As I drove down the New York State Thruway, headed toward what promised to be an inspiring event on the legacy of Trappist Fr. Thomas Keating and the Centering Prayer movement, I was anything but centered or prayerful.

The state of the world and the state of my own interior life felt chaotic, divided, depressing. Despite the welcome sunshine after a stretch of gray upstate weather, I felt smothered in a blanket of melancholy verging on hopelessness. Why am I even going to this event? I wondered as the miles passed by and I listened to Keating’s Open Mind, Open Heart audiobook in an attempt to get my head into the “right” place.

When I pulled up to the Garrison Institute, a former Capuchin Seminary on the banks of the Hudson River, I felt my shoulders relax away from my ears and my breath deepen as the reality of spending the next 36 hours steeped in spiritual riches loosened the grip of darkness and anxiety.

As I unpacked my bags, I could feel a sacred energy moving about the place, a sense that spiritual seekers were beginning to amass, bringing not only their travel essentials but a hunger for the holy. When I settled into contemplation in my room, I moved so quickly and deeply into prayer that I knew it wasn’t anything I had done, but rather the collective of this group and its intention.

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That quote struck a chord and affirmed what I’ve been feeling as I head into this new stage of life. I turned 57 yesterday, and I can tell you that I believe, God willing, I will be able to say the same as Patti when I reach 72. I believe my most important work is ahead of me. I am talking about in addition to THE most important work of mother and wife, which would be enough if that was my only work in this life.

Still, 57 feels amazing, feels like a beginning. On the morning of my birthday, Chiara, 14, asked if I felt any different, and I responded, without hesitation, “Yes!” Which would not be my typical response, but I could feel it coming, building as this new age approached. I feel entitled to my life, whatever it may look like going forward, and not just any life but life as I am meant to live it — exactly as I am, with no apologies for who I am. And that, my friends, is the moment I have been waiting for my whole life.

So, yes, I feel fierce and fearless at 57. But what does that mean? It’s more than the words suggest. Fierce implies potential anger, but this kind of fierce is not about anger. Passion yes, anger no. This new feeling of fierceness is about knowing who I am, what I stand for, and where I will or will not go spiritually, emotionally, physically simply because someone or something else demands it of me. I will protect the True Self God gave me and follow that course and no one else’s. Fierce.

Now what about “fearless”? Can anyone really be fearless? This isn’t about never being afraid or never worrying. There’s a great quote from Nelson Mandela that sums it up: “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”

That’s what I’m talking about. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Try that job that scares you, find a way to adapt or leave a job that crushes your soul, take that class you’ve been wanting to take for years, reconnect on a deeper level with your spouse or a child, book that flight to the place you dream of visiting, go on a retreat and spend time in complete silence and discover who you are.

Really, I think silence is key to reaching this place on the path. We have to sit in silence, sometimes uncomfortable silence, to hear the Still, Small Voice that will tell us where we need to go, who we are meant to be. I know your life is busy and a retreat seems impossible. Not so. Find a way. Even if it’s only for one day. Go somewhere, maybe even a tent pitched at a quiet campsite, and unplug your phone and just be. And when you just be, and you don’t feel the need to say what you think you need to say or do what you think the world expects you to do; you will find bliss, you fill find Spirit, you will find your True Self.

And when you find your True Self, the person God created you to be, you will feel fierce and fearless because you will know you have a power within you that is unstoppable. That’s not to say life won’t throw you a curve and try to crush you again; it will. But with this new knowledge, this new confidence, this new interior silence, you will face whatever comes and know you will survive, maybe even thrive.

I have another quote hanging in my office, a favorite from St. Joan of Arc — talk about fierce and fearless — and it says: “I am not afraid. I was born to do this.” Find what you were born to do, and do not be afraid. Fierce and fearless feels fabulous. Don’t tell the younger folks, but old age is where it’s at. It’s where all the wisdom is hiding. We just need to dig around and grab it.

