We can take our cues on how to do this from Jesus himself, who retreated in solitude to a quiet place — a desert, a mountain, a garden — when he needed to replenish his spirit and reconnect with his Father. Or we can look to the desert fathers and mothers, who sought out solitude and simplicity in order to better hear the voice of God.

Of course, we’re not likely to get to a desert anytime soon, so what does this look like for those of us living in the modern world? While it’s always good to take time away with God whenever we can, the Lenten desert journey is not about changing physical locations but interior attitudes. We can be surrounded by people in a bustling city or in the tropics lush with greenery and still experience a desert moment. Because we are not on a pilgrimage that requires walking great lengths but one that is perhaps even more difficult, a journey from the head to the heart.

Most of us on the spiritual path are seeking some sort of transformation, but often we want that transformation on our own terms. We ask for signs, but when something comes along that seems too challenging or outside our comfort zone, we think, “No, this is not my transformation moment. I’d like another, please.” Because transformation on God’s terms is almost never easy. But no transformation that is truly life-changing is going to come without a cost to us personally.

We give up chocolate or wine or social media for Lent and sit back and wait for transformation to arrive, but we know in our heart of hearts that it doesn’t work that way. It has to go much deeper than anything we pour into a glass or scroll by on a screen. And a big part of it starts with us simply becoming aware of this reality and opening our hearts in silence to what God puts in front of us, no matter how challenging or discomfiting. We are called to listen with “the ear of our heart” as St. Benedict taught, and to simply sit, as Jesus did, in the presence of the Father, who knows our hearts without us needing to speak a word.

That’s not an easy thing to do — sitting in silence with God. We tend to go to God with a laundry list of requests, apologies and thank-you prayers. But when we put all the asking aside and simply give our full attention to being rather than doing, we allow the Spirit to move into the open space we create.

As we begin the second half of Lent, can we put aside our big spiritual plans for just a few minutes each day and simply be with God in the silence of souls, where no words or actions are necessary? When we make the commitment to journey into the cave of the heart, we find deep within us a peace untouched by the chaos of the world around us, a peace that will sustain us through Lent and beyond.

This column originally appeared in the March 26, 2025 issue of The Evangelist.

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A fresh span of twelve months stretches out before us now, like a blank canvas daring us to create something new. But we know all too well that the fresh hope of a new year can often get dragged down by old habits that feel as comfortable as a well-worn sweater. This is the time when many of us get down to the business of making resolutions: pounds to shed, diets to clean up, social media to pare down. If we’re honest, the resolutions probably sound a lot like the ones we made last year. Why is that? Because surface-level changes don’t feed our souls; true transformation requires us to dive deep and work toward an inner revolution instead. That requires prayer, complete surrender, and absolute trust that what God has in store is better than anything we can conjure up on a vision board.

Even when we turn to God to help us take this monumental step, however, we often do so with a laundry list of expectations. We want transformation, but we want it on our own terms. Maybe that’s because we know we won’t expect anything too grueling of ourselves. Once we put it in God’s hands, all bets are off. The path we are meant to walk, the person we are called to be, may require a freefall into a new way of living. If you want proof of that, just look at some of the feasts we mark this month.

We begin the year celebrating the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God, the ultimate example of surrender and trust in the face of the seemingly impossible. From there we mark the Epiphany, showcasing the magi who came from afar trusting a star to lead them to the Messiah. Later this month we will celebrate the Conversion of St. Paul, transformed from persecutor to true believer through a blinding flash, an unlikely vision, and an even more unlikely baptism. Which is to say that nothing is unlikely or impossible once we get God involved, or, more accurately, once we open our hearts to God already in our midst just waiting to be invited and involved.

I was recently introduced to the Surrender Novena, which seems made for our journey of inner revolution: “Why do you confuse yourselves by worrying? Leave the care of your affairs to me and everything will be peaceful. I say to you in truth that every act of true, blind, complete surrender to me produces the effect that you desire and resolves all difficult situations.”

