Well, I'm back from retreat. I guess there's not a whole lot to say about the week. I spent most time trying to sit in the 'uninteresting wilderness' of quiet prayer and catching up with my beloved John of the Cross. I have a couple of bloggable reflections, which I'll be putting up over the next few days when I get to it.
For starters, the little encounters of my arrival and departure:
"The monk who greets me--I recall his face--tells me he's from Marblehead. I tell him that my mother's from Gloucester. We discover that we both had our first experience of religious life in the OFM of the Holy Name province. He was a student at Callicoon. They used to say the rosary walking around the lake. He wanted more prayer. Now he's a Trappist.
'I've been here for 53 years. I think I have a vocation.' he says.
He takes me to the room called St. Catherine, and leaves me there."
This morning after Mass the same monk greeted me in the sacristy, thanked me for reminding him of his first fervor, and said he hoped I would be back soon.
Over the course of the week I also had a few conversations with this chipmunk, who seemed to live in the retreat house courtyard, often sitting--as if presiding over things--on one of the hedges.