“The problem wasn’t the Holy Mountain. The problem was inside of me.”
Morning prayers on the Holy Mountain begin at 4 a.m. We arrived around 6 a.m.—just in time for the end of morning prayer and the beginning of Holy Communion.
We’d woken up sticky and sweaty in a room that felt just as hot and heavy as the day before. So before heading into liturgy, we went down to the sea and prayed morning prayer in the language of our hearts.
After Holy Communion, we were ushered into the dining hall—more beautiful and full of iconography than most churches I’ve been in. Monks lined the benches. A brother stood in the elevated pulpit and read aloud. I didn’t understand a word, but I assumed it was from the Church Fathers.
Breakfast (which felt like lunch to us—but not for monks who’d been up since 2 or 3 a.m.) was spaghetti with tuna in olive oil, feta, red wine, and honey-chocolate cake. And then, at the sound of a bell, we stood and left—no lingering.
We gathered our things and took the boat back to Daphne. From there, we hiked 10.5 kilometers to our next destination, stopping briefly at monasteries along the way, under the 40°C Greek sun.
When we finally arrived, we were met by the guest monk—who spoke barely any English. Thankfully, a young Greek deacon from Belgium was visiting and offered to translate.
We were drenched with sweat, sore, and aching for a cold shower. Instead, we found out there were no showers. And laundry was to be done by hand.
I went down and stood beneath an olive tree, looking out over the sea.
And I realized something that hit me deeply: I still felt uneasy.
Even in this quiet, peaceful, welcoming monastery… the unrest hadn’t left me.
That’s when I saw it clearly. The problem wasn’t Mount Athos.
The problem wasn’t yesterday.
The problem wasn’t external.
The problem was inside of me.
We crave stillness, but we resist it the moment it comes.