It's funny what gets into you. Looking through some old writing, I realized that it was four years ago this week that I attended a retreat at the Cathedral College of Preachers, on the grounds of the Washington National Cathedral. I'm going on retreat next week (more on that in another post) and I think there's something about this time of year that compels me into that reflective space.
The retreat leader was a semi-famous author of books on Benedictine spirituality. Actually, the retreat itself was just so-so. I didn't get a lot out of the presentations, though clearly this person had her groupies that hung on her every word.
What made this retreat so special and really redeemed the time is that I stayed downtown instead of commuting back and forth, as I'd done every time before for programs at the College. Many of us affectionately called the dormitory Hogwarts. It was a grand old space and it grieves me that it's now closed.
A highlight of the week was visiting the Cathedral after dark, just the dozen or so of us. I wrote this in response.
through a welsh drawl we are told:
is both a protest and a proclamation. a gymnasium for the imagination. frozen music. a place of clarity, not certainty. an egg, a nest, a house, a country, a universe.
all i know is, last night i thought it an ark: bleached planks, cross pieces, it locked us inside itself—
no, i mean to say it swallowed us whole. over my head, i beheld stiff ribs, pearled vertebrae, and along each side, gills of glass, dark slits that filtered the murky deep.
it was no ark because i heard a chord of perpetual breathing, humming through its lungs;
i know that it lived because it sang to me.