I am writing this from a convent.
It is the location of a personal writing retreat I have been on for the last two plus days.
To retreat is to withdraw or pull back. Sometimes it is from conflict, other times from society or even ourselves.
A retreat at a convent is, as you might imagine, a unique experience. There are only a dozen or so guests here at this vast property. Most of which are here as part of two different silent retreat groups. Six or so people sitting around tables at meals or benches outside, saying not a word to each other for days.
Because so many are on silent retreats, the rest of us are expected to likewise be as quiet as possible. This creates a strange game when you pass by someone in the halls. No one speaks but rather smiles and nods.
The rooms are sparse. A bed, a desk and chair and a recliner. Bathrooms are shared. The doors do not lock. The assumption being who would dare steal something at a convent!
Three meals are served each day and you have a forty-five minute window to come eat. Where again you will sit in mostly silence. Unless the nuns are dining. They are a boisterous bunch.
There are no televisions, albeit one is rumored in the nun’s wing – where apparently they all gathered to watch the Knicks game.
I’ve walked the bucolic grounds that abut the Hudson River, mostly in solitude with the exception of a gaggle of wild turkeys who have their run of the place. I stumbled upon a small cemetery where the previous inhabitants are laid to rest. In reading the flat grave markers, it is remarkable to see how long these nuns lived. Most into their late eighties or nineties, several to over a hundred. The benefits of simple living.
One evening I visited the empty chapel. Sitting in the dark, lit only by the gloaming sun rays refracted through the stained glass. I prayed for my family and friends, those in conflict around the world, and people I know who are suffering right now.
And of course, I wrote. Which was, after all, the purpose of this retreat. I was perhaps more prolific in that regard than any other short burst I can recall. I wrote a draft for a magazine article, finished revising a second draft of the book I’m working on, started a play and am now writing this.
The retreat was organized in advance. I scheduled eight two hour writing blocks – each with a project in mind. I gave myself breaks lasting an hour or two in between. During those breaks, I ate or read or walked or swam at their pool. The latter was also an interesting experience as it was usually just me and the two lifeguards on hand – who again didn’t speak. With no choices I need to make for myself or others and so little to distract me, it was relatively easy to focus. The fact that this was a Christmas gift to me from my wife and one I had long resisted giving to myself, added a level of accountability that was most helpful.
Of course, retreats need not occur at a convent, over several days or even over night. We can withdraw from the daily distractions for a morning or afternoon. Finding any place that is novel and allows focus, contemplation or complete silence if that’s your thing.
Later today, I will rejoin my family. My retreat or withdrawal from them will be over – and not a minute too soon. For as much as I have enjoyed my time away from the noise, responsibility and chaos of family life, I am eager to be awash in it again.
Recommendation of the Week. Last night, after I had finished my last writing session, I laid in bed with my headphones on and listened to several episodes of Song Exploder, a podcast where an artist takes you through their creative process for a specific song. I loved it. Two specific episodes worth checking out are Noah Kahan sharing the story behind Stick Season and Brandi Carisle speaking about You and Me on the Rock. They are both so vulnerable in sharing their stories.
Consider sharing this with someone who could use a retreat themselves.