Pitching a tent on sacred ground

My October "Life Lines" column, written more than a month ago but especially timely now given the fact that the canonization of Kateri Tekakwitha is this weekend:

I’m not much of a camper. I chalk it up to traumatic Girl Scout experiences as a kid -- think rain, mud, latrine duty, French toast cooked over a coffee can. But as I write this column, I am simultaneously washing my winter sleeping bag in anticipation of a weekend camping retreat at the Shrine of Our Lady of Martyrs in Auriesville, N.Y., with Noah’s Boy Scout troop. And I’m actually looking forward to it.

The Boy Scouts, and Auriesville in particular, have done for me what nothing else has been able to do since my first failed tent experience: They’ve made me want to become a camper, a hiker, an outdoorswoman. That last one might be pushing it a bit, but I can dream.

I’ve done the Auriesville retreat once before. It was my first camp experience since those early Girl Scout days. As I huddled in my little tent on the grounds where Kateri Tekakwitha was born and where Isaac Jogues, Rene Goupil, and John LaLande were martyred, I suddenly felt my camping angst recede, replaced by a powerful sense of what it means to be a pilgrim on sacred ground. I could feel the holy history all around me. Frost and dampness and sleeplessness were insignificant in this place where Catholics before me were willing to die for their faith.

So when this year’s retreat was announced, I threw my name in the ring immediately. How could I not during this monumental year, when Kateri Tekakwitha finally becomes a canonized saint? Imagine the special graces we Scout pilgrims will receive as we spend two days walking the ravine, going to the sacrament of reconciliation, attending Mass with our bishop, and soaking ourselves in the powerful stories of faith lived amid persecution just 40 minutes from our home.

Because of these camp experiences, Auriesville has become a special place for me. Every chance I get, I head in that direction. The ravine doesn’t lose its shine just because I’ve walked it a dozen times. The coliseum church doesn’t seem less impressive even though I’ve dusted statues and polished pews there with our parish youth group. The beautiful natural scenery hasn’t lost its awe factor because I’ve seen it through every season year after year. That’s because this isn’t just a campground, and it’s not just a historical site.

This shrine is a living, breathing piece of our faith, a place where we can feel the courage of the people who walked here before us and share the spiritual journey with those who walk with us today. So often we think we need to travel to Rome or the Holy Land or Lourdes to make a true pilgrimage, but the reality is that pilgrim moments, opportunities to experience God through the lives of holy men and woman, are close to home and around every turn.

Tomorrow night, when I join five Scouts and one other adult leader on the grounds of Auriesville (along with other troops from all over the region), I will sit by the flickering light of a campfire, just 50 yards from the ravine where the martyrs suffered, and I’ll imagine what it must have been like to be in this exact spot more than 350 years ago, what it must have been like to believe so fervently and know that those beliefs would come at a very high price. It’s sobering, powerful, inspiring.

Noah, who has done this retreat four times, has been so moved by the experience that he plans to take Isaac as his confirmation name this year. On the surface that choice will probably seem insignificant to others, but I know that his choice comes out of experiences gained in this holy place, which is so much more than a geographical destination in upstate New York. It’s a spiritual destination on the pilgrim path we are all called to walk, even if the farthest we ever travel is deep within our own hearts and souls.

Skip resolutions. Go for 'goals' instead.

What new routines have you vowed to start and keep this year? A healthy eating plan? Exercise regimen? House re-organization effort? The new year offers the promise of a clean slate, a chance to begin again or try for the first time something that will improve our health, our home, our world.

I tend not to make typical resolutions, but I know plenty of people do. Every year, when the first week of January hits, our YMCA becomes a bit of a zoo. You can’t find a free treadmill or weight machine no matter what odd hour of the day you show up. I asked a trainer once, “How long will this go on?” He said, “Hang in there until the end of February and they’ll all be gone.”

We spend a lifetime – or at least a lot of years – acquiring the bad habits or out-of-shape bodies or lukewarm prayer lives that compel us to make resolutions, and yet we expect dramatic results in two months or less. We forget that undoing our habits is a one-day-at-time effort. One day at a time, one year at a time, one decade at a time.

Unfortunately, our society has brainwashed us into thinking we can find a quick-fix for everything. Pop a pill, drink a potion, buy a gadget, and you, too, will look like the plastic perfection staring out from a magazine cover. Of course, body and beauty resolutions are an easy target. They bear the brunt of the new year promises (both fulfilled and broken) because physical appearance is so important in our culture, but I know from experience that spiritual exercise routines and daily doses of prayer are no easier to stick to than that weekly abs class or low-fat diet. Spiritual renewal requires hard work.

At the start of each year, I tend to make a mental list of things I’d like to accomplish by the next year. Not anything like “lose five pounds” because that seems to be a perpetual resolution in my middle-aged life, but things that are broader, more about changing my overall perspective or approach to life than fine-tuning one small aspect.

When I looked back at last year’s list, I was happy to realize I’d accomplished most of what I set out to do without even realizing it. Go on silent retreat. Check. Get a spiritual director. Check. Learn more about Centering Prayer. Check. The one piece that still needs some work is my plan to declutter my office space, although even that isn’t a total washout. So I’m starting this new year with that one thing on my list of goals again plus a few new things: develop my own yoga practice for when I’m home and unable to get to a Y class; look into yoga teacher training programs; attempt regular or semi-regular silent meditation; smile more and stress less; spend more individual time with each of my children; and go on regular dates with my husband. No set time periods, amounts, limits or expectations. Just general hopes for this or some other year down the road.

