward. But no matter. He soon left, after reminding me, in his ponderous monotone, to sign the guest book sometime during my stay.

Spartan as my room was, I liked it from the start. It was large and bright, with a soft bed, a sturdy desk, and a cozy armchair next to the window, which afforded a pleasant view of the lush, wooded grounds. Portraits of the pious and various icons adorned the walls; a Bible and the rules of Saint Benedict rested on the desk. Above the bed loomed a large, ornate cross. Although my strict Protestant upbringing had colored my opinion of elaborate ritual objects, these trappings felt comfortable to me. A testament to the timeless struggles of the spirit, they seemed to validate my own quest.

Having arrived late in the afternoon, I spent the rest of my first day roaming the grounds and trying to adopt the reverential frame of mind that seemed necessary for my task. Tomorrow, I would begin a daily regimen of meditation and try to methodically recollect the horrors of my childhood: to define more clearly those I already knew, and to evoke the even greater traumas I believed I had repressed for over 30 years. In short, I meant to put my brother on trial.

But hatred breeds only chaos and confusion, not clarity. As planned, I set aside a block of time the next afternoon for my vision quest. I darkened the room by covering the window with a heavy blanket. I placed a rolled-up towel at the base of the door to muffle hallway sounds. I lit incense, then sat cross-legged and tried to concentrate on the minutiae of an event: What time of day was it? What did the room look like? What kind of expression was on his face? How did it feel to face my impending death?

But the harder I tried to recall these things, the more elusive they became. For the better part of two days I sat faithfully, trying to clear a path through the fog of decades. I began to feel foolish. How could I recreate in one week what my whole life had obscured? Was this whole endeavor simply a fool’s errand? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became of the folly of this venture – the whole concept felt wrongheaded, and the motivation dubious. The role of Grand Inquisitor, it seemed, did not suit me.

Finally, I resolved to stop expecting anything at all from this experience and simply enjoy the five days I had left to me. There were 300 acres of forests to explore, fine, gentle people to meet, and a lovely chapel that beckoned those with a sincere and worthy heart. I wanted to be worthy, to abandon my selfishness and indulgence for a time, and find my better self.

I began the next day with a long walk in the woods. I tried to proceed slowly, to look and listen attentively. There is wonder in a leaf, a wildflower, even a banana slug, if you really look at it, and music in the breeze. A small but shrill voice inside me – an echo of my brother’s constant derision of my sentimentality – tried to spoil the moment, insisting that nature is malign: survival of the fittest, a mere feeding frenzy. But I chose not to listen.

I held on to this feeling of reverence through evening prayer, where I sat quietly next to Brother Edward, who seemed more at ease in his element. Between the service book and the psalter, I often got lost trying to find the correct prayer or plain song, and Brother Edward would patiently set me right. Tonight, in my expansive mood, I felt a genuine kinship with all the monks. Although I didn’t embrace their creed, I felt that we shared a common belief: that all life is sacred, and that we must embody this understanding in the everyday conduct of our lives. Suddenly, I felt bound to every one of these black-cloaked folk. Two Brother Edward. To Brother Denton, who was such a witty and agreeable conversationalist at dinner time. To Brother Placidus, whose name so accurately reflected his gentle manner and spirit. And even to old, irascible Father Paul, who made cracks about the amount of food I piled on my plate. Feeling a real love for these men, I said the prayers with the fervor of a true believer.

A pious feeling can dissolve in an instant, with the first inkling of trouble. I skipped chapel the next day, fearing it would be hypocritical for me to go to mass or prayer service on a Sunday. After evening prayer Brother Edward came to my room and asked why I had been absent from chapel. Clearly, my explanation didn’t suit him. He became agitated and testily pointed out that I was not staying in a hotel and that I needed to attend the events more faithfully. I was sure I had made it clear, in my initial letter of inquiry to him, that I had not yet committed to any particular religious tradition. But perhaps he had misunderstood. No doubt the man had encountered many slackers and freeloaders during his tenure as guest master. I calmly assured him that I would resume my usual schedule tomorrow.

But as soon as he left, I felt the old oppression overtake me, the familiar mixture of anger and guilt the clouds my mind like a dark shroud when someone criticizes me. Part of me wants to punish the critic for his or her effrontery; the other part believes he or she may be somewhat right. No matter how I tried to discount this little incident, I couldn’t allay this feeling of affliction for the rest of the day and into the night. It would certainly persist tomorrow, too, as I prepared to face Brother Edward again. I would try to project my best side, the forgiving side, but I feared that the dark side would prevail.

I awoke the next morning in a mood of restless apprehension unrelieved by the bright, cloudless day. I took to the woods, but there was no solace there; the beauty and serenity I had encountered there the day before were lost to me now. After lunch, I started for the chapel, not so much to pray as to try and absorb some of the peace of the place. In my gloom, however, even the chapel seemed ominous.