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Now the back story. I first attended the Merton in the Mountains retreat in 2008. It was my first-ever silent retreat and my first time at Pyramid. I was nervous going in, wondering if I could maintain the silence. I left transformed and committed to regular periods of silence and stillness, whether on retreat or on a cushion in my sunporch at home. The retreat was run by Walt Chura back then, a devoted Merton follower and secular Franciscan who guided us, offered us spiritual direction, and made us feel like this retreat was exactly where we needed to be. Walt stopped leading the retreat a few years ago. This year was supposed to be a special treat. Sister Monica Murphy, CSJ, director of Pyramid Life Center and a larger-than-life beloved figure in our diocese, was scheduled to lead it, but she was killed in a tragic auto accident earlier this month. A substitute leader was needed; that’s where I come in, and I am beyond honored. There is no way I can fill Sister Monica’s shoes as leader of this retreat — I wouldn’t dare try — but I will lead from the heart of my own love of Thomas Merton, in the spirit of Walt Chura, and in memory of Sister Monica.

If you have time and want to give this retreat a try, think about it, or email me and I’ll be happy to talk to you about what to expect. Silence is the main thing. We’ll have regular “conferences” related to Merton, prayer in the mornings and evenings, silent meals taken together, Mass on Sunday, and time to just relax and listen for the still small voice. Pyramid Life Center is a beautiful place to spend a weekend — a big open lake, with loons swimming and calling; trails to hike, rocks to sit on, a little meditation cabin, a log chapel. It really is something to experience.

You can find more information about Pyramid Life Center HERE. If you’re ready to sign up, HERE is the direct link to the registration page. (It’s listed under “Thomas Merton Silent Retreat” in the drop down.) I hope I see you Sept. 6-8. If you can’t join us, please pray for those of us who will be making this interior journey. And please pray for the repose of the soul of Sister Monica. Pyramid will not be the same without her.

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So every day, usually at 6 a.m. (although once or twice in the evening instead due to a crazy schedule), I get up, head downstairs, set up my pillows on the floor or on a chair and settle into the silence, breathing deeply a few times to start, rolling my shoulders, stretching my neck and then…stillness. I set my Apple watch to 15 minutes, but I don’t really need a timer at this point. I usually know intuitively just before the little vibration goes off that I’m reaching the end of my session.

Some days I’m in the meditation groove. The stillness seems to envelope me and monkey mind stops it’s chattering. Time flies, and suddenly I’m done. Other days, twinges and itches make me want to readjust my position, thoughts about work or chores or meetings race around my head for at least a minute or so before I even realize what’s happening and acknowledge the thoughts and let them float away. Days like today I can feel the physical stillness like a heavy blanket comforting me even as my mind jumps up and down looking for attention. And I return again and again to breathing and the words that ground me throughout my meditation.

Is it making a difference in my life? Although there is no outward sign at this point to anyone (even me), I would have to say yes, because something is shifting inside. First of all, I just don’t want to miss my quiet prayer/meditation time. I find myself looking forward to it, resisting the urge to sleep in or say I’m too busy to squeeze in 15 minutes. Because, really, I’m never so busy I can’t fit in 15 minutes. If I closed up Facebook, I’d have way more than 15 minutes to work with every day. I can feel something happening not on a level that necessarily changes outward behavior in a dramatic way (at least not yet), but rather changes internal awareness. I still race around from meeting to meeting and deadline to deadline, sometimes so mindlessly I forget to eat my lunch or leave my full coffee cup in the microwave and wonder where it went, but through it all I’m becoming more of a silent observer, watching my own frenetic pace, pulling back when I can or smiling at the same habitual patterns that can tie me up in knots almost daily. Now there is less frustration and more compassion for myself, and I find myself thinking 15 minutes is not long enough. But I’m not worrying about adding on more just yet, about making “progress” or ratcheting things up, which, in itself, is a benchmark for me.

The interesting thing is that the meditation has now led me back to the food-faith journey and, finally, I am on track and making improvements where I was stuck for so many months. So I’ve come full circle. Yes, it’s making a difference, one breath at a time.