I like the annual goals approach because it removes the one thing that tends to derail typical resolutions: the notion that if we screw up within a day or a week or a month we might as well give up completely. When we have an annual goal, we can continue to get back up every time we slip and know that there’s still time to make things right. And, if we don’t get to everything on our list by the end of the year, well, there’s always next year. But, it’s not likely that even our annual goals will prove successful if we approach them at breakneck speed, spinning in a hundred directions at once.

In one of my favorite books, A Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote: “With our pitchers, we attempt sometimes to water a field, not a garden. We throw ourselves indiscriminately into committees and causes. Not knowing how to feed the spirit, we try to muffle its demands in distractions. Instead of stilling the center, the axis of the wheel…”

What are the distractions that muffle your spirit? What can you do to still your center in order to achieve your resolutions and goals, whatever they may be?

Even just five minutes of silent stillness every day can begin to reshape our thinking and our lives, and give us strength to follow through on our plans. Five minutes. Can we do that? No formal resolutions, just an unspoken agreement that we will give ourselves five minutes every day to sit and wait for God. Not five minutes while we check email or five minutes while we stir soup or five minutes during TV commercial breaks. Five solid minutes of distraction-free silence away from everything and everyone else.
One small, shared goal to ring in the new year.

Picking up scattered fragments of peace

When I returned from my wonderful weekend retreat almost three weeks ago, the sense of peace surrounding my heart and penetrating my soul was almost palpable...

unflappable...

Kids did dopey things. I didn't yell. Work deadlines went from bad to worse. I didn't melt. The car bumper was bashed in by a hit-and-run meanie. I didn't explode.

It was clear evidence, at least in my mind, of the power of deep and intense prayer practiced over days, rather than short bursts of desperate cries shouted heavenward while sitting at stoplights or wiping the counter.

In the initial days after my retreat, I kept up some semblance of deep prayer and deep peace. I cleared the decks and sat down in silent meditation in my sacred space. I did yoga followed by more prayer. I got up early and prayed the Liturgy of the Hours in the twinkling glow of the Christmas tree set against a backdrop of winter darkness. I was on a holy roll.

But then bit by bit, day by day, the peace started to fragment...

I could almost see it happening.

Sharp shards of silence breaking off and flying away from me in every direction.

I knew enough to realize it was an unhappy development but felt powerless to stop it. The tension of the season, coupled with the crush of work, compounded by the frenzy of family life made me -- as it often does -- feel as if I should just wave my spiritual white flag and give up my quest for inner peace. Add my voice to the din.

Then I remembered something our teacher said on retreat, something that really jumped out at me as I sat cross-legged on the floor of the yoga studio at Kripalu. So often, when we think of Jesus in prayer, we think of him in the desert, in the garden, in silent solitude. But the truth is, Father Tom reminded us, that Jesus was more often than not surrounded by chaos -- people clamoring to get near him, touch his robe, lower a friend through a roof, climb a tree.

Follow, follow, follow. Ask, ask, ask.

And yet we see the way his peace and prayerfulness emerge amid the chaos. The quiet compassion given to the woman caught in adultery, the feeding of the 5,000, the healing of a soldier's servant, the forgiveness of a thief from the cross. Jesus did not become unloving, harsh and impatient because the conditions around him went from good to bad to abominable. He stayed true to his center, his Truth, bringing his peace into the noise and glare of an often unkind world.

Rather than letting it happen the other way around...

So as we wait just two more days to celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace, as I look at the absolute insanity that is sure to ensue in the coming hours, I'm picking up the scattered fragments of peace and fashioning them into something usable, something new. I imagine my peace looks a bit like a kaleidoscope now.

Pieces of peace...artfully arranged into something that will cast a brilliant and warm light on everything its shooting and darting rays touch as I turn it gently in my hands.

Chaos into calm. Panic into peace. Fragments into fullness.

All through him, who was...and is...and is to come.

Mellow Monday: Reverberations from my weekend yoga prayer retreat

Technically it's Manic Monday in these parts, but after a weekend yoga-prayer retreat at the Kripalu Center in Lenox, Mass., I'm really quite mellow. Certainly not manic, despite the truly frightening number of deadlines mounting on the dry erase board in my office.

As was the case with my silent retreat in September, I'm not really ready to wax poetic about what happened at Kripalu so soon after. Too much to absorb, so many gifts, so much to process before I can put it in writing in this space. But I wanted to share some little snippets of my wonderful weekend, which centered on a workshop called "Pray All Ways," offered by Paulist Father Tom Ryan, who is also a certified yoga instructor and whose sense of peace and prayerfulness is so palpable he practically glows or floats. You cannot help but sit in his presence and think, "I want that." In the best Christian, yogic, loving, non-jealous way, of course.

The photo above is a view of Kripalu from the road below. The former Jesuit seminary sits on land that is just beautiful, even during this in-between time when trees are bare but the ground is not yet blanketed in white. Still breathtaking.

When I first arrived on Friday afternoon, I was in my more manic mode. I rushed inside, worried that my car might not be parked in the right place, nervous about how the weekend would unfold, sure that something would go wrong. (Glass half-empty person, remember.) So I got inside and was asked to fill out of a form with my license plate number, which is new and not committed to memory. Immediately I felt frustration -- at not having thought of this need, at not knowing my number by heart, at needing the number at all. So back out to the parking lot I trudged with pen and paper.

And as I stepped outside, another retreatant was standing there staring, and she pointed me to the top of a tree. There, in what was a rather small tree comparatively, was an enormous hawk. I mean enormous. I'm including his photo below even though it's a little blurry (I didn't have my good camera with me) because I just needed to give you a glimpse. He sat there for the longest time, unfazed by the people coming and going with their roller-suitcases and cars and chatter. Here he is:

You'll notice that branch is bending under his weight. He was just majestic. At another point during the weekend, the same hawk was flying overhead, his wingspan inspiring others to stare up at the sky in awe. I never would have known about this resident hawk (the greeter, as he was referred to by the smiling people at the front desk) if I hadn't forgotten my license plate number. So there you go. I was rushed headlong into the fact that this weekend would be about awareness, about gratitude, about slowing down, about the practice of the presence of God.

