March 25
Feeling confused about what to do with my life, I resolve to escape the misleading, superficial signals of the outside world and go on a two-day silent retreat in the wilderness. Reserve April 7 at the Jesuit Retreat House in Wernersville, PA, a three-hour drive from here. Walk downstairs, pick up the new Atlantic Monthly, page to the Almanac, and read this:
"April 7: Drivers should take extra care today, because car accidents are, on average, 7 percent likelier on the Monday just after the start of Daylight Saving Time...Accidental deaths of all sorts rise, typically by 6 percent for several days after the time change."
Decide to take one last superficial signal into account. Cancel Wernersville and book March 27-28 at a retreat house in Faulkner, MD, under two hours away. The staffer asks, "Do you want direction?" Yes, I think, I want direction, but probably not from a stranger who will confuse me with stuff about God and salvation. "Uh, no. Thanks. A private retreat would be good." Okay, I'm told, just come on over whenever you want. The cost will be $55 per night, including meals.
March 26
Tell Dad I'm going on a silent retreat. Ignore his response: "Well, just make sure it's not a cult." Make note: "For April Fool's Day: 'Dear Dad & Family, I have found new friends who have successfully deprogrammed the 26 years of brainwashing with which you convinced me I was your daughter. I forgive you this and hope you will join me on new walk toward enlightenment. Also, I have written a manifesto I would like you all to read.'"
Tell my friend Matt about the retreat. He says, "Just make sure it's not run by David Koresh." Tell friend Jen, who warns, "Just don't expect to get any big lightning bolts to solve your problems in two days." Tell friend Monique, who suggests bringing a cell phone ("Picture it," she says: "'Yeah, give me a page if you need me. I'm totally not talking to anybody here.'"). Make note: do not contact any friends upon return.
March 27 9:25: Arrive at the Loyola Retreat House in Faulkner, MD. The directions say to make a right at the "Billy's Crab House" sign onto Pope's Creek Road. Picture having nothing to eat for two days but crabs and corn bread; and wonder if the Pope knows he has a creek and a road named after him in Faulkner.
9:30: Find that, amazingly, parking is impossible to find even at a wilderness retreat. The week before Easter is a particularly popular one for the retreat house, as Christian celebrants of Holy Week come to...do holy stuff. The house manager, Cris Bernstein (?!), hands me a schedule of the Holy Week festivities ("Just so you know what's going on in the house," she assures me) and points up the stairs to my room. "Meals are at 8, 12:30, and 6. Enjoy your stay." Suddenly feel sorry for having brought no food, and resign self to eating at the appointed ungodly (har har) hours.
9:45: Dump stuff in my room, which features the same brown cloth bedspread my brother had on his bed at age 8; a chair that looks like it was ripped out of a Plymouth Cougar; a desk, sink, cross on the wall, and an open toilet. Suffer flashbacks from college, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and a nasty hostel in Europe. Suddenly develop a deep, abiding support of Christian values when I notice that the doors--both interior and exterior--have no locks.
10:00: Check out the house. The sitting room looks like my grandparents' living room if they combined it with their grandparent friends' living room and put a bunch of religious books in it. A magazine rack features all Christian publications except Maryland magazine, Catholic University's alumni mag, a Reader's Digest from September 1996, and the last year of National Geographic. Feel relieved that it will be so easy to keep my vow of media abstinence.
A set of doors leads to the dining area, where linoleum floors, clanging metal and dishes, and tiny cartons of Shenandoah's Pride milk cause me to suffer flashbacks from elementary school, except for the ready availability of coffee, which I quickly pour into the biggest mug I can find on the cart.
Next to the dining room is a groovy indoor porch, which seems to have been furnished compliments of Billy's Crab House (the chairs' vinyl upholstering is fastened with round metal tacks, everything is wood, and there's a map of Charles County on the wall). The front is entirely glass, looking out onto the purtiest expanse of Potomac River you ever saw. There is a small boombox, next to which I find tapes of piano classics, inspirational song collections, and inexplicably, Celine Dion.
10:30: Wander the grounds, which suit my purposes precisely: lots of grass, weeds (the friendly kind), trees, chairs under trees and by the water, and gravel pathways. Sit in no less than eight different places over the next few hours, writing in journal and thinking about Life, and whether that chair over there will afford me more insight-laden ambience than the current one. Eventually stop twitching whenever a squirrel or a bee makes some noise. Notice that the squirrels and bees are more active than the guests, who are all old.
1:30: Figure that after all this walking, sitting, thinking, and communing with nature, it's got to be at least 2:30 p.m. Discover that walking, sitting, thinking, and communing never takes as long as it feels.
2:00: Head to the dining room to scrounge tidbits from 12:30's lunch, and find that all but the salad bar has been rolled back into the kitchen. Sit down alone next to a window and listen to two employees discussing music. "I don't know, my wife buys all the tapes," a man tells his tablemate. "But you know who's good? That Celine Dion. You ever heard of her? Boy, she's got a voice on her." Feel confused and upset that Celine Dion has contaminated my day not once but twice--significantly less than in the outside world, but still.
