The loud clink of metal utensils on ceramic dishes sounded like the quietest construction zone as I entered the guest dining hall at Mepkin Abbey, a Trappist monastery on the coast of South Carolina. Sitting in silence, five retreatants ate vegetable soup and fresh fruit without making eye contact with each other beyond a simple nod. While I searched for a bowl, a woman with grey hair mouthed these words: “Is this your first time?”
“Yes!” I nodded with vigor, like I was competing in a round of charades. After getting my food, I sat on the same side of the table as my new friend, both of us facing the windows overlooking ancient oak trees draped with Spanish moss.
I went on a silent retreat in search of spiritual tools for the long-term fight against the political noise and violence in our country. I’d heard about retreats at Mepkin Abbey from several friends, including the Rt. Rev. Brian Cole, an Episcopal bishop who frequents monasteries like some people hang out at neighborhood bars. The idea of going on a retreat there had long appealed to me, but as a single mom and a full-time environmental education teacher, whenever I had the time and space to consider it, the slots were always filled. This year, I’d put my name on the wait list weeks in advance and managed to secure a spot. During my three days, I was searching for a quieter form of resistance to Trump’s authoritarian regime, a balance to my attendance at protests and daily calls to legislators.
“Part of a monastic retreat is simple instruction,” Brian told me. “Now we eat, now we pray, now we sleep. Oh, and watch out for the alligator.”
On my first day, I spent several hours walking the grounds, a form of prayer. The azaleas and camellias on the coast were in bloom — ruby red, prom-queen pink, ivory white. I picked a few to keep in my single room with its floor-to ceiling window, platform bed and reading chair. From my solitary perch, I could see an oak tree so large that it would take four people with arms outstretched to encircle it.
That evening, I walked to the church for vespers, a contemplative service in song, followed by compline to end the day. The bells ordered the day, ringing five minutes before meals and Mass. In the church, all of the guests sat in the choir loft behind the 12 monks, six on each side of the sanctuary. The visitor next to me wore a T-shirt with this message: “I wanted to be a monk but I didn’t get the chants.”
He leaned over to show me how to use the colored ribbons to mark the progression of pages in the service. As an Episcopalian, I pride myself on prayer-book prowess, but I sure did need the helping hand. One of the older monks in white robes recited this prayer by candlelight: “Lord our God, restore us again by the repose of sleep after the fatigue of our daily work, so that, continually renewed by your help, we may serve you in body and soul.”
“Why are you doing a silent retreat when you live by yourself?” my 20-year-old daughter had asked.
She had a point. But I wasn’t going to this monastery to learn to be with myself; rather, I wanted to gain strength from silence with others. At home, I often woke with a jolt in my chest, worried about what new atrocity I’d find in the headlines that morning — war, corruption, unconstitutional actions. What kind of peace could I gain from praying in community together?
During my second day, I visited the Meditation Garden of Truth and Reconciliation, a testament to Indigenous people as well as the brutal history of Black people enslaved by white men on this land. Then I walked the 3-mile round trip to visit the African-American cemetery, with faded headstones. Returning to the banks of the Cooper River, I finally glimpsed the alligator, lounging by the pond.
Nearly five hours later, the formidable creature remained in this same position. I tiptoed past, prayers ascending.
I’d learned from reading and talking with Brian that the Trappists were a reform movement in the Benedictine tradition. In 1936, Henry Luce, founder of Time and Life magazines, and his spouse, Clare Boothe Luce, donated a major portion of the nearly 3,000-acre tract to the Trappist monks of the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky.
In the desk drawer of my room, I found a pamphlet with questions to guide my stay. “What am I seeing in the experience of monastic community?” it read. “What kind of community do I have back home? Do I need companions on my spiritual journey?”
At Mepkin Abbey, I saw a community of 12 monks working in the garden, on the grounds, in the kitchen, all while punctuating their day and night — from 4 a.m. to 8 p.m. — with prayer. From a video, I’d learned one monk came from Guyana, while another was from Mexico. They sold items like monk mustard and bags of “Mepkin Abbey Earth Healer Premium Mushroom Compost” in their gift store.
“The monastery feels like a work college for life,” I texted my daughter. Both my kids grew up on the campus of Warren Wilson College, a school where all students work in jobs ranging from farm hand to fiber artist. At the monastery, I felt a shared value in the common good, which I could see more clearly in my life at home and work.
Adam Serwer writes about “neighborism,” the communal belief in “protecting the people around you, no matter who they are or where they come from.” This type of solidarity of ordinary people was on full display in places like Minneapolis this winter.