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At Taizé: Aloneness, Togetherness
by Sarah Fusté
 As I sit here in the warmth of the dining hall at Taizé, waiting for dinnertime, I am keenly aware of my aloneness. Everyone around me seems to be speaking German. I pull out my journal, partly for company, partly to become conscious of my feelings of not belonging. I don’t want to be afraid of appearing alone, separate, unintegrated. This is not a bad place to be.
I write, “Sometimes being in a group is more for the sake of how I will be perceived than of what I truly long for. I went to the church a short while ago to begin thawing out my toes, and felt the meeting of my heart’s desire with its longing—me and God, God and I, quiet togetherness. The SILENCE painted in black letters on the sign by its entrance commanded me to do what I truly wanted but had been resisting.”
Less than a week ago, driving toward Still Waters with my husband on our way to pick up Delcy and then head to the airport, I told him I was not looking forward to this trip to France and Switzerland. “I don’t want to be away from you for ten days,” I had said. As pathetic as it sounded, there was something in me that shrunk at the thought of our separation.
Yet I knew also that this would be good for me, a sort of a fast from the companion who gives me such joy and in many ways confidence. Who am I without Rob? It seems I need to know this before I can ever fully be with him. Who am I alone? Who am I without my better half, without my family, without my job, without my house, without my church, without my language, really alone?
 Back in the dining hall at Taizé, my heart lights up to see Delcy entering the room, my friend who people are surprised is not my granny. We eat together, out of the simple plastic bowls that smell and almost taste a little of dish soap, the mashed potatoes and baguette with spreadable cheese. My closest friend here at Taizé has beautiful white hair, and is considered an adult; my hair is still blonde and I am considered a young person, with the under-thirty-year-olds. So for much of the time, I am also separated from her.
The bells begin to ring. For ten minutes they peal across the hills around the village, calling us to prayer. Everyone, all the young people, the adults, the brothers, the volunteers, the sisters, assemble in the church. In the quiet, without chatter or whispering, we sit on the floor; some kneel on prayer stools. We are here together and yet alone, coming to worship in community and yet in the solitude of our own hearts. Something of the silence shared together nurtures this necessity to be there as Sarah Melanie Fusté. God with me, and God with us.
I later take refuge in the dark of a small chapel called the crypt, directly beneath the altar of the main church. It is decorated in the Orthodox style, with a colorful Jesus on a cross dominating the room on one end, and gently flickering lamps lighting the warm ochre walls.
I have come before and been grateful to not see another soul. But just now I hear a door open and someone enters and joins me in the silence. After some time, he begins to sing one of the Taizé songs in English, but his accent is so heavy that I cannot make out the words.
He then changes to a song I recognize, “In the Lord, I’ll be ever thankful. In the Lord, I will rejoice! Look to God, do not be afraid, lift up your voices, the Lord is near!” I join him, quietly at first, then with a little more gusto. We don’t share a word, just sing for a while, and I am surprised at how I feel as I leave the crypt a little later—like we have become friends, drawn together by a few moments of shared worship.
In the aloneness, I am free of all the foreign things that define me. It is no longer the French instructor, the wife, the daughter, the gifted one or the lacking one. The invitation to freedom and to my true self is heard. I am then able to return to others, to my students, to my husband, to my workplace, having known more deeply who I truly am as one who is special to God, and I can offer to them the gift of myself.
Then true togetherness can happen.
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