When Silence Rules

Magnify

In mid-summer’s boiling stupor, I anchor here, along a bend on South Carolina’s Cooper River, beneath moody oaks and droopy moss, in the company of hushed monks and whirling dragonflies. I wake at 5:15 to make it to 5:30 prayer, or “Lauds,” telling myself that if I can get up at that ungodly hour to swim during the week, I should be able to do it for the Lord. But it’s not for the Lord that I am here.

I did not come to Mepkin Abbey with big questions—I am burned out on them. I am not here seeking spiritual direction or reconciliation or even oyster mushrooms—the Brothers’ new mainstay product after PETA shut down their egg farm. I am here simply to be here. To soak in the luxuriousness of silence and sabbath. To read and nap and write and watch ospreys soar and dive. I am here because I am raw with loss and I have been moving too fast to sink into its depths. I am here because it is a beautiful place, because the weekend was open, because the Guestmaster replied “Yes” to my email inquiry about retreat availability, because my kind husband said go.

As I sip coffee outside the refectory, a stooped white-haired monk shuffles by. He’s wearing brown Keens under his long white robe. We make brief eye contact, but that is all. No one speaks. No one here knows my name. There is no idle chitchat among the seven other retreatants— our stories, our reasons for coming here, stay tucked away in a personal cloister. During church services, the plaintive song of the cantor and the Brothers’ solemn chorus of the Psalms are the only human voices. During simple meals, forks and knives clinking on plates make the only conversation. The monastic community abides by the ancient Rule of St. Benedict, which means “Grand Silence” is observed. While I have issues with the Church’s many edicts and rules, I’m convinced ol’ St. Benedict was on to something. Thanks be to God.

I am astonished at how amplified silence can be. How rare and precious it is—no CNN, no NPR, no reality TV, no talk radio, no blogging, no tweets, none of the ego-driven artifice of hear me, see me, link to me, friend me, like me, digg me, that social media feeds on. We live a tuned-in, turned-up world, barraged by blather that not only fills the airwaves and Internet but infiltrates the deep consciousness. Here, where Spanish moss hangs like acoustical tiles on this cathedral of oaks and tall pine, the vocal and virtual void is strangely filling.