“True, blind, complete surrender.” Like Mary, like the magi, like Paul, like so many others over the course of our faith history who have shown us with their very lives that the transformation we seek cannot be found in a number on a scale or in a bank account but by a message of hope written on our hearts by the One who offers us the only real path to peace and joy. What if the only thing you need to do this year is to surrender?

From the January 2024 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2024). Used with permission.

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Thomas Merton puts it in another way: “Yet the fact remains that we are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds and join in the general dance.”

We can all look out at our lives and see a threshold of some sort ahead, something we will be required to cross. We can either dance across it with curiosity and hope or be dragged across kicking and screaming.

I remember when my youngest child was born, only two months before I turned 43. I marveled that when Chiara was leaving for college, I’d be closing in on 61. It seemed so far away at the time, and yet here we are. She leaves in two days. Our nest will be empty, with all three of our babies having flown the coop. It is a monumental threshold, a curve of transformation we’ve seen coming for some time, a season that will transform me and my husband, Dennis, as parents, as a couple, as individuals.

Our dining room is piled high with dorm supplies as we make the final preparations for Chiara’s giant leap across her own threshold, knowing that anything we are facing with this coming change pales in comparison to what she is facing as a newly minted adult preparing to test out her wings. And maybe that is a key in facing up to change in life as it comes, remembering that we are not unique and often there are others around us who are facing even bigger thresholds. As always, our greatest strength comes when we view ourselves and others through the lens of compassion, gentleness and love.

As our daughter prepares to leave, we tell her we are confident she is going to be amazing at her new life in New York City, and at the same time we remind her that we are here and if it turns out that this particular choice was not the right one for her, she can come home, regroup, and start again. That is a truth and a grace each of us can remember when we set out on a curve of transformation that may or may not go as planned.

Where are you on the curve of your own transformation? What season of life is approaching? Can you join the cosmic dance with a sense of wonder and hope, even if it’s tinged with some fear or doubt?

We live at a time when there seem to be frightening thresholds all around us, not just in our own lives but in our Diocese, in our universal Church, in our country, and in our world. It can be overwhelming to imagine crossing all of them and winding up in some unknown future. The trick is not to try to cross someone else’s threshold but to focus on what is ours to do right here and right now. Look out ahead and focus not on the steep cliffs and dark valleys but on the color of the sky at dusk and the sound of bird calls in the morning. Be amazed at what is rather than fearful of what might be.

“… no despair of ours can alter the reality of things, or stain the joy of the cosmic dance which is always there,” writes Merton in ‘New Seeds of Contemplation.’ “Indeed, we are in the midst of it, and it is in the midst of us, for it beats in our very blood, whether we want it to or not.”

So dance, run, fly.

Mary DeTurris Poust will be leading the Stillpoint Retreat at Pyramid Life Center on Sept. 8-10. For information, click HERE.

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Does that mean we should just give up the whole idea of transformation? No. But it does mean we have to rethink what we’re really looking for when we make a resolution that goes only skin deep and doesn’t get to the stuff underneath that usually creates the need for a resolution in the first place. Enter my annual rallying cry: ReVolution Not Resolution! You do not need to make resolutions. In fact, I challenge you to go against the grain and refuse to make any resolution whatsoever. Instead, promise yourself that you’re going to do something more meaningful and more lasting, something that helps you blossom into the Self you were created to be. The journey of inner transformation is the only real way to make the “progress” we seek in our spiritual lives and in our lives in general.

To that end, I’ll be offering an evening retreat — both in-person and online — for those who would like to take up this exciting and fulfilling challenge. We will talk about all the ways we block our own path when it comes to making our daily lives more peaceful and joyful and learn some practical exercises for clearing away the obstacles and moving forward. You can’t fail at this plan. If you don’t do what you set out to do, you just begin again right where you are. No resolution broken, no plan to abandon until another New Year’s Eve rolls around.