The hawk wasn't the only over-sized animal to cross my path. This giant rabbit, like something out of Alice in Wonderland, let me get within two feet of him to take a picture. On top of that he was surrounded by people enjoying the late autumn sunshine at picnic tables all around him. Even the animals are mellow here.

After a solid day of praying and sitting and absorbing so much wonderful food for thought (and wonderful food in general), my retreat partner, Michelle, and I decided to skip Yoga Dance, which was a little much even for this adventurous soul, and go for a little hike to the lake. So worth it.

First we stopped at the small labyrinth. The entrance is in the photo below. I will admit that perhaps this wasn't the best labyrinth, as I got "lost," which I didn't think was supposed to be possible in this walking meditation. I'm guessing it's much more effective when all the plants are high and in bloom and provide a clear marker of the path. It was still fun.


Here's a photo of the lake and one of me with Michelle:



And finally, here's the statue at the front entrance. Lots of Hindu and Buddhist statues here and there, as you would expect at a yoga center, but our weekend was so focused on Christian prayer and Jesus Christ that it was easy to forget at times that this is no longer a Catholic facility. As we prayed lectio divina, did the Examen, spent long periods on intercessory prayer, and even had Mass while sitting on the floor of the yoga studio Saturday night, I felt so grateful for the experience and so alive with prayerful possibility.



I will be back later this week with some further reflections. Till then, I'll just share one pearl of wisdom that Father Tom shared with us: Contemplation isn't always about retreating from the world in silence and solitude; it's about "taking a long, loving look at the real."

Look around you today. Right now. Look deeply into the eyes of the next person you meet. Listen attentively to the person on the phone or at the door or in the next office. Drink in the wonder of creation as you drive or walk or run to your next appointment. You just might be amazed to find God right under your nose. Namaste.

Silence speaks volumes

My latest Life Lines column:

If your house is anything like our house (and I’m kind of selfishly hoping it is), the noise hovers just below earsplitting. I’m not just referring to the usual kid noises—talking, singing, whistling, whining. I’m talking about noise that rises to a whole new level, driven higher and higher by a culture totally ill at ease with silence.

Think about what you hear during a typical one-hour period. Phone, TV, computer, doorbell, even washers and dryers that “sing” when the cycle is complete. If you take it a step further, you can find noise of an entirely different—but no less distracting—kind. Facebook, instant messaging, Twitter and other online communication may be silent on the surface but it is noise just the same.

Not long ago, when our family was uncharacteristically silent as we puttered around the kitchen making dinner and completing homework, my teenager blurted out: “Somebody say something. It’s too quiet.” Can it ever be too quiet? Our society would like us to think so. Like frantic symphony conductors, we are challenged to make the many different parts of our lives play all at once and in harmony, but mostly all we get from that is a lot of mental and spiritual dissonance.

I find I crave slowness and silence more with each passing year. I work at home, so I actually do get a heavy dose of silence on a regular basis. Other than the occasional phone call and my sporadic “conversations” with our two cats, I’m silent for about six hours a day, but it’s not the kind of silence that heals the soul and leaves me refreshed for whatever life throws my way. It helps, for sure, but healing silence comes only through extended periods of quiet and solitude.

Enter the silent retreat, something few of us get to experience nowadays but so worth the time it takes to drive to the monastery or retreat center. Because no matter how silent we may try to be at home now and then, nothing can prepare you for the deep but difficult work of real silence.

This is where we confront ourselves and many of the things we try to hide amid the noise of our daily lives. With no iPods or social networking, no televisions or telephones, we come face to face with our true selves, and, if we really make good use of our silent time through prayer, face to face with God.

From what I’ve experienced on silent retreat, I think of it as a kind of spiritual detox. First there’s denial, as in, why am I even here? I should go home and do the laundry and clean the bathrooms. Then the anger phase: What’s the point? I don’t hear God. I don’t think my prayers are working.

With each passing hour, however, things begin to shift. Walls go down and emotions surface. I begin to recognize how much I fear real silence and how easy it is to drown out the Spirit. It is not unusual, on silent retreat, to see people crying, apparently for no reason at all. Except when you’re on silent retreat, you know very well that there is a reason, or many reasons. By the time I leave, I am clinging to every last second of silence, already looking forward to the next time I can come back to a place that is so elusive no matter how hard I try to recreate it at home.

When I returned from my last retreat, my teenager—the same one who couldn’t bear a moment of silence—asked if he could come with me the next time I head to the Trappist abbey. Silence speaks volumes, it seems. It echoes in our words and actions, long after we’ve left it behind. Its scent lingers on us, giving others a taste of what’s possible when we listen, as St. Benedict taught, with the “ear of our heart.”

Are you standing still or making 'progress'?

I thought I'd share my latest Life Lines column. Life Lines has appeared monthly in Catholic New York for the past 10 years.

By Mary DeTurris Poust

When I began this column 10 years ago, the world was a very different place. My plan to write about the intersection of faith and everyday life was propelled into high gear by 9/11 and all that played out in the days that followed, both in our country and in our home. Suddenly my young children had questions that had no real answers. I had questions that had no real answers. I think we all did.

There was nothing we could do but move forward, slowly, shakily at first, but with more strength and confidence as the days went by. Now, looking back, I realize that as much as the outside world has changed in the past decade, so has my internal world, the landscape of my soul. Much of it has been explored and expressed in the 650-word jolts I put on paper each month; more has been poured out on the pages of my books and the posts of my blog.

