What am I listening for?
What will I do with the silence?
I've committed myself to a contemplative monastic retreat, with silence to be broken only by the chant and song of the Daily Offices.

I thought it would be good for me to sit with myself in stillness.  My life is rarely quiet.  My days are filled with talk, music, inane patter, pleasantries.  And, I admit, I talk to myself.

Even late at night, when I'm the only one still up in the neighborhood, there is no absence of sound.  I hear the mournful call of the great horned owl in our fir tree, the whomp-whomp-whomp of cars entering or leaving the ferry, the lonesome whistle of a train across the water, a rabbit scurrying through the bushes.  Even when the world around me is hushed, I hear the "white noise" in my ears.

Is there truly ever silence?

So what do I do with nothing but time -- nothing to pull me back into the added noises of the day, nothing to occupy my mind but my thoughts?

I have to succeed at this quiet time -- if only to prove to myself and to the doubters that I can.

Alone in my "cell", a spare, but comfortable room with a view over the path with Stations of the Cross and into thick woods, I practice the breathing exercises recommended in the orientation.  Benedictines see all time as holy and create an atmosphere of prayerfulness, solitude, silence and leisure in their lives so the Word of God can penetrate their hearts and take root.  Everyone speaks softly in all areas of the Priory -- and the bedroom area is designated as a quiet area, which means no speaking, no slamming doors, no noise.  The low drone of traffic on the highway a short distance away and an occasional barking dog in the distance don't really break the calm.  With only four hours of sleep last night, I find myself relaxing too quickly and too deeply.  Meditation and prayer will have to wait.  I set the alarm for Eucharist.

I look forward to Solemn Evensong at St. Augustine's each week because of the quiet, the subdued light, the softness of the service on my body and my mind.  Here, I wait eagerly for the Daily Offices because they allow me not only to listen to other voices but also to break my silence and raise my voice in prayer and praise.  The Benedictine tradition is to speak slowly, softly, reverently, with many pauses.  I am listening intently to the words, to the other voices, to my own voice.  I am hearing things in the Psalms that I've never heard before by paying close attention to the meaning.  I am intrigued by phrases and want to read the Scriptures again and again,  and to meditate on them.

Mealtimes are proving to be the hardest part of silence.  Eating together is a social activity, a time when we  share more than food -- we reveal ourselves.  I want to get to know these people with whom I'm sharing the journey.  Technically, we're solitary pilgrims, but during the opening of the retreat, we shared a bit of ourselves, our challenges, our hopes for this experience.  I want to know more.

We take our meals in a room apart from the sisters and other guests.  From the dining room, we hear occasional laughter or soft discussion, but even those not observing silence speak little.  Our dining room is tomblike; what I hear is myself eating.  That isn't something I do often, nor is it an altogether pleasant or rewarding activity!  Crunching carrots, drinking water -- it's quite noisy.  We don't make eye contact as we listen to each other eat.  Not too spiritual or uplifting an experience. . .

Because our meals are not social, they don't feel leisurely.  I concentrate on what I'm eating, but not at ease.  I resort to wolfing my food, partly because there isn't anything else to do and partly because the dining room is only open for half an hour.  Meals are for sustenance -- we eat to live, rather than living to eat.

If I were asked to describe the sisters, the words which come to mind are sensible shoes, grey and silver hair, walkers, canes.  Not the future of the church, but its past.  Of the twenty-two sisters who live in community, there appear to be only a few who are less than retirement age. Except for two visiting sisters-in-residence from Tanzania, even the younger nuns have a dusting of grey in their hair.  That is not unusual -- the number of nuns in the Roman Catholic church has dropped 55% since 1965.  Catholic communities around the country are setting up marketing campaigns, complete with catchy slogans, colorful ads, websites, and exploration weekends, all in an attempt to help young people see what religious women are doing.   The monastic life is not for just anyone.   Most of the sisters at St. Placid dedicated their lives to God at an early age and have taken a vow for life.  They don't just change their minds and try something else -- many of these women have lived in this community for 40, 50, even, remarkably, 75 years.

As I look at their faces during the Daily Offices, I see dignified serenity and reverence, a luminous reflection of their inner peace.  The psalmist says, "Be still, and know that I am God."  Do these women who have dedicated their lives to intimacy with God in a monastic setting ever get tired of the strangers who come and go from their lives; who interrupt their stillness?

In the gathering room hangs a quilt made by participants in an ongoing spirituality seminar.  From where we sit, one square looks blank.  We mused on its significance, and I saw it as my reason for being here -- a blank spot in the busyness of my life which, though small, was a place for God to show me what he wanted from me.  Up close, we saw the labyrinth on the square, the walking meditation which is a path of prayer designed for you to find your way.  I think through this time of tranquility, God has shown me my way.

My brief experience in this placid and peaceful place has shown me that the silence is that which is within me, not that which is around me.  Though I'm sure I will continue as the "queen of multi-tasking", I can still the judgmental voice, the critical voice, the chiding voice, the worrying voice.  With those voices stilled, I will listen for what God wants me to hear.  As I take up my concerns, problems and worries, I will do only that.  I will read, walk, pray with full attention.

I changed the linens on the bed and said a prayer for the next retreatant.  This tradition tied me forever with all who came before and all who would come after -- a powerful elixer to take with me as I returned to my world.