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If you’ve ever purchased a new set of wind chimes or a clock with an extra loud tick-tock, you probably know what I mean. The first few nights can feel a bit like torture as the rhythmic noise beats against the silence. On one of the first nights in our rental house in Austin, Texas, years ago, I asked Dennis to get on a ladder at 1 a.m. to take down my beautiful new chimes because I just couldn’t take it anymore. Not long after, however, I reached a point where I didn’t even notice the chimes ringing unless a Texas storm blew through.

It’s interesting how we get used to things—sounds, sights, people, places—over time. What starts out as unusual or annoying, charming or exotic becomes commonplace and, in some ways, invisible. And we often don’t notice those things again until they’re gone, and suddenly the void seems gaping or the silence deafening.

I was in a store recently, wheeling my cart between women’s clothing and housewares, when another shopper sneezed. I turned and said, “God bless you,” without really thinking much of it. Another shopper had the same idea, so it came out in stereo. The woman who had sneezed stopped what she was doing, and looked somewhat dazed as she stood there blinking for a second or two—as if to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Then she said, “Oh, my goodness. I live alone now. My husband died. I’m not used to hearing anyone respond to me anymore. Thank you.” And she walked away smiling.

Her reaction has stayed with me. How many times had her husband said, “God bless you” or “Thank you” or “I love you” over the years? So many that it probably seemed insignificant after a while. Maybe she didn’t even notice he was saying it. Until he wasn’t.

Since that experience in the store, I’ve been trying to notice those sounds that drift into my day intentionally or by accident, things that might go otherwise unnoticed, and I’ve come to one conclusion: The only way to be tuned into the world around us in a meaningful way is to tune out the noise on a regular basis. Silence sharpens our spiritual hearing. When we shut out the noise and listen, we return to a place of heightened awareness.

As we know from Scripture, Jesus would retreat into the desert now and then. Those desert experiences didn’t just give him a few moments of peace and prayer, they prepared him for the chaotic and challenging things that would come his way when he returned to the “real” world. We need to do the same, even if our desert is nothing more than a chair in the corner of a bedroom or, in my case, a pillow on the floor of my basement office, where I keep my personal sacred space.

When we first start sitting in silent prayer, we may simply become more aware of the actual voices and noises around us, but with practice we’ll begin to hear the still small voice of the Spirit, the whisper trying to rise above the din of the world. If we retreat into silence for even a few minutes each day, we will be more likely to hear the Spirit speaking to our hearts, and we will—like the woman shopping alongside me in Marshalls—stand back in awe and gratitude for the unexpected response.

This Life Lines column first appeared in the Sept. 1, 2016, issue of Catholic New York.

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When I was on silent retreat last month, I sat in the dining room on our final morning, staring out the window at the peaceful, frozen landscape. In the front yard of the Dominican Retreat and Conference Center in Niskayuna (yes, this place is becoming a perennial favorite in my posts) amid the many barren trees and evergreens was one lone tree still covered entirely in leaves — dead, brown leaves hanging ever-so-delicately yet ever-so-resiliently from its sprawling limbs. 

As I sat there, mesmerized by this tree and its odd determination to fight nature, a breeze kicked up outside. The leaves started to flutter, at first just the tiniest bit and then more and more intensely, as if the tree was breathing.  I guess because the leaves were so dry and light they fluttered in a way that was unlike hardy, green leaves. Their twisting and turning made the entire tree appear to be covered in small brown butterflies, flapping their wings quickly and in unison.

I couldn’t help but smile, especially considering the fact that the previous night’s talk had been about reconciliation and butterflies and new life. In fact, each of us was given a small foam butterfly to take home for our sacred space as a reminder of the freedom that is ours when we forgive others, forgive ourselves, and let go of our burdens in confession.

Suddenly that tree and its dead branches became a symbol hope and a sign that even when our soul is entrenched in the deepest winter, the Spirit is fluttering through our darkness offering light and new life. The Spirit beckons us to see the possibility for renewal and transformation even when everything around us convinces us we are stranded in a barren wasteland.

Butterflies in winter. Nothing is impossible with God.

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It’s really too much to put in a single blog post. I don’t have it in me to write that, and, trust me, you won’t have it in you to read it. So, instead, every day this week I’ll try to share one short reflection on my retreat with a photo or two. But before I do that today, let me just urge you to try a silent retreat. Some day. It is a powerful, powerful experience, especially if you can do it in a place of such incredible beauty, as I was blessed to do this weekend.

