Notes from an Urban Retreat - II
A friend comes in, sits behind and to the side of me on a chair, and meditates. I'm not sure how long she's there; half an hour at least. The quality of energy in the room changes perceptibly, and I know we are supporting each other in our meditation, in a somewhat different way than the presence of others does during the daily offices. Alone is good; together is good. Coming out of solitude into proximity and community is a big part of what makes a retreat powerful, if one can open to it, and this awareness is also meant to carry over into daily practice, into our separate solitudes and our comings together.
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I'm thinking a great deal about Merton. Obedience; struggle with the strong intellectual self and church/monastic authority. His desire for silence. His passion and vocation for reading, thinking, speaking, teaching, and connecting -- and his loathing, at times, for his facility for those things. His desire for purity and humility; the way his attraction and increasing knowledge of the East helped him, paradoxically, stay in the Church. He's always been a companion. I find I'm remembering certain things he wrote more intensely right now even though I haven't opened the books for a long time. One of my other friends here is reading "New Seeds of Contemplation," in the same edition I have, with the black and white photograph of grasses on the cover.
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The noontime Eucharist is very beautiful. The talk, given at the time of the sermon, is the story of Jacob's dream of a ladder, rooted on the earth, on which angels ("messengers", in Hebrew) are ascending and descending. He makes the point that they are carrying messages in both directions, and suggests that maybe they are not heavenly angels with wings, but the rabbis and teachers and wise ones. Jacob begs for a blessing, he says. What or who would you wish to have blessed, if you could? At the time set aside for intercessions, he asks us to take the card at each of our places, and, if we wish, write on it our thanks, or people's names, thoughts or concerns; then to place the sealed envelopes on the floor near the altar. Don't worry, he says, no human eye will see what you've written! And at the end of Compline tonight, we'll all pick up our envelopes and take them home.
I'm taken aback. Usually I find these sorts of things impossibly hokey, but as I think about what to write, it's names that come into my head - the people closest to me, including those two who've died. And so I write my short list. I read it over, hesitate, and then add, "and me," and tears start running out of my eyes. I look around furtively: is anyone else feeling so emotional? Does anyone notice? Do I care? I take some deep breaths and seal my envelope and place it on the altar.
We give each other the consecrated bread and wine, passing them around our circle, speaking to each other by name; the last person gives communion to the priest. I love this; it's the way the early morning prayer group I joined, many years ago, used to do communion, when I was so reluctantly making my way back to church. The gentleness of the mostly-female community and the warmth and openness of our discussions helped make me feel perhaps there was something there that I could not only be passively receive, like a dumb sheep, but share in. Today, I hadn't expected this, and after six years in this community, it suddenly feels like coming home.
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In the afternoon, I go back into the chapel, and when I've gotten tired of the cushion, I draw for a while. Then I lie on my back and watch the passage of huge billowing clouds, pure white and high up, and, to my surprise, migrating hawks over the city, riding the thermals around once or twice just for the pleasure of it, and then continuing north. They are the highest; the gulls occupy the middle space, and then the lowly pigeons. There's a breeze on what must be a very mild day, and above the tops of the skyscrapers I can see three flags - one the red and white maple leaf of Canada, and two with the blue and white cross and fleur-de-lys of Quebec, just like the bright blue sky and snowy clouds.
I stand up and look down into the courtyard below; people are eating, drinking coffee, smoking, talking, walking through between Union and University Streets; traffic moves down the streets and around Phillips Square. It's like watching an old silent movie, except the scene is all in color.
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4:30: a cup of tea. I open the book I've brought: C.S. Lewis' "The Screwtape Letters," which I've never read. It's an old paperback, and when I open it, the cover snaps right off with a loud crack, and I manage not to follow the sound with an audible "shit!" I read the introduction and am not sure if I want to read the book; anyway, I'm saved from making a decision: it's time to go down to the cathedral for Evensong.