It has been a challenging journey, filled with desperate lows – like the one we all experienced on that clear September morning – and joyous highs – like the birth of my third child, the publication of my four books, and the ongoing interior pilgrimage that is my spiritual journey. Someone recently asked me if I had any breakthroughs to share. At first I laughed at the prospect, but the comment caused me to pause and reflect on the changes that have taken place without my even realizing it.

I think most of us imagine we’re standing still, whether it’s in our professional lives or personal lives or spiritual lives. We look at the big picture and can feel as though we’re simply not making progress. I know I often look at my cluttered desk, cluttered kitchen counters, and equally cluttered prayer life and think: “Nothing’s happening here.” But, when I go back to September 2001 and mentally walk the path from there to here in my mind, I realize I’ve come a lot farther than it appears on the surface.

You’ve heard me talk (whine?) in this space about my struggles with prayer, struggles with motherhood, struggles with multi-tasking, struggles with everything from laundry to oatmeal. I tend to be more open about my struggles than about my strides because I never want to get too comfortable, never want to sit back and think, “I’ve arrived.” Perhaps because we never really arrive. We may have breakthroughs, we may find ourselves stepping out into the unknown with total faith, but the truth is, there’s always more work to be done, always another step to be taken.

Today my prayer life is far different than it was 10 years ago, as is my spiritual focus. Where before I was simply happy to get something out of Sunday Mass while a fussy baby clawed at my hair, today my spiritual routine includes praying parts of the Divine Office daily, slices of silence sprinkled throughout my days, regular spiritual reading and sporadic spiritual blogging, an annual retreat, and the desire for ongoing pilgrimage – whether to Rome or Auriesville or simply to the farthest reaches of my heart.

Where have you been this past decade and where do you want to go next? Chances are, if you take some quiet time to reflect on your life, you, too, will realize you’ve moved much farther toward your goal – whatever that might be.

“God is in the details,” but sometimes we don’t take the time to notice the details. We want progress to come with a thunderclap, an “aha moment” that will change us all at once. But sometimes, most times, progress comes in the still small voice, in the tiny but brilliant flashes of light that change us bit by bit and forever.

To read previous Life Lines columns, visit www.marydeturrispoust.com

Reflections on Genesee: the lessons unfold

Is it possible a full week has gone by since I was on retreat at the Abbey of the Genesee? Time moves so quickly, especially when time includes three kids going back to school and the start-up of Daisy scouts, Cadettes, Boy Scouts, soccer, dance and more.

The silence and solitude of the abbey seems so far away right now, and, yet, in a way, it is still will me, which I guess is testament to the fact that this retreat was a powerful experience for me. I'm close to saying "life-changing," but I still haven't decided if that's the truth or just my imagination and ego talking. Things churn slowly after silent retreat, and more things are unknown than known. In the best possible way.

During my days at Genesee, I spent a lot of time sitting on a bench under a willow tree (as seen in the photo right here), staring at the pond and the distant fields and just waiting for that still, small whisper of the Spirit. The awesomeness of God's creation, even when it's baking under a 90-degree day, is so much a part of the prayer experience for me when I'm on retreat. The sunrises and sunsets, the flowers and plants in every stage of blooming or dying back, the animals scurrying around, the moon rising in the night sky -- every single moment seems to speak of the Spirit, something I don't always notice when I'm rushing past the natural beauty of my own backyard.

To be perfectly honest, I've been somewhat quiet about my retreat because I feel protective of what happened there. To speak it would be to diminish it in some way, and so I've been laying low -- staying off Facebook except to post blog links, staying off my own blog except to give factual details rather than spiritual insights. One thing I will say for sure: Everyone should experience one weekend of silence and solitude a year (two, if possible). I felt that way when I went on silent retreat two years ago. I feel it now. Being away from everything, unplugging from the noise and the constant distractions, is good for the body, mind and soul. And if you are willing to let it all go, the Spirit will eventually make itself heard. Not necessarily easily or quickly or loudly, but one way or another, the Spirit will be there.

I'll share one spectacular moment from my retreat. When I first arrived, I wondered what I was doing there. Why not just go home and use the time to clean my house, catch up on work, hang out with Dennis and the kids? There was a moment when I actually considered getting back in the car and just driving east. But I knew that was fear of silence talking, fear of hearing something I might not want to hear. So I stayed and I prayed. And prayed. And many times, despite the beauty of the monks' chanting and the wonder of creation, I felt nothing. But I persisted -- because what else could I do? This was why I was here. I knew it wouldn't be easy.

With each hour of the Divine Office, I could feel myself settling into the rhythm of the day that is the monks' entire life. I looked forward to the next hour, the next Mass, the next chance to sit in the silence of the chapel and wait for the monks to enter and begin their singing and praying. By Sunday morning, I felt at home and was sad to know I was leaving for at least a year. As I stood in the bread store, waiting to buy monk-made cookies for the kids, I couldn't help but feel a little selfish for taking this time for myself when Dennis was home with the kids dealing with real life. Just then, as if to answer the nagging question still hanging around the edges of my mind, an old monk left his post in the "porter" office and came over to me in the store.

"You are doing everything you need to do to make a good retreat," he said, out of nowhere. And right then the Spirit felt closer than it has ever felt.

His name is Brother Christian, and in the silent abbey where contact with the monks is so limited, I was given this rare opportunity, this unexpected gift, right when I needed it most. It was one of the highlights of my retreat because it was an affirmation of my decision to be at the abbey that weekend, and a reminder that even when we don't think we're making progress in prayer, if we are praying at all, that's progress.