The photo above was my favorite “resting” spot during retreat. To get to it, I had to hike up a small hill, past the chapel, and then down a hill to a little dock that was isolated from everything else. I would sit in this chair and stare at the changing colors of the sky, the swirling clouds moving so close overhead they felt like they were within reach, the shimmering water that reflected the light so dramatically that sometimes it looked like it was raining when it wasn’t and sometimes it looked like a swarm of small birds was hovering just over the surface when they weren’t. But more than anything else, what was I found here was such incredible peace, for hours at a time, so peaceful sometimes I found it difficult to leave when I knew I had to head to the dining hall for a meal.

One of the things that really struck me on this weekend experience of nature at its finest was how different it was from my recent vacation to the equally beautiful Jersey Shore. There I woke every morning and ran down to the beach to watch the sunrise, and I took photo after photo of the most spectacular scenes. Every day was different, everyday left me in awe and sometimes in tears. And I wanted to share it and post it and record it.

But here the sunrise was so subtle that you’d easily miss it if you weren’t paying very close attention. Unlike at the ocean, the sun itself was hidden from view, so there was no Aha! moment. It was more of a slow burn. Like I didn’t realize it was coming, almost thought maybe it was too cloudy for a visible sunrise, and then suddenly I’d notice the clouds getting a pinkish hue to them. Slowly, slowly the pink deepened and spread and it was obvious that behind that mountain a sunrise was occurring, but all I could see was the reflection of it. And for the briefest moment I thought, “I wish I’d brought my camera,” and then I remembered what this weekend was all about. I wasn’t there to capture the sunrise. I was there to let the sunrise capture me.

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unflappable…

Kids did dopey things. I didn’t yell. Work deadlines went from bad to worse. I didn’t melt. The car bumper was bashed in by a hit-and-run meanie. I didn’t explode.

It was clear evidence, at least in my mind, of the power of deep and intense prayer practiced over days, rather than short bursts of desperate cries shouted heavenward while sitting at stoplights or wiping the counter.

In the initial days after my retreat, I kept up some semblance of deep prayer and deep peace. I cleared the decks and sat down in silent meditation in my sacred space. I did yoga followed by more prayer. I got up early and prayed the Liturgy of the Hours in the twinkling glow of the Christmas tree set against a backdrop of winter darkness. I was on a holy roll.

But then bit by bit, day by day, the peace started to fragment…

I could almost see it happening.

Sharp shards of silence breaking off and flying away from me in every direction.

I knew enough to realize it was an unhappy development but felt powerless to stop it. The tension of the season, coupled with the crush of work, compounded by the frenzy of family life made me — as it often does — feel as if I should just wave my spiritual white flag and give up my quest for inner peace. Add my voice to the din.

Then I remembered something our teacher said on retreat, something that really jumped out at me as I sat cross-legged on the floor of the yoga studio at Kripalu. So often, when we think of Jesus in prayer, we think of him in the desert, in the garden, in silent solitude. But the truth is, Father Tom reminded us, that Jesus was more often than not surrounded by chaos — people clamoring to get near him, touch his robe, lower a friend through a roof, climb a tree.

Follow, follow, follow. Ask, ask, ask.

And yet we see the way his peace and prayerfulness emerge amid the chaos. The quiet compassion given to the woman caught in adultery, the feeding of the 5,000, the healing of a soldier’s servant, the forgiveness of a thief from the cross. Jesus did not become unloving, harsh and impatient because the conditions around him went from good to bad to abominable. He stayed true to his center, his Truth, bringing his peace into the noise and glare of an often unkind world.

Rather than letting it happen the other way around…

So as we wait just two more days to celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace, as I look at the absolute insanity that is sure to ensue in the coming hours, I’m picking up the scattered fragments of peace and fashioning them into something usable, something new. I imagine my peace looks a bit like a kaleidoscope now.

Pieces of peace…artfully arranged into something that will cast a brilliant and warm light on everything its shooting and darting rays touch as I turn it gently in my hands.