Hosted by Christ the King Retreat House in Syracuse and available to anyone in any region via Zoom, this workshop will be held on Wednesday, Jan. 4, from 6:30 to 8:30 p.m. Two weeks after the event, on Wednesday, Jan. 18, at 6:30 p.m., we will hold an hourlong Zoom follow-up session for all participants so we can check in, share progress or challenges, and just generally support each other in our efforts to keep on keeping on.

If you’d like to read more about this approach to starting the new year off right, you can head over HERE to read a previous post on this favorite topic of mine. If you’d like more info on the retreat or the registration link, click HERE to go to the CTK website.

Click HERE to read a recent story on my upcoming retreat in the latest issue of The Catholic Sun.

Photo by SOULSANA on Unsplash.

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Mary DeTurris Poust will facilitate this retreat.  She is a writer, retreat leader, and spiritual director. She is the author of six books on Catholic spirituality and six books of seasonal reflections. Mary writes about the spiritual journey in her award-winning monthly column, Life Lines, and hosts a podcast by the same name. She and her husband, Dennis, have three children and live in New York’s Capital Region. Visit her website at www.NotStrictlySpiritual.com

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Think of those people who walk the Camino, mile upon mile, blister upon blister, rain and muck, along with gorgeous scenery and sunshine. Here, it’s easier to recognize that the destination is not the sole reason for the arduous journey. If that were the case, pilgrims would book a flight to Santiago de Compostela and go straight to the cathedral, rather than risk injury and exhaustion on the long and harrowing pilgrim path. But every pilgrim on the Camino knows that it is in the struggle of the journey that pilgrims find out who they are, that they grow closer to God, and learn to love complete strangers who share the road and meals along the way.

Most of us will never get to the Camino, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t on a pilgrimage of our own right where we are. I remember when I took my first trip to Rome a dozen years ago. I kept dreaming of the pilgrimage that would begin when my feet finally touched Italian soil. That morning, as I waited for the shuttle to take me to JFK airport while a hurricane was bearing down on New York, I learned the lesson of pilgrimage before I ever boarded my flight.

I talked to several strangers waiting for the same shuttle in Albany. They were headed to Lourdes on pilgrimage, one of them a priest I didn’t recognize at first but someone who already knew me through my writing. We talked. They comforted me as I worried about the impending hurricane, giving me a book of prayers with one specific page marked—Prayer in a Time of Storm. We talked and prayed on the three-hour ride, exchanging prayer intentions so that I could take their prayers to Rome and they could take mine to Lourdes. As they saw me off, ensuring that I had my suitcase and everything else I needed, it dawned on me that my pilgrimage had already begun. It started as soon as I opened myself up to God’s presence right where I was, when I allowed the Spirit to connect me to fellow pilgrims on the journey.

What if we look at this next stage of our liturgical and spiritual year as another leg on our collective and individual pilgrimage? As we head toward the celebration of resurrection, perhaps we can use the Easter season—those 50 days between Easter and Pentecost—as another opportunity to expand and explore, connect and commune with God, with each other, with every high and low point that comes our way. Knowing as we do that our transformation is happening with every step, every conversation, every prayer, every moment when we think we can’t take another step but somehow move forward anyway in faith and hope.

Life is not an easy proposition. At one point or another, we all suffer, we all doubt, we all wonder why things are the way they are. But we are not walking this path alone. We are surrounded by the Spirit of God’s love and by fellow pilgrims aching for company and comfort, sometimes right in front of us. We are all members of a beautiful tribe of pilgrims longing for a clear path. Together we can find our way home.

This column originally appeared in the April 7, 2022, issue of Catholic New York.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

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Join me on a three-week journey toward real change, transformation that happens from the inside out and has real staying power. I’m not saying you’ll be transformed in three weeks. That’s not possible. What I AM saying is that I can give you the tools, the practices, and the motivation to set yourself on a course for finding what your soul is craving. ReVolution, not resolution is our rallying cry!

