CHAPTER 1

Inside and Outside

Boundaries are lines that afford definition, identity, and protection—-forpersons, families, institutions, nations. They can be tangible, like the wallsof a room; intangible, like the bonds that encircle a family or a community; orthey can defy ordinary description altogether. A boundary gives us something towhich we can point and ascribe a name. Without a boundary, we have nothing towhich we can invite or welcome anyone else.

It was my year for a sabbatical leave, and I decided to begin with a three-daysilent retreat at a monastery. I had never done anything like that before: asolitary venture of extended silence in the domain of God. The idea to head offinto some kind of self-imposed wilderness was one of those inspirations thatseemingly come out of the blue. It just struck me as the way to begin what Ihoped would be three months of creative thinking and writing. I know I wasanxious about backing out, because I saw fit to declare my intention right awayto anyone and everyone who showed the slightest interest in my summer plans. Howcould I later admit to all those people that the retreat never happened, that Ihad been such a wimp? Yet the prospect of sitting with God for threedays—and especially for three nights—gave me cause for dread.Suppose God were to say things I did not want to hear? Or worse, suppose Godsaid nothing at all? Suppose the silence went both ways?

I chose the Abbey of Our Lady of the Holy Spirit, a Roman Catholic religioushouse, for my retreat. It seemed like the right place. I think I was very tired,and what appealed to me first and foremost was its convenience. This time, I didnot want to struggle to the airport and get on a plane and fly far away. Thistime, I did not want to drive in my car for even two or three hours. This time,I just wanted to arrive, enter, and begin as simply as possible.

Located about thirty-five miles from where I live and work, the monasteryoffered a soothing modicum of familiarity to me. I had been there on a fewoccasions over the years for a variety of meetings and remembered the lovelygrounds that provide opportunity for walking and peaceful lakeside sitting. Iknew that the stark, white stone church would offer a steady setting forperiodic prayer and worship with the monks. Still, this is not to say that allmy memories of the place were good ones. I remembered making a degrading trekback into town to a motel bed, before women could stay the night in the retreathouse. But that was a long time ago, and the brochure now makes it plain thatwomen and men of different religious backgrounds are welcome as guests.Nonetheless, I knew the monastery would afford me a measure of dissonance. I,the welcome guest, would be stepping into a religious tradition with which I wasnot in communion—although we hold many of the essentials in common. Iwould be leaving home, crossing into another country of sorts. It would beimportant to guard against becoming too comfortable and taking too much forgranted. I would need to stay alert, to seek direction from the landmarks aroundme.

I turned left off Georgia Highway 212 on a still June afternoon and immediatelycaught my breath in pure delight. The avenue leading to the monastery is linedon either side by a majestic column of stately magnolia trees. In full flower,their huge, white blooms filled the air with a heavy, sweet, and soothingfragrance that to me, surely flowed straight from the portals of heaven. Icurved around to the left again at the sign indicating the way to the retreathouse, parked my car, picked up my bag, entered through a glass door, andpresented myself at an office window marked "Guestmaster." The narcotic effectof the magnolias had worn off by now, and I felt the familiar tightening of thegut that strangeness and lack of confidence always bring.

The monk inside the small office, dressed in his black and white Trappist habit,did not did not look up from his deskwork. On the window's ledge was an envelopecontaining a key for room number 202—wherever that was. Clipped to theenvelope was a registration slip bearing my name. The brief instructions on aprinted card displayed on the ledge asked me to provide an address and atelephone number, put the slip in the envelope, and place the envelope in asmall basket. Ever so eager to get it right—to honor the code of thisstrange land—I carefully did as I was directed and waited. The monk stilldid not look up. "Is that all?" I whispered. He at last acknowledged mypresence, gave me a fleeting smile, and nodded toward an adjacent hallway. I setoff in search of my room.

Paying attention to the signs on doors was critical, and I soon discovered thatthey gave me the directions I needed: "Second Floor," "Women's Toilet," "Women'sShower Room," "To the Church," "Silent Area," "Please Do NotEnter—Cloistered Area." I found my room easily and turned the key in thelock. It was sparsely furnished but pleasant in its simplicity. On the smalldesk was a single sheet of information telling me where I could go and giving methe schedule for meals and the times of prayer to which I was invited. It wasobvious that I was responsible for taking care of myself. A graciously wordedparagraph reminded me that while I was welcome to attend daily community masses,as a non-Roman Catholic I could not receive communion; prayer for the unity ofthe church would be appropriate. Fair enough. I began to feel more atease—welcomed but more aware of the boundaries.

I spent the rest of the time that afternoon—before vespers at5:30—getting used to my surroundings. I found it difficult to sit stillwhile I made this transition between home and monastery, so I prowled thebuildings and the grounds, always being careful to mind the explicit directionson various doors and fences: "Please Do Not Enter—Cloistered Area." Thesmall bulletin board in the dining room was an additional source of usefulinformation. "If you desire the assistance of the Retreat Director, please leavea note in the frame of his door on the first floor." It struck me that someonewho could not read or could not see would have a difficult time making her wayaround here, and I wondered if the monks ever took that into consideration. Ithen thought about communities of which I am a member—my parish church,the condominium association, our family. Do we give clear and adequate guidanceregarding our expectations of the visitor and the outsider, as my hosts wereproviding for me? Do we let them know what they are free to do and what is offbounds? Or are we selective in the ways we offer them such information?

I remember only two moments of real consternation for me, both on the first fullday of my retreat. I was still trying to learn the ropes, keenly aware that Iwas not at home. The monastery day begins with vigils in the church at 4 a.m.Not a morning person, I set my clock for 3:30 and hoped...