Retreat and surrender

Solitude of monastery leaves busy soul with new lens on the world

Dawn Brazell
The Post and Courier

The choir stalls in the sanctuary at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Ga.

CONYERS, Ga. — Depending on your point of view, my room assignment is a result of either bad luck or a mischievous Holy Spirit. It's 3:45 a.m. and the stairwell door bangs closed again. I glance outside to a black sky that has no hint of lightening. I try to make out a constellation, but my eyes blur.

I nestle into the covers. Go or stay. Go or stay.

I know my devoted Catholic friend next door will be attending the 4 a.m. Vigils in the sanctuary just yards from our rooms in the retreat house at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit. Being Protestant, I have a natural out. I close my eyes, dozing fitfully, and jump as the hallway door bangs shut again. Knowing it's my last day here, I decide I might as well join the exodus.

When my friend mentioned this rural retreat nestled just 35 miles outside of Atlanta, it sounded like a good idea. It was less than five hours away and would come at the end of a big project I was finishing. The retreat's topic, "The Spirituality of Imperfection," sounded intriguing. I figured I would be able to spend some time in solitude, explore some contemplative practices and ideally find some balance to import home.

Right now, stumbling around in the dark, I can't remotely recall why I thought rising at 3:50 a.m. would help me find more balance. I roll out of bed anyway, dressing in wrinkled clothes that are easy to find in my small, dorm-style room. It's simple, but sufficient. I have a twin bed, writing table and chair.

There's no television, which I haven't missed.

Cell phones, on the other hand, are supposed to be used outside the retreat house, and this I have missed, as well as checking e-mail. Guests can check their e-mail in the retreat's library, but I've chosen to take a technology break. It's one reason I have felt so cocooned during my visit.

Coming here is like being scooped out of a fast-moving stream and placed into a still, mist-covered lake. Time moves slower, yet with a vibrancy that I suspect arises from the imposed sensory deprivation of the setting. We have done well slowing down, except for observing silence during meals. We managed one meal in silence, but then felt compelled to slip out onto the patio for our remaining meals to enjoy some whispered conversations.

Talking is not a remote option for the next service.

Slipping into the chapel, I walk past the area set aside for the monks and head to another set of stalls that is for retreat guests. The monks, 44 of them, silently continue to slip into the pews. I slide in next to my friend, who smiles to see that I managed to make it. We turn to the proper pages for the Liturgy of the Hours, which includes a slow chanting of certain Psalms.

I steep in the chanting, resonating with the slower cadence of the monks' voices, their call and answering response revealing a practiced daily rhythm that comes as second nature, like breathing to them. I think back to some responsive readings in which I've participated in other church services, where efforts to remain in sync dissolved into a ragtag ending of the stanzas, despite our best efforts.

The monks function as one in these services, their own beehive structure of practiced form and efficiency. Visitors on retreat are allowed to participate, but we are advised to be a quiet backdrop. The monks, with their slower pacing, set the rhythm and tone. We're to flow into the process. Silence reigns here like a gentle rain. It soaks through the readings, the prayers, the Psalms, somehow allowing the Scriptures to breathe.

A special part of the early morning Vigils includes a 30-minute break for silent meditation. Visitors are given a two-minute warning, where they may leave or go to another part of the church before all the lights are shut off. At that point, everyone is to remain still and silent.

It's taken me a few days to adjust, but today I welcome the silence.

Images from the past few days pass through my mind: the daily walks around the property's lakes and through the rolling fields of tall grass; the cups of tea by the fountain in the garden; the friendly geese who like to sneak up and startle guests napping outdoors; the delicate bonsai trees in the garden and the greenhouse; and the casual, comforting conversation with friends who have no pressing place to be.

What's delighted me most is the refreshing self-honesty and deep spirituality of the monks leading our retreat, and the oddly profound effect that the periods of chanting, silence and prayer have had. I expected to attend one service each day, or maybe none if I found myself restless, bored or just too out of place as a Protestant. After all, I come from a denomination where we look at our watches when the service passes the hour mark in case the minister needs help staying on task.

Even after several services and retreat sessions, though, I have found myself encouraging our group to attend Evening Prayer. A night owl, I feel more awake at this time, but the real appeal is the interplay of architecture and nature at this time of day. Dusk brings slanting streams of light through the stained glass, creating coalescing blue shadows. I like to look up at the arched ceiling and wonder what Jonah felt in the belly of the whale. Guests hear the blessings for peaceful rest and line up with people from a wide diversity of faiths and life circumstances to receive a blessing of holy water.

Though this isn't a part of my tradition, it's comforting. I have felt welcomed here, though I did complain to the abbot on one disparaging comment he made about Protestants during the retreat. We had a good-natured exchange. I understand more why the Benedictine monks are known for their hospitality.

We talk about how hard it will be to leave today. We all feel profound changes, but in ways hard to explain to each other or even ourselves. It reminds me of going to college and then returning home and trying to figure out why it seemed so strange. Home hadn't changed, but I had. I had a new lens on the world.

As fitness professionals, my friend and I will next stop in Myrtle Beach for a convention. We hear it's biker weekend, and we've enrolled in all-day sessions that promise a whirlwind of loud music and activity. If there's a way to go more from one extreme to the other, we're not sure how. A fellow retreat guest and minister laughs when he hears how we're finishing up the week.

"I'll say a prayer for you — that you can hang onto your inner monk."