Resolve to Evolve is a three-week series that will focus on meditation, mindfulness and discovering the miracle of the mundane right here in the midst of our busy lives. I will be offering this series in-person or online through Jai Yoga School on Sundays, January 2, 9, and 16, from 12:30 to 1:30 p.m. We won’t just talk about these topics; we will get down to the hands-on practice of each. I can’t wait to join you on this journey and see where it takes us!

The three-week series costs $60. You can register by clicking HERE. Additional option: If you have the time and inclination, you can sign up for the Gentle Yoga class I teach at Jai each Sunday from 11:15 a.m. to 12:15 p.m., also available in-person or online. While it’s certainly not required, it’s a great way to prepare for meditation. Class sign-up is available HERE.

If you plan to join me, bring a yoga mat, a blanket or cushion (although Jai has blankets if you want to use one of those), and something to write with. I will provide small journals. Other than that, just bring an open heart and mind and a willingness to be still and silent for a little bit. That’s where the magic happens!

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I think it’s important to share that with you if only to remind you that it’s okay if you stray off the path or pull into a rest stop for a few days. When you’re ready, dust yourself off and begin again. The only thing you should try to continue to do no matter what else is going on is your gratitude journal. But always, always continue to be kind and gentle with yourself no matter how this journey is going for you.

The next thing on the list I outlined when we were on the cusp of this revolution-not-resolution transformation journey was a connection with nature. Can you find a spot where you can either see or be in nature each day? Do you have a chair by a window where you can see birds or squirrels? Do you have a path nearby or a quiet street where you can take short walks (or long walks if that’s your thing)? Nature has a way to heal us, connect us, make us kinder.

When pandemic first hit last March and most of us were trapped in our homes, I took to working in the armchair in our family room where I can watch the goings on in our backyard, in particular the bird feeder. I became a bit obsessed with bird watching. I downloaded apps to track the varieties I could identify; I kept a running list in the notes on my phone; I talked to them; sat outside with a camera hoping to catch them in action; found myself disappointed and rejected if our feeder was empty. I wrote a column about the way sitting at my window in pandemic changed me. You can read “Falling for Spring in a Season of Fear” HERE.

Although the initial obsession with the birds faded a bit, my newly found love for these hearty and cheerful creatures has settled into a lovely spiritual relationship. I look outside when it’s only 3 degrees and the snow is deep and marvel at the little sparrows so oblivious to the cold, flitting around looking for a snack. On the days when I take the dog for a walk, I talk to the crows sitting in the trees on our street. (Crows can remember a face, so be nice to them!) Although we are awaiting a winter storm, I just unpacked a new bird feeder and a 20-pound bag of black oil sunflower seed so that I can give the cardinals a place to eat since my current feeder doesn’t suit them. (Maybe the obsession hasn’t quite faded.)

Many of us at this time of year are dealing with cold and snow (we’re expecting 8 to 12 inches as I write this). It can be hard to love this season if we’re not skiers. It can be easy to wish away the present and long for warmer and sunnier days, green trees and sitting on the deck. But can we learn to be content, happy even, with the season we are in — the physical season of the world around us and the life season we are currently navigating day by day?

I’m currently listening to the book Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May. I have a feeling this is another that I will purchase in hard copy as well so I can revisit my favorite lines. As I drive through the cold and snow to get to work or the yoga studio, as I sit in my chair awaiting the next storm and knowing spring is a long way off for those of us in upstate New York, her words call me back to the here and now, reminding me to savor what is right before me, even when my teeth chatter, even when I’m worrying about the kids driving on slippery roads.

“We may never choose to winter, but we can choose how,” May writes. And that is the case for everything in our lives. We may not choose our circumstances, but we can choose how we respond to them. If we can begin to practice acceptance with the seasons of the year — learning to allow ourselves to feel the cold and appreciate the sharpness in our lungs, learning to accept the rain dripping down our window even when we wanted sun — it can help us learn to accept the more challenging things we encounter, not just in nature but in life itself.

