The Monastery

About six weeks ago, I booked two nights at a hermitage cabin at a local monastery.

No, I don’t plan on becoming a nun.

I have always had deep roots with the rituals of Catholism and the Christian calendar. My grandfather, one of the strongest influences in my life, and one of my only sources of genuine love, absolutely loved Lent and Advent. I always have, too.

Not realizing it, I would be going there right in the middle of Lent. That monastery. Staying in the “woods” but not far from civilization. Hiking a ton and getting lost, which only meant I hiked for a couple of miles.

It was a big deal for me. It was the first time I’d gone and stayed anywhere but home or the hospital in about 4.5 years. It was the first time I’d gone so far away in about 2 years. It was the first time I’d been alone in a cabin.

The first afternoon I hiked (and again, got lost) and I released so much emotion. I could hear the woods speaking to me as I’d never heard them before. I got the strong message that said “We are the mother for whom you long.”

I sat in the silence. I sat with my thoughts. I sat with the pain.

On my evening walk I meandered a bit. I ended up in the main building, just exploring. I could hear the faint sound of music, and I realized it was a familiar hymn… my favorite from Lent. “My Song is Love Unknown.” I knew I was supposed to be there.

When I returned back to my cabin, I took one last short walk and was met by an owl. That owl remained close my entire visit.

The second day I woke after not sleeping well. The thoughts poured out. I began to journal so fast I can tell the pen wasn’t keeping up.

“Today I wonder — how can anyone not believe there is something beyond us when they walk in what God so perfectly and beautifully created. We are perfectly created the same way. Meant to survive, and grow. Next to each other. No tree and no plant in the forest survices alone. No part of it can function without the other. Needing others is not flaw — it is PERFECTION. We are born this way. We are born to spend our lives with others. We are born to yearn to be with others.”

Later that day, exactly what I wrote was right in front of me once again.

I met with a spiritual advisor. I expected that she might be a nun, but she wasn’t. I expected that she may judge me.

I talked with her about my experiences, and through them we connected about two things — I spoke a bit about my experience with being in a hospital room after my hysterectomy.

It was a room that was small at the end of the hallway of the postpartum floor. It was not a happy room. I got the sense that it was a sad room. In telling her this, she shared that she had been in one of those rooms at the end of the hall when her baby died. “My parents and husband came in one day to tell me they’d buried the baby.”

She also was divorced. Her husband was also an alchoholic. It was such a pleasant surprise to have that perspective. She was 25 years older than me. I thought a lot after that about how one day, I’d have been divorced as long as her, and it would no longer feel so raw.

When I left to come home, I felt as though I’d been gone far longer than two days.

My next solo trip is next weekend. I’m staying at a cabin. This time, it’s on a lake, not at a monestary. It’s not Lent anymore, after all.