Last year, as I went through my divorce, my life changed in many ways. I moved from my house, I lost some friends, I needed people in a new way, I only saw my kids half the time. I was taking classes in seminary as all of this was going on, and looking forward to a Contemplative Retreat class in July. For the class, we were going to go away on retreat for a weekend, and then spend the week reflecting on our retreat and learning how to plan and facilitate contemplative retreats.
I was so looking forward to a contemplative retreat. I was exhausted from my life, emotionally and spiritually, and I wanted to feel refreshed.
The retreat weekend turned out to be a silent retreat. And I had gone on silent retreats before, for even longer periods of time.
But the silent retreat became a metaphor for my own life, and I started to drown in the silence, to be overwhelmed by the experience of being separated from what and whom I knew. I started to cry, and I couldn't stop. I think I cried in my sleep that weekend. And on Sunday when it was time to go home and the group gathered together to process, I so envied the others who had come away from the weekend refreshed, rejuvenated, and reconnected with God. Words seemed precious to them now.
I had gone from feeling alone to feeling lonely. I was experiencing loneliness that I don't remember since I was a teenager.
When I got home, I called my spiritual director, and we started working. Where was God? Oh, my head knew that God was here, with me, that I could never really be alone, much less lonely. But my heart knew that I was lonely, despairing. And my soul seemed empty.
I began to realize that I had chosen loneliness. I had chosen to go to that place, where silence wasn't mere stillness, but stagnancy. I had chosen to go to that place, and I could choose to leave there. And I did choose to leave there. I appreciate what it is to know in my heart and soul as well as my head that I am never alone, and I need never accept loneliness in my life.
My apartment is full of quiet when my kids aren't here, and full of beautiful noise when they are. Silence is no longer a heavy weight pressing me down, but a spacious stillness encouraging me to expand. God is in the silence, in the quiet and still places of everyday. Everyday.
Silence is always with us.
What a blessing, to let go of the ordering of time.
Practice silence.
Practice.
Silence.
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