Henry David Thoreau wrote: “Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.” Good advice. When we resign ourselves — not in a defeated way but in an accepting and joyful way — we open our hearts and minds and spirits to a whole new way of seeing and being. It may start with appreciating a goldfinch at a bird feeder, but if we nurture it, it can evolve into finding joy even in our challenges, of learning to balance sorrow and joy without losing our balance or our peace in the process.

When I fell off the path briefly last week, there was the danger that I’d just stay there. In the past, I might have wallowed for weeks and in a deep self-loathing way. But little by little this journey of transformation — which is often a dance of two steps forward, one step back — has allowed me to recognize when I am sinking and make a course correction before I get too dug in. That is the gift of commitment and discipline and the willingness to begin again over and over. We are not called to perfection; we are called to practice — prayer, journaling, silence, nature, whatever helps us go deeper. Start there and then, if necessary, start again, and you will continue to move toward your true self and all the joy it holds for you.

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If you go back to the original post that launched this journey, you’ll note that the third thing on our list — after gratitude journaling and creating a sacred space — is making time for silence every day, even if it’s just a few minutes. So let’s talk about that and what it might look like in your busy life. I know making time for silence is usually not easy, even when we have the time and the space, even when we’ve got nothing on our plate but doomscrolling on our phones. Why is it so difficult to sit in silence? Because silence is challenging, especially when we first start — and it’s anything but silent. We might not be saying anything or listening to anything but our mind is screaming with thoughts and memories that demand to be heard.

So, first things first. If you created a sacred space, this is where you should go for your time in silence. If not, find a place where you won’t be disturbed. (If necessary, put a sign on the door or alert family members so they give you some space and peace.) Find a time that works for you — first thing in the morning or just before bed (or both) are the obvious choices, but if you have other times that work better, go for whatever will make you more likely to stick with the practice.

Commit. The hardest part is showing up. Isn’t it funny how we do that to ourselves? We can waste countless hours on TV, social media, shopping, talking or texting, and yet, when it comes to even five minutes of silence on a cushion or in a chair, we suddenly don’t have the time. So commit to showing up, even if it’s only five minutes, even if you say you’ll show up five days each week rather than every day. It gives you a cushion. Although making this a daily practice or twice daily practice — like brushing your teeth or showering — will weave it into the fabric of your life and make it less likely that you’ll shrug it off day after day.

So what do you do once you get to your sacred space and sit in silence. Well, here are the practical/physical tips: You want to sit with a nice straight back, so either sit up on a cushion on the floor (if that’s your style) or sit a chair where you won’t sink back and slouch. If you’re in a chair, you want both feet on the ground. Spine long, crown of the head lifting toward the sky, chin even with the floor of even slightly down so the back of your neck is long. Let your palms rest on your legs. If you’re clenching your jaw or furrowing your brow, relax your face. Soften your heart and belly. Deepen your breath, but don’t force or manipulate it, just gently invite your breath down into your belly rather than breathing shallow from your chest. Close your eyes or lower your gaze so you’re looking at the floor. Now you’re ready. You can set a timer for however long you want to pray, meditate, sit so that you’re not constantly checking your clock (and you will want to constantly check your clock if you’re new to this).

Now what? Now you listen. For the still, small voice, for the Spirit speaking to your heart, for your own inner voice crying out to be heard over the din of the world. Depending on your faith tradition, you might want to begin with a prayer asking the Spirit to guide to you. If you have trouble staying silent and still, find a word or phrase that speaks to you and come back to that, like a mantra. It can be a verse from Scripture or a word that makes you come back to God’s presence, or it can just be your breath. Keep coming back to your breath when you mind wanders, but don’t fight the thoughts that come up. “Monkey mind” is the term Buddhists use for the inability of the mind to quiet its own chatter when we sit in silence or meditate. A spiritual director on my very first silent retreat told me to imagine those thoughts like a leaf or twig floating on a river. Just watch them come and go and let them float away without grasping or attaching in any way. That’s easier said than done, but it will get easier the more you practice. When your timer goes off or you’re done for the day, don’t jump up and grab your phone immediately. Come out of it slowly, maybe with hands in prayer position at your heart. Say a little prayer of thanksgiving if you like or some other prayer, bow your head, and return to life with more gentleness toward yourself and others.