3:30: Stroll back outside, discovering a new chair on the far side of the lawn next to a patch of trees and a cawing convention of birds. Look around. Feel antsy. Consider the question, "If a person sang to herself in the forest and no one was there to hear her, would she make any noise?" Begin humming compulsively. Feel guilty for breaking vow of silence. 4:30: Sit on bench, awaiting sunset. Figure it must be about 5:30. Glancing to make sure all's clear, commence full-throated, unabashed, out-loud singing. Make up a dumb pop song and write it on a paper placemat from lunch, not wanting to sully the incisive, unfathomably deep ruminations residing in my journal. Sing the pop song until even I'm sick of it. Remember Celine Dion and shut my mouth.
6:30: Beautiful sundown. Only two other people watching. Resist the urge to feel superior to the Holy Weekers, who have been praying in a main chapel that is unfortunately drab and poorly decorated, and are missing out.
6:40: Silently eat more schoolesque cuisine at dinner; but feel surprisingly satisfied, unhurried, and content. Consider staying another night, wondering whether to feel guilty for not getting back to my responsibilities. Realize that I am unemployed and thus have no "responsibilities," unless you count laundry. Spend next few hours drinking tea, doodling on the pop song placemat, and making lists of places that would maybe hire me. Figure it's about 11 p.m.
10:00: Feel surprised and somewhat ashamed to be already sleepy while the ever-pious Holy Weekers are still up praying in one of the chapels, which happens to be three doors down from my room. I get over it and zonk out, glad that not all religious zealots are of the noisy variety.
March 28
7:00: Awake to sunlight, birdsong and church bells, feeling serene and virtuous in having adapted to the rhythms of nature. Get out of bed and write in journal. Glancing at bed, notice something crawling in it. Diagnose it as a deer tick, and feel my heart plummet into my heels. Cautiously, mumblingly search my person and discover three parasites who have the audacity to hang on for dear life when I come at them with tweezers. Decide I've had enough of this nature crap and pack up.
8:00: At breakfast, reconsider my hasty exit. Debate the merits of staying one more night versus Lyme disease. Decide to decide later. Mull over the catalogues of bitterness, melodrama and despair that are my old journals.
10:00: After more coffee and a second tick check, decide to stay. Remind myself to check for Lyme rashes later. Figure it's probably 11:30 by now.
10:05: Go hiking through the woods. Come upon a huge, irresistibly knobby tree that happens to span a death-defying gorge (well, okay, a dry creek bed; but it was really high up). Think, "No way could I climb all the way up there...well, maybe I could try..." Hear Yodah intoning, "Try not. DO, or do not. There is no try." Get halfway to the top before chickening out, realizing how dumb it would look to return from a silent retreat in a cast--or worse, a casket.
1:00: Try not to look at the Washington Post taunting me in the sitting room, feeling my vow of media abstinence weaken. Head down to pay phone to file progress report at home. The Holy Weekers are in the adjacent room watching a movie that probably--judging from the sounds of hoofbeats, crowd hurrahs, and MGM music--stars Charlton Heston. Look forward to 3:00, when, according to the schedule, the movie will have given way to Celebrating the Lord's Passion, and I can make a phone call in peace.
Pass newspaper again, notice large type. Cave in. Read, "39 Suicide Victims Died In Cult." Become paranoid. Later use phone to leave message: "It's me, I'll be staying another night. There are some really interesting programmers here who have a lot to say about Hale-Bopp." Hang up, feeling smug. Revert back to paranoia, keeping close eye on the Holy Weekers. Inspect Jell-O at lunch for signs of tampering.
3:30: Decide to walk off the creeps from the cult story. Down by the water, teeter across a fallen log over a stream. Feel like Bennie in Circle of Friends, only without Chris O'Donnell. Jump off the log and directly onto a board featuring a nail sharp enough to bloody a fakir. Yelp an obscenity and, "TETANUS!!" Feel like Chevy Chase. Make note: do not contact anyone upon return, and get a tetanus shot.
4:30: Having broken silence again to procure antiseptic for the puncture wound in my foot, and some Off! for the ticks, sense yesterday's calm discipline dissolving. Stay inside for the remainder of the afternoon, finding the rhythm of nature a tad windy today. Wonder if the nail incident was a form of retribution for my flip attitude toward the worshippers.
8:30: Give up media monasticism for the pablum of Readers Digest and pretty pictures in National Geographic. Spend the remainder of my solitude reading quotes from Charles Schulz and fascinating facts about tarantulas. Note that the man across from me in the library bears a striking resemblance to Marshall Applewhite. Go to bed, trying not to think about ticks or religion or cults or tarantulas or tetanus or anything besides what a great invention TV is.
March 29
Hit the road after breakfast, trying to obey the "Please Drive Respectfully" sign on the way out. Feel satisfied with the overall retreat experience, and decide to do it again sometime--maybe for my pre-mid-life crisis. Decide to take life more slowly, quietly, and to treat other people more kindly. Spend next 12 hours chattering incessantly, watching TV, and plotting April Fool's Day revenge on my father. Feel thankful that although my unexamined life may not be worth living, it is slightly more entertaining and generally tick-free.
(1997)