I stood in the courtyard, transfixed. Everything I saw reminded me of him. The long, thick rope that dangled from the bell tower reminded me of the time my brother looped one end of a jump rope around my neck, pushed me to the ground on my stomach, looped the other end around my ankles, then fastened the two ends together to hog tie me. I pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the narthex. The small brass fountain in the center of the room became transformed into porcelain, and now my brother was relentlessly dunking my head into the toilet bowl until my breath was spent. Entering the chapel proper, I sat and gazed at the altar and was instantly drawn to the candle flame. At length he was daring, badgering, hounding me ever nearer the fireplace blaze, until my pants actually caught fire. I lurched out of my seat and escaped into the sacristy, awash and color and light from the stained glass. There, among the prayer benches, I noticed the small cushions attached to the knee rests. Before long my brother was straddling me on my bed, smothering me with my pillow until I went limp.

Other torments began to assail me, unbidden by my surroundings. Electric shock, poison, the knife, the rifle. How ironic, now that I had abandoned my quest, that these events unfolded spontaneously and with such intensity. The mad rush of memory confirmed what I had long suspected: that as an adolescent, my brother had some perverted need to “execute” me in virtually every way he could imagine. And each of these events had to end with my complete, abject surrender.

I believe in forgiveness. It is one of the main tenets on which I base my ill-defined spiritual life. Without forgiveness we remain querulous and embittered, victims forever. But how could I possibly forgive my brother for such wickedness? No doubt there was a valid psychological explanation for his behavior. Our father, while indifferent toward me, was harsh with my brother, physically and psychologically – unbuckling his belt and taking him to the “woodshed” on frequent occasions, and demeaning him for the slightest misdeed – all of which must have made him hate me enormously. But this was no ordinary sibling rivalry. This was cruelty of a rare order.

I fled the chapel that day and hurried back to my room, where I lay immobile on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I visualized all my usual forms of retribution, wrestling my brother to the floor, twisting both arms out of their sockets, beating his head against the floor until he lost consciousness. Then we were in some other setting, and I held in my hand a gun, a knife, a fireplace poker. Finally, my thoughts turned to Brother Edward. I could now better put our relationship into perspective.

I tried as best I could to see his point of view. As caretaker of the abbey, guardian of the faith, he had to ensure that all guests respected the traditions of the church. As principled as it seemed to me, my refusal to attend Sunday services was clearly an affront to Brother Edward and the abbey. I tried to bring my own spiritual values to bear upon this matter and leave my ego behind. Here was an ideal time, I thought, to put my belief in forgiveness into practice.

As I entered the chapel for evening prayer, Brother Edward stepped up to greet me. We smiled at each other almost simultaneously, and in that instant everything was forgiven. No words seemed necessary, just a smile to secure an understanding between two all-two-fallible human beings. The prayer service elicited more quirks and imperfections: my own scrambling for the right page, Brother Edwards’ terrible singing voice, Brother John’s tentative reading of the scripture, Father Paul’s lackluster closing prayer. I found it all rather eloquent, somehow – all of our fumbling and stumbling through life. So many mistakes each and every day.

The last two days of my retreat zoomed by. I tramped through the woods, prayed at chapel, chatted with the monks at meal time, scribbled the last entries in my diary. I forced my problems into the background, along with my essay, and tried to steal some serenity from the place.

The evening before I left, something interesting happened. I was sitting with Brother Edward at dinner, when he suddenly asked about my essay, which I had alluded to vaguely weeks before in our initial phone conversation, when I secured my reservation. I now confessed that I wanted to write about a “rift in my family,” but that I had discovered I wasn’t ready yet. His interest piqued, he launched into a story about his recent family reunion in Montana. He and his sister were alone, he said, and the subject of their long-deceased father came up. She tried to change the subject, and when he persisted, she told him to be quiet. Perturbed, he pressed her for an explanation, whereon she broke into tears and said she couldn’t remember “one good thing about our father.” Though he was shocked to hear this confession, expressed with such raw bitterness, he knew whereof she spoke. And at least it was all out in the open now. Brother Edward leaned across the table and looked at me intently. “Silence is deadly,” he said.

But sometimes silence seems the only way to protect yourself and the ones you love. If I wrote to my brother and let him know how I really felt about him, he would surely tell my mother, and she would despair at the damage I had created. And what might he try to do to me, if we ever saw one another again? I have embraced non-violence as elemental to my own sanity and well-being, but I very much doubt that my brother has. He has never been inclined to self reflection. And yet, perhaps, even for those of us committed to the practice of peace in thought, word, and deed, this is a tenuous and precarious path.

It seems to me that happiness is bound up in faith. Not necessarily a faith in some wondrous afterlife or incarnation, or in a power outside and greater than ourselves. I believe in a power that resides inside of each of us, awaiting our discovery and cultivation. Of course, religious commitment demands a kind of surrender. For me, surrender to any authority – like the total submission my brother demanded of me – means giving up my hard-won freedom. For better or worse, my freedom still means too much to me.

And yet, I was not a passive observer doing my week at the abbey. I walked, talked, listened, sang, prayed. I felt close to the monks and came away with a tremendous regard for them and their austere life of devotion. They have inspired me in my own determination to lead a more humble, compassionate, and righteous life. How do I reconcile this ethos with my decision to let go of my brother? For I have decided never to see, talk, or write to him again. No contact whatsoever, if that resolution can indeed be accomplished in the time that may be remaining to us. And can it be done without alienating the rest of my family? I don’t know. I do know that, during my time among the brothers, I tried to build a trust with them based on mutual respect. I am convinced that it is there – in our capacity to respect, care for, and understand one another – that all hope resides.