Saying all of this to you inspires me to recommit to my own practice of daily silent prayer and meditation. I often meditate as part of my yoga practice, but I’ve let my early morning silent prayer practice fall by the wayside these days, and I can feel the difference in my life and in my inner peace. Today I will join you in making a plan to sit on my cushion at least five days a week first thing in the morning. Let’s check back next week and see how we do. If you have questions or suggestions or observations, please share in the comment section.

Peace, love, blessings,
Mary

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Setting up a personal sacred space is not only simple to do; it’s fun and satisfying. You do NOT need an entire room or even a big portion of a room; you just need a small space to call your own. Stake your claim. If you don’t already have a place where you go to pray or journal or be in silence, take a look around your home and see what you can do. Is there a favorite chair near a window or wood-burning stove, a writing table in a quiet corner, a shelf where you keep favorite personal items or candles? Start there.

My sacred space has morphed and migrated around my house of the years. For the longest time, my sacred space was literally two shelves of a bookcase in my basement office, sandwiched between a cat condo and a video game console. I would turn my chair (or sit on the floor) in front of this space when it was time to pray or meditate. The shelves had a cross, an icon, and some favorite items gathered on retreats or given to me by friends. When I would come down to my basement office to write, just seeing that space would make my shoulders relax and my breath deepen. I loved that space.

For a time, I used our sunporch, although that’s a seasonal sacred space since it gets pretty chilly in an unheated room during upstate New York winters. I would go to that space, surrounded by windows on every side, and look out at the beauty of nature and pray the Liturgy of the Hours in the mornings. A cup of coffee on the table beside me, a candle burning on the electric stove and a cathedral of pine trees was all that space needed.

These days I am blessed to have a room set aside for work, prayer, yoga and meditation. A purple room, no less! I inherited the space from my youngest child when she graduated to her brother’s room. I didn’t plan on it at first, but as I started moving in books and icons and paintings, it became clear to me (and my husband, LOL) that this was becoming Mary’s Room. It had actually been my office before Chiara was born, so it felt like coming home. I have a meditation cushion on the floor in front of a small table that serves as my personal altar space. When I sit on that cushion, I can see out into the trees in the backyard and watch snow falling or branches swaying. I can hear rain pattering against the window or blink against the sun as it starts to sink low in the sky — depending on when I’m in my space.

My space has pinecones gathered on walks around the Abbey of the Genesee (one of my favorite retreat spots), sea shells and rocks from favorite places, an cross forged by a friend’s husband, a lotus candle holder that reminds me that without the mud, there can be no blossom. Rosary beads and mala beads, icons and inspiring images. Make your space your own.

The sky is the limit. In fact, if you are someone who prefers to be outdoors, you can set up an outdoor sacred space, or do your praying while you hike or snowshoe. Just find a place where you feel comfortable not only talking to God, but LISTENING for the still small voice. So often we go to God with a laundry lists of wants and needs and thank-you prayers, but on this journey there needs to be a time when we simply sit and wait and listen. That can be really challenging (something we will talk about more in Week 3.)

When you have a sacred space, you are more likely to go there to pray, to retreat there when you need peace, to seek out the space when you are confused or overwhelmed. It’s like an open door, an around-the-clock invitation to be still.

And wherever your sacred space, even if it’s a comfy chair in the corner of the usually busy living room, let everyone at home know that when you are in that chair early in the morning or late in the evening or whenever you set aside time to pray, you need silence and solitude.

Keep up the good work. Let me know how you’re doing in the comment section. And thank you for being here!

P.S. I’ve been hearing from some of you who are following through on last week’s suggestion to keep a gratitude journal. If you’re finding that practice helpful or have any suggestions or observations to share with the rest of us, leave us a comment on the original post or this one. We’d love to hear from you. .

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