I drove home wrapped in this knowledge, with the words of Brother Christian echoing in my head. Then, when I got home, I googled Brother Christian's name because I had promised to send him a copy of my book, Walking Together (which he said he wanted to read). It was then that I realized that "my" Brother Christian was also Henri Nouwen's Brother Christian, the monk he wrote about in Genesee Diary, the monk who helped him when he couldn't keep up with the bread making, the monk who made him a special monastic tunic so that he could feel more at home on his extended stay at the abbey.

And I felt my heart burst open. What absolute grace to be encouraged by this very same monk, to be singled out and prayed for by the man who once encouraged and prayed for Henri Nouwen. It occurred to me that Nouwen gets all the notoriety for his spirituality and his writings, and yet it is the quiet monk like Brother Christian who is silently but powerfully shaping people's spiritual lives, unknown to the rest of the world. I know that my Genesee experience was cemented by the personal connection I now have with those holy monks, some -- like Brother Christian -- who've been living that life of silence and solitude for more than half a century.

More reflections and photos to come tomorrow and in days to come...

"Teach us to count our days aright, that we may gain wisdom of heart." -- Psalm 90

Entering the silence of Genesee: Part 1

I returned late yesterday from my private weekend retreat at the Abbey of the Genesee in Piffard, N.Y., where I was privileged and blessed to pray the Divine Office and attend Mass with the Cistercian monks who call this abbey home. To be honest, I'm not yet to the point where I'm ready to ramble on and on about my spiritual experience. Silent retreats are like that, at least for me. I want to hold onto that spirit of silence for as long as I can, even in the midst of the chaos of normal life. Right now, spending too much time trying to write my experience when I'm still trying to absorb it all would somehow corrupt the beauty of what happened there. And so much of what happened there is invisible, indescribable and still unknown to me. So I'll try to tell you a bit about the retreat in pictures and descriptions, and then throughout the week I'll be back with reflections and observations.

The photo above is a shot of the front of the abbey, which is a beautiful stone and wood structure where the monks graciously welcome visitors to join them in prayer. The abbey was founded from the famed Trappist Abbey of Gethsemani and is the location written about by Henri Nouwen in The Genesee Diary.

I arrived on Friday afternoon and got my first taste of monastic prayer when I attended Vespers at 4:30 p.m. When you walk through the front door of the abbey, you can turn right to go to the bookstore, bread store (more on that another time) and sitting area where you can rest and look out at the magnificent view. If you turn left, you go down the hallway seen in the photo to the left. This leads to the chapel. Strict silence must be observed once you enter the hallway. Through those doors is the beautiful chapel, with its wood ceiling and stone walls.

Inside the chapel, guests are invited to sit in the stalls facing the monks, separated by a low iron gate. The circular altar is in the center. What a gift to be allowed into this space and to chant the Office along with the monks. A bell rings, the monks rise, one of them knocks on a wood stall to signify it's time to begin and then the low, haunting melodies of the ancient prayers take over. We used the beautiful Abbey Psalter (seen here on the right) to pray throughout the day.

I loved each of the hours for different reasons, but if one stood out, it was Compline, specifically for the end of the hour when the monks turn to face an icon of Mary holding Jesus and chant the Salve Regina. The darkened chapel, two candles flickering under the icon, monks chanting. Can it really get any better than that? Well, perhaps only when you add to it a walk back from the abbey to retreat house just as the sun dips below the corn fields and the horizon right before your eyes.

I managed to make it over to Vigils at 2:25 a.m. on Sunday morning, which, of course, was spectacular for the very fact that while the rest of the world was sleeping, we were softly chanting.

Our retreat guest house was about three-quarters of a mile from the abbey, down a hill and then following a long stretch of field alongside a fairly busy country road. I often found myself wondering where all those pick-ups were speeding off to in the middle of nowhere.

Summer came on full force this weekend with temperatures hovering around 90 all day and well into the evening and no air conditioning. Anywhere. It was more than slightly uncomfortable, and I will admit that Friday was a rough entry period for me. I kept wishing it would be cooler, and then realized part of this retreat would be surrendering to what was instead of wishing for what wasn't. Once I accepted the fact that I'd be dripping with sweat for the next 48 hours, things got much better. (Of course, next time I'll plan for later in the fall or early in the spring.) I figured that with all my trips back and fourth to the abbey for various hours and then my five-mile walk along the greenway behind the retreat center, I clocked about 10 miles of walking on Saturday alone. Good thing I threw in those hiking boots at the last minute.

At the retreat center, I was assigned the "Hermit Room," so named because the guest who gets this room can remain even more isolated than the other retreatants. Although it was much more sparsely appointed than the other guest rooms, it had a private bath/shower and a comfortable rocking chair. I set up my own little sacred space on the desk of my cell. You can see it over there on the right, complete with crucifix, battery-powered candle, a pine cone I found on a morning walk, a copy of the icon from the abbey chapel, St. Francis, Thomas Merton, prayer books, Rosary beads, and some Queen Anne's Lace I picked on my long walk. The shell is obviously from a beach very far from Piffard, but seashells are always part of my sacred space.

Now, if you thought I was kidding about that Hermit Room label, please take a gander at my bed, which appears to be either a short picnic table or a large coffee table with a mattress on it. It was as hard as a board because it was, in fact, a board. (Other guest rooms had typical mattress/boxspring beds.) When I first saw this bed, I groaned. Out loud. Which you aren't supposed to do on a silent retreat. But I will admit that I slept quite soundly, so I guess all that walking paid off.

