Into the Silence

All soul-searching inevitably leads to a search for God in some way, shape, or form. For some it is the spiritual entity in the context of organized religion; for others it is a philosophy or school of thought through which lens worldly experiences become meaningful. For still others, it is the discovery of the self, the truth of the self, its desires and passions, and the infinite source that is life-giving to the self.

My search for God led me to a remote Trappist monastery in the heart of the Shenadoah Valley, Virginia. It was old Civil War territory, acres of farmland along the famed river which gave the valley its name, populated by cows and myriad butterflies. There was an empty creamed honey and fruitcake factory, which was the main source of income for the contemplative monks. I was not there for the cake (although it was sinfully delicious) and I did not intend to volunteer (although I did end up contributing free labor).

I was there for a silent retreat.

In all honesty, my journey there was quite ambiguous. I knew I needed the silence; silence was rejuvenating to introverts like myself. Yet, back in New Jersey, I found that I could not confront the silence. Whether it was hanging out with as many friends as possible or constant window-shopping or insipid phone conversations or the asinine noise and visions coming out of the cathode tube known as a television, I avoided the silence because I wanted to avoid myself. I did not want to think.

The ironic thing was in the midst of the hustle and bustle of activity, I still felt it was inadequate. I found myself longing for silence when the noise and chatter and talk in my life were imposed by me.

So I made my way to the Holy Cross Abbey. Silence for seven days.

It was at the end of July and painfully hot. To get there, I traversed four buses and trains: bus from NJ to NY Port Authority, subway from Port Authority to Chinatown, Chinatown bus from NYC to Washington DC (lovely things, those $15-$20 bus rides available every hour on 3 different carriers), local bus from DC to Berryville, VA. It would have taken 5-6 hours had I driven. Of course, being unemployed and carless, the affordable route took 8-9 hours.

There I sat, at a shopping mall in the middle of nowhere, waiting for someone from the monastery to pick me up. I worried if they would remember, since arrival time for the retreat was 3pm and I was fashionably late at after 6:30pm. It was rush hour, although in this isolated town no one ever seemed to rush. It was an eternity before a navy blue station wagon pulling into the parking lot hesitantly…stopped as if the driver was peering around…and continued to roll through the parking lot, halt and watch, and keep rolling.

It was my cue.

I saw a pleasant-looking man of about seventy with fluffy white hair, a baseball cap, and faded polo shirt.

He opened the door and introduced himself as Brother Barnabas.

I knew we would be friends.

Copyright © 2011 Paladian Queen