Chaos into calm. Panic into peace. Fragments into fullness.

All through him, who was…and is…and is to come.

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After our initial introductory meal on Friday night, we entered the silence with Evening Prayer in the monastic tradition. We had a sacred space in our Adirondack lodge at Pyramid Life Center, with the Franciscan Cross of San Damiano, a photo of a statue of Mary from the Trappist Abbey at Gethsemane, Kentucky, a photo of Merton, an image of St. Francis and St. Clare of Assisi, and, what I found especially meaningful, a figure of Jesus that had fallen off a crucifix given to our retreat director. The broken body of Jesus laying on the table was such a powerful symbol in that little prayer space.

Our days were punctuated by Morning and Evening Prayer, Vespers, and Lectio Divina, interspersed with “conferences” on topics related to our retreat — contemplation, nature and creation, Francis of Assisi, and the interior life in general. And of course there were silent meals, which were part of our spiritual “practice.” I think those were the most difficult moments of silence. To sit across the table from another person and not speak or make eye contact was so strange to me, and yet there was something very freeing about not having to make small talk, to just sit and eat my dinner, focusing on the food and the silence. When you eat in silence, you find that even sipping corn chowder can become a spiritual experience.

It just so happened that across the camp from us was another retreat group, the “Connecting to the Earth” retreat, which included a sweat lodge and Reiki and healing sticks and things of that sort. The first night, as I lay in bed in the glow of my battery-powered candle (one of the best non-essential items I decided to take along with me), I could hear not only the noises of the forest and the wind rustling the trees but the distant sound of drumbeats. I loved knowing that there was this other group of people out there in the dark, trying to find their own spiritual space in their own way. It was a powerful reminder of our interconnectedness even when our paths are completely different. In the mornings, not long after our own retreat director would ring the “bell of mindfulness” to wake us for Morning Prayer, I would hear the soft sound of flute music drifting through the trees from the Earth Connection’s campsite. Sitting in an Adirondack chair, staring off at the clouds hanging just above the lake, listening to the somber notes of the flute off in the distance was like living in a dream. So peaceful, so spiritual, so filled with the majesty and wonder of God and all creation.

Between our scheduled events were long periods of silence, sometimes hours at a time, when we could do walking meditation or sit in the prayer space or take a boat out on the lake and meditate there. (Remember, no reading and writing allowed on this retreat either, which was like pulling a rug out from under me.) At one point, I took a long hike in the woods, and it seemed that every time I started to pick up speed and stop paying attention to what I was doing I would spot a little orange “eft” in my path. (An eft is a baby newt, and, no, I did not know this offhand. My son, Noah, told me that what I saw was an eft not a newt.) If I didn’t want to crush the dozens of efts running back and forth over the damp ground, I had to walk gingerly, slowly, patiently. So I can thank the efts for making what would have been a straight power walk a spiritual power walk instead.

I guess I’m spending a lot of time talking about the particulars of my weekend not only to set the scene for you but because, to tell you the truth, it’s easier to talk about the actual happenings than to talk about the things that happened in silence. They are still too hard to grasp. I am continuing to process what I experienced. It’s hard to take the silence in all at once. I didn’t have any “aha” moments this weekend, but I don’t think I was supposed to. This wasn’t about achieving anything. This was about, as our retreat director said, realizing that I am a human being not a human doing. In our busy, get-ahead world, it can be very difficult to separate ourselves from what we do, but that is what the silences calls us to realize. When we strip away the conversation and the nervous chatter, the comfortable surroundings of home and the emails and computers and cell phones, we uncover our true selves. We see, maybe for the first time, that we continue to exist — maybe even finally exist in our fullness — when we take away all our outer trappings.

I am determined to find a way to put some minimal amount of silence and contemplation into my “normal” life, although, given the fact that Chiara is standing on my chair as I write this, that seems a dim possibility right now. Still, I am at a point in my life where silence matters, or should matter. Not the silence of the mountains, although that was spectacular, but the silence of real life, the silent space we create within ourselves that remains centered and still and strong no matter who’s standing on the back of our chairs and looking over our shoulders.

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