I didn't spend a whole lot of time in my room anyway since I was either up at the abbey or out on the lovely retreat center grounds or in the small chapel inside the guest house, which was a nice place to pray late at night when I wanted some quiet prayer time without heading out into the darkness. I did that once and decided against it after that. On Saturday morning, at 5:30 a.m. I grabbed my flashlight and reflective vest and walked alone and in total darkness up to the abbey. Longest three-quarters of a mile of my life. I started with my guardian angel and moved right into the Rosary. I didn't have beads. I wasn't even counting. I was just saying Hail Marys and Our Fathers as fast as I could, as if rushing the prayers would get me to that abbey faster. I saw the shadow of at least one large figure lope through my flashlight beam. I'd like to think it was a deer. And then one smaller animal. I opted for imagining a bunny or groundhog over skunk or rabid fox. When I finally saw the beautiful Asian-style lanterns of the abbey, I breathed a sigh of relief and vowed to drive whenever darkness was part of the prayer equation.

I'll bring you more photos and thoughts on my retreat in the days to come, but for now here is a brief video clip of one short piece of my walk to the abbey. It's the last stretch of hill before the abbey comes into view. Forgive the bright sun in your eye; it was almost dusk and the sun was getting pretty low. This clip is not nearly as compelling as Into Great Silence as there is no melting snow, dripping water, or feral cats, just me breathing as I hike up the hill and some occasional crickets chirping in the background. Click the play button below:

Foodie Friday: Nourishment of a different kind

As you know, I normally reserve this space for whatever I'm cooking -- or ordering at a restaurant. But today it's a Foodie Friday of a different sort. As you read this, I'm making the four-hour drive to the Abbey of the Genesee for a private silent retreat.

It's my first visit to the Cistercian abbey near Rochester (that's the front entrance in the photo above). I called less than two weeks ago to see when they had an opening and lucked out. This weekend of silence is just what I need to end a summer that has verged on insane due to the amount of work I had to do with all three kids at home. (It was no picnic for the kids either.)

To be honest, I am mentally on my way to this retreat even as I write this, so I'll have to save any further blog posting until I get back. I will pray for all my NSS readers while I'm there. Please say a prayer for me as well. Here's where I'll be staying:


I hope the weather holds out so I can explore some of the 1,200+ acres, like this beautiful little spot:


And just in case you think this post is totally unrelated to food, have no fear. Monk Bread is a specialty of the abbey, so I hope to have some for breakfast when I'm there, and I plan to load up the car before I return. I'll let you know if it's as good as everyone says it is.

Where I've been, where you'll find me

I've been pretty scarce around these parts lately. Why? Because I've been spending all my time in the basement and at the Dollar Store. How's that for a great combo? I've been prepping for the mini-retreat I'll be giving in Warwick, Rhode Island, tomorrow for 60+ people from 11 New England dioceses. So...I've spent many hours at the Dollar Store buying supplies, actually two Dollar Stores, and the Christmas Tree Shoppe, and various party stores and more in New York and New Jersey. Yes, it's a multi-state adventure. I've been at our local Dollar Store so often that the manager and I have become friends. He even gave me directions to Warwick, and I promised to come back and tell him how things went. That's what happens when you talk too much.

After I found all the pieces for these projects, I had to assemble 70 bags/boxes, put prayer-based messages on the front and back of each one, cut squares of Styrofoam for each one with a serrated bread knife (I'm hoping I don't have some rare lung disease from breathing in all that Styrofoam dust), stuff the bags with shredded paper, and then, the best part, stick each of those little doves onto the end of a toothpick and then stick the toothpick into the Styrofoam. I have to share this with all of you because, really, no one would ever guess these little things required that much effort. I'm sure the folks at the retreat will wonder why they're getting a cheap little bag of paper. What can I do? I had to keep costs reasonable. It's the love that's put into it that counts, right?

Those are the little "prayer boxes" above and to the left. They'll be part of an activity at the end of one of my retreat sessions. I've got another table full of votive candles for the closing activity. Let's hope I don't set off the conference center sprinklers with 70 candles going at once on one big table. That certainly would make for a memorable experience.

I sure hope they like all this stuff, not to mention the actual talks that will serve as the core of this event and the Powerpoints presentations (my first ever) to go with each of the eight songs I'm using to close and open the four segments. Phew.

It would really help if you could send some prayers my way tomorrow. I want to give these participants -- all of whom are catechists for developmentally disabled adults and children -- what they need and deserve on this annual day of renewal for them. I'll let you know how things go when I get back.

Why Merton matters

Ever since I first came in contact with the writings of Thomas Merton some 25 years ago, he has spoken to me. I know I'm not alone there. Countless people of every faith and persuasion have found meaning in his writings and his life. Of course, others will counter that with claims that he was too flawed to be held up as a role model, or, dare I say, saint. But that's precisely why he's a great example.

I find comfort in the fact that he carried on, following his path toward God, even when he was thrown off course by his humanness. I look at Merton and see holiness wrapped in weakness, and isn't that where most of us are? We're all called to be saints, but oftentimes our humanity gets in the way. In Merton, we can see ourselves, trudging ever closer to God despite mistakes -- some of them pretty major -- and confusion and doubt.

Today, on the 42nd anniversary of his death by accidental electrocution in Bagkok, I am taking time to remember and reflect, but Merton is never far from my thoughts because so many of his words are constantly ringing in my ears.

Hanging next to my desk is this Merton quote from Thoughts in Solitude:

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.

See what I mean? Comforting and yet challenging. I read those words and think, "Oh, good, Merton had no idea where he was going either." Then I read a little more and think, "Oh, no, he trusted God completely. Can I do the same?" For me that's a saintly role model, reminding me that I'm not alone but pushing me to go beyond my typical response and reach for something deeper, truer.

A couple of years ago, I received a wonderful blessing in the form of a silent retreat called "Merton in the Mountains." By a lake in the low peaks of the Adirondacks I had one weekend of solitude and silence, a brief glimpse into Merton's way of life. It wasn't easy. In fact, it was downright difficult and more than a little frightening -- to give up my voice, to sit and wait for God while trying to throw off the monkeys of worry and doubt and pride and ambition. Merton knew those same feelings, and yet he continued to return to the silence, the solitude because that is where he knew he'd find God.

Another quote from Thoughts in Solitude:

To love solitude and to seek it does not mean constantly traveling from one geographic possibility to another. A man becomes a solitary at the moment when, no matter what may be his external surroundings, he is suddenly aware of his own inalienable solitude and sees that he will never be anything but solitary. From that moment on, solitude is not potential -- it is actual.

But perhaps the quote that always calls me back, the one that echoes in my head, is the quote below. It's a constant reminder of my inability to ever know God if I try to make him in my own image:

God approaches our minds by receding from them. We can never fully know Him if we think of Him as an object of capture, to be fenced in by the enclosure of our own ideas.

We know him better after our minds have let him go.

The Lord travels in all directions at once.

The Lord arrives from all directions at once.

Wherever we are, we find that He has just departed. Wherever we go, we discover that He has just arrived before us.

Merton reminds me that I still have a shot, even when I don't get it right on a pretty regular basis. Merton, with his beautiful and powerful words, gives me something to hold onto when God feels very far away.

Thomas Merton, pray for us.

Celebrating with my soul sisters

Thank you to all my Cornerstone sisters, friends from St. Thomas the Apostle, and friends from Delmar in general who gave up a night at home with their families to attend my talk and signing at Christ the King Church in Albany. I had a great time. I hope you did too. I felt so lifted up and blessed by your support. Your being there really meant the world to me, so thank you from the bottom of my heart.

And related to the book stuff, here's a new Amazon review of my book, posted by another Diocese of Albany friend. Thanks, Fran. What a wonderful review:

5.0 out of 5 stars A Walk - and a Gift - For One and All, November 19, 2010
By FranReadsALot "Fran Rossi Szpylczyn" (Albany, NY United States)

This review is from: Walking Together: Discovering the Catholic Tradition of Spiritual Friendship (Paperback)

Looking for the perfect Christmas gift for your friends and family? Look no further, Walking Together will fit the bill for so many, because friendship is the gift.

Using examples from many sources, Mary DeTurris Poust puts forth a beautiful little volume that is a gift to read. She is intellectual but completely accessible, she is filled with great warmth but never saccharine. Her words about people as diverse as St. Francis de Sales, Bishop Howard Hubbard, her mother and her husband and more will inspire you.

I love books like this, written in a way that allows you to flip from chapter to chapter, not necessarily in order. Each chapter invites you to look at friendship that is spiritual but very real. And if being Roman Catholic is about anything, it is about being in our bodies and being part of The Body that is all very real. That said, this is not a book for Catholics alone, but rather a way for anyone to reframe their view of friendship and faith in a new light.

And while you are buying gifts for all of your friends, please - make sure you buy one for yourself!

Click HERE for the Amazon link, HERE for the Barnes and Noble link, and HERE for the Ave Maria Press link. I'm hoping to get a Pay Pal link up on my own website soon so you can order signed copies directly from me in time for Christmas. If you want a book signed before that's up and running, email me privately and we'll work something out. Once you've had a chance to read the book, please consider posting a review at Amazon or B&N. Thank you, one and all!

Join me for an online retreat

Through the recommendation of a friend (Thanks, Deacon Al), I am beginning an online retreat sponsored by Creighton University. It's a free, 34-week program designed to help busy people fit sacred, silent time into daily life. Although you can start it at any point, if you'd like to follow the liturgical calendar throughout the retreat, you should start this week. It's the official first week of the retreat. You can easily jump in now. I did just that today.

It's quite lovely. There are online guides, prayers, Scripture readings, and even a weekly photo that can be used as a screen saver if you want to immerse yourself in the message. The retreat takes its cues from Ignatian spirituality, which makes sense since Creighton is a Jesuit institution.

The retreat starts this week with "Our Life Story." It's a very un-intimidating way to enter into a retreat mindset, starting with what you know. If you're interested, click HERE to go to the main online retreat page. From there you'll see links on how to get started. If you prefer to read hard copy instead of a screen, all of the guides are available in a printer-friendly format. And there's even a book form of the retreat if that's more your style.

If you decide to do the retreat, please email me or let me know in the comment section so we can touch base and share stories. And so we can pray for one another. Blessings as you begin!

Let the waters rise

I have to thank my Cornerstone sister Lenore for introducing me to this beautiful song, "Let the Waters Rise," by Mikes Chair. The words and melody are just perfect, at least as far as I'm concerned. Enjoy.

Take a mini-retreat right at your computer

If you need to get away from it all and spend some quiet time reflecting on your prayer life and your relationship with God, have I got a plan for you. You need one hour. OK, don't bail on me already. This hour will be worth your time. You will feel as though you have had some serious retreat time without ever leaving your desk.

Imagine being transported to the desert to experience a little taste of what St. Antony of Egypt lived each day 1,800 years ago. That's what you'll find if you take the time to watch the BBC documentary (Extreme Pilgrim) on the life of a desert hermit. It's the third part of a series on spirituality. In it, Anglican Vicar Pete Owen Jones heads to a silent and isolated cave in Egypt for three weeks to wrestle with his demons a la Antony the Abbott and the Desert Fathers. The result is a powerful TV experience that will make you think and leave you longing for a little quiet spiritual time of your own.

Once at the cave, Father Pete meets Father Lazarus, a Coptic Christian priest who lives in a cliffside cave day after day, year after year. Father Lazarus asks Father Pete if he is aware of his own sinfulness, explaining that the silence and loneliness of the cave is a life of penitence. "This is like hell. This is like a war," he says, talking about Satan's seductions and banishing any romantic notions of spiritual ecstasy amid the desert sands.

