Notes from an Urban Retreat - I
Last weekend I attended an Anglican silent retreat, held on the second floor of the skyscraper in back of the cathedral, where the diocesan and cathedral offices are located. From Friday evening through Sunday morning, we were there, having all our meals together, listening to talks, going to the daily offices (morning, noon, evening and nighttime prayers) and spending the rest of the time in silence. There were about 25 of us in attendance, with a few people having to come and go.
Friday night. So far, a most unsilent silence. Evening prayer in the cathedral, only attended by about half of us, was lovely. But an awkwardness in the larger group -- what are we in for? -- leads to lots of chatter before and during dinner, which began considerably later than the scheduled time. A few kinks in the kitchen, maybe. After the meal, we go into a darkened room that is our meeting place, and sit in the wide circle of chairs arranged around a small table, draped in a white cloth and holding three candles. There's a potted palm - a reference, I think, to the cathedral's new tagline as "a spiritual oasis in the heart of Montreal" and a screen in back of the table, at neck-height, shielding the digital projector from view, covered with some beautiful lengths of sari-silk.
We begin with a welcome by my friend V. who has organized the retreat; then a meditation on Psalm 139 with slides and music, then the first talk by Paul (the Dean of the cathedral) on Genesis 25:19-34: Jacob's dysfunctional family/Esau sells his birthright. The talk leads directly into Compline - we were running a bit late -- then, at last, silence, although the periods of quiet were interspersed with recorded music, mostly Taizé chants. At 9:45 I got up to go and, before heading downstairs, stick my head into the actual chapel, where it's dark and there are cushions on the floor and the downtown city alight and glowing in the huge windows. I shut the door and the music disappears, and then I immediately sit down on two cushions and stay there until 10, when the retreat suspends for the night. It's the most collected I've been.
Walking out into the city and driving home, though, shows me how far from it we've been -- all those young people thronging the sidewalks, waiting in lines outside clubs, lurching across streets, hurrying, pushing, shouting and laughing to one another or no one. And yet I feel a lot of love for them - not in a braindead "I've been praying for two hours and I love everybody" kind of way, just, more, "This is my city, all of it, this is life laid out in all its confusion and craziness and diversity, of which I'm simply one small part, it's nice to see it a little more clearly than usual."
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11:00 am. I woke at 5:30, cold; J. got home at 1 am from dinner with a friend and I had already been asleep for an hour. We made it to the cathedral by 7:30; he has agreed to be a helper for breakfast. I went to morning prayer in the choir stalls at 8, then breakfast, accompanied by more Taizé chants on the CD player - there seems to be an aversion to real silence - why? At breakfast one of my friends decided to leave, for other reasons. I didn't try to stop him; it's his decision, but I'm sad he's gone.
Now I'm in St. Anselm's chapel again. I've been sitting on two cushions, meditating (and thinking, I admit) since the second talk finished at about 9:20. I just got up and had some lemon-ginger tea and walked around a bit to loosen my hips. The sun streams in from the south through these big windows; smoke rises from the skyscraper in front of the cathedral spire, and a yellow crane, motionless because it is Saturday, rests against what must be the thirtieth floor of a flat black glass facade.
On the copper roof of the eastern wing of the cathedral, green with age, I've been watching a row of pigeons - the same ones we hear cooing, no doubt, when we're inside the east transept in the choir.It all strikes me as very beautiful: the greyish-brown cut stone, the carvings around the windows and on the roof-towers, the green roof, the light blue sky, the quiet birds resting, like me, in the welcome sun.
I am the only one here; everyone else is reading, doing art projects, or off somewhere journaling or praying. A few seem to be working - corecting papers or editing - I hope not.
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In a corner of this room is a small Chinese fountain, in a ceramic bowl, and a white orchid.
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The Jacob story is a rich one even though I am tired of stories about patriarchy. Paul's reflections open up new ideas. My resistance to the emphasis on Scripture is due to my Zen leanings, and probably some pride -- in addition to being tired of patriarchy I have limited patience for being told how to look at texts by priests, especially male priests. But Paul has plenty to say, and plenty that is worth listening to.
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Thoughts of my mother keep coming up in meditation and at other, more unexpected times. I wonder if there's unfinished grieving; maybe this will get clearer. And I laugh to myself, realizing how much Isaac reminds me of my father-in-law at the end: anxious for "tasty food" prepared "the way I like it." These two departed souls seem to be much on my mind, perhaps because it would be impossible to explain to either of them what I am doing here.
(to be continued)
