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Copyright © 1997 by Twelve Star Publishing
All rights reserved. Inquiries should be addressed to
Twelve Star Publishing, P.O. Box 123, Jefferson, MD 21755
Summer at the Abbey is noisy, relatively speaking. Farm
machinery growls in the adjacent fields, and cows protest the
heat with plaintive mooing. Chirruping insects offer clattering
rounds of song in the sluggish, moist air.
Holy Cross Abbey is a Cistercian (Trappist) monastery resting
on 1200 acres in the gray-blue hills surrounding the Shenandoah
River near Berryville, Virginia. They offer weekend or week-long
opportunities to decompress and enjoy a respite from the pressures
of daily living.
Though retreats are available year-round, for my money
(and they don't ask for much) the dead of winter is the best time
for a retreat. The world is slower and quieter when things are
hibernating.
I'd been considering a retreat for years, though I didn't
know exactly what one did on a retreat. But I needed quiet time
away from the demands of my family, a job, and an assortment of
other commitments. I had to recharge my batteries, alone. So one
cold day last March, I went.
Upon arriving at the Abbey I suddenly found the prospect
of this unscheduled time alone to be somewhat daunting. Retreats
at the Abbey are completely self-directed. A mixed blessing, this.
Sitting in my parked car, I wondered what on earth I was doing,
and if a weekend at the Days Inn wouldn't achieve the same purpose.
I had to stop myself from turning the car around and heading home.
The first thing I noticed was the overpowering quietness
of the place, which I found somehow disquieting. The ordinary
noises of daily living, while distracting and intrusive, were
at least familiar. This penetrating silence was very strange at
first. Like a wool scarf, it was comforting on the one hand, yet
mildly irritating on the other.
My room in the Guest House was a cross between a college
dorm room and a monk's cell -- functional without being Spartan.
A single bed, a desk, a reading chair and lamp, in shades of vanilla
and coffee. It felt wonderfully ascetic, and was clearly designed
to ensure quiet and encourage contemplation. As I settled in,
I sensed that everything I might need had been provided, but none
of it intruded on my time or space.
I thought, "OK, here I am. Now what?" The Brothers
say: "Just be. Be present to yourself, and to the moment."
This sounded like good advice, but what did it really mean?
I ate dinner surrounded by the companionable silence of
my fellow retreatants. The Guestmaster provided low-key hospitality,
and some welcome words of wisdom. "If you're looking for
a place to start," he said, "try appreciating the miracle
of existence." This sounded simple enough . . .
The food was plain, tasty, and filling: beans over rice,
noodle soup, baked fish. There was just enough for everyone to
have a good helping, but gorging on more would set me at odds
with the tone of the place. I tried to nourish my body without
overindulging, and to appreciate every bite.
Feeling the need to do something, I wandered down to the
Guest House Chapel. Hardly a whisper echoed as I padded in on
the carpeted floor, settled onto a wooden pew, and began to drink
in the peaceful presence. For a moment, and for the first time
I can ever remember, I was still -- in my head, as well as with
my body. I suddenly understood why I had come.
The weather was less inviting. Lashings of ice laced the
tree branches, and the sharp air insulted me each time I left
the warm comfort of the Guest House. But I found myself struck
by the crystal, arctic stillness. I loved the way I felt insulated
from the demands of the world, as if stranded in a pure new world,
untouchable.
I was enthralled by the services in the Monastery Chapel,
which reverberated with a solemn richness that drew me in. The
monks' chanting evoked the timeless mystery of religious tradition,
yet felt comfortable to me in the present. It wrapped itself around
my head in an echoing wave of warm sound, and resonated in my
soul as I strolled with crunching steps down the gravel road to
my room.
What did I do in the intervening hours? As little as possible
except pray and meditate, trying to quiet my mind and open my
soul. The silence became an agreeable companion, as I found myself
becoming attuned to the rhythms of my own presence.
When I needed to move around, I walked the mile from the
Guest House to the Abbey entrance. The road was curtained on either
side by the lushness of nature's glories, striking in their winter
raiment. Shades of blue slate surrounded me, and the fences lining
the road wore their frosty necklaces brought on winter's breath.
During those three days, I redefined my concept of living.
I was transformed into a person less concerned with doing, and
more in love with being. I uncovered a joyful, interior quiet,
like a deer happening upon a sweet, clear brook. Discovering this
"living in the moment," without seeking distractions,
was the heart of the experience for me. I could understand why
contemplatives the world over aspire to inhabit this state on
a permanent basis.
I tried to hang onto it at least through the Monday rush hour.
Susan Mosley is a freelance writer living with her husband
John, her son Colin, and their two cats in Leesburg, Virginia.