Father Lazaraus tells Father Pete that by being awake in his spirit, awake in his soul, he will bless the world through his prayers. He points to the narrow door of the prayer cave and the wider door of the "kitchen" and says that the narrow door leads to heaven, but once you get a bird's eye view of what's behind narrow door #1 it becomes painfully obvious that this three-week experiment is going to be a trial that tests physical, mental and spiritual strength.

One of my favorite lines in the documentary is when Father Pete wonders aloud why the path to God has to be so difficult. "Why can't the road to God be eating tomato basil soup and getting up and having a lovely day?" Then he trudges up the cliffs to face the unknown. After a difficult start, we see Father Pete emerge from self-doubt, frustration and sleeplessness. By the end of the three weeks, he likens his experience to being born, saying that he is "coming alive again." As he departs for England, Father Lazaraus challenges him to carry the "full emptiness" of the desert back with him to life in the world. But we all know how difficult that will be when "regular" life is anything but empty.

By the time the final credits rolled, I really felt as though I'd experienced my only little spiritual respite. I highly recommend it. Hat tip to Conversion Diary for this one. It's a gem. I just hope some day they make a sequel that will give us a glimpse of how Father Pete wove that desert emptiness into his busy life back home. I know I sure could use some pointers.

Sure signs of spring

I was looking out my kitchen window today, when I spotted the one thing that is sure to bring a smile to my face at this time of year -- a hardy little snowdrop with bright green leaves and delicate white flowers standing out against the dreary brown earth of winter. This one little snowdrop that you see in the photo above is always the first thing to come back to life each year in our yard. I know that other signs of spring will follow in fairly rapid succession, each one bringing us one step closer to the promise of lush green that will eventually surround us.

Just last week I was talking to some Sisters of Saint Joseph about the importance of taking time for spiritual retreats. And one of the sisters compared the growth experienced on a retreat to what I'm witnessing in my yard right now. In the dark, underground, where no one else can see, growth occurs. Roots grow deeper, life gets stronger, and suddenly there is s flower where there was once nothing. So it is with our spiritual journey. In the deep and dark recesses of our hearts, growth happens hidden from sight. We may look at ourselves and see the same old same old, and then one day something changes, something blossoms, and we realize that we were sending out spiritual roots in the quiet stillness, waiting for the moment when our true self could emerge for all the world to see.

Snowdrops were one of my favorite discoveries when we moved to upstate New York. And although I love the flowers that are to come, these little white signs of determination and hope are special to me. Imagine what I'll be like by the time the bleeding heart and lilacs leaf out.

New columns to share

I just posted my two most recent Life Lines columns on my Web site. You can find "Different Retreats, Same Goal," my reflection on making three retreats in the span of six months, by clicking HERE.

And I continue to search for a way to make contemplation happen amid life's chaos in "Clearing the Counters in Search of God," which you can find by clicking HERE.

I'm ready for my next camp out

See that little yellow and blue tent above? That was my tent during the weekend Boy Scout encampment and retreat at the National Shrine of the North American Martyrs in Auriesville, N.Y., which is a beautiful and sacred place overlooking the Mohawk Valley. This is where Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, Lily of the Mohawks, was born and where Jesuit missionaries St. Isaac Jogues and St. Rene Goupil and lay missioner St. John Lalande were martyred. The entire place, which includes a beautiful 6,000-seat Coliseum church built in 1930, a small screened-in chapel in honor of Kateri, a ravine where you can read the story of Rene Goupil in Isaac Jogues' own words, and so many other paths that take you through the Stations of the Cross or to other shrines and statues, is just gorgeous, especially on a picture-perfect early fall weekend like we had. I cannot believe it took me eight years to get to this wonderful spot only 45 minutes from my house.

Here's the view from the Coliseum. (If you click on the photos, you should be able to enlarge them.) That's the Mohawk River in the distance. It's pretty easy to see why the Mohawk Indians settled here:


Here's Noah in the ravine, preparing to ascend what the boys affectionately referred to as the "hill of death." I took the long way back to camp via the ravine path:


Although the retreat itself was great, I really loved the camping aspect of this trip, even on Friday night when the temperatures dropped and I was wearing long underwear, a sweatsuit with an extra sweatshirt on top, a hat, a hood, gloves and socks inside my mummy bag in order to stay warm, which I did -- except for my face. Still, I think I've finally gotten over the horrible camping experiences I had as a Girl Scout. I am so ready to begin family camping, although I think we'll wait until late spring or summer when there is no danger of frost or worse.

The boys on the trip were great, too. They paid attention during the retreat talks, given by the very energetic and interesting Jesuit Father Rocco Danzi, and they tried to pull their weight at the camp site. Noah made scrambled eggs for breakfast and hamburgers for dinner on the propane stove, and he helped wash dishes and pots when he wasn't cooking. The boys even took care of this vegetarian mom, cooking my fake hot dogs in a separate pot so as not to contaminate them. I don't know if it was their special touch or the cold air, but they were the best vegetarian hot dogs I've ever had.

At night, the big sky was so filled with stars that you couldn't help but stand there looking up in awe. When everyone was tucked into their sleeping bags, I could hear the boys in the tent next to mine playing the ukulele, plucking out Stairway to Heaven. Talk about a song with staying power. In the mornings, everything was covered with dew and a heavy mist settled in the valley until the sun could burn it off. The only thing missing on this trip was a campfire, which was a big loss, but we'll make sure we have a fire pit next year. See, I'm already planning on going back next year.

Here are a couple more photos from our retreat. The crosses mark the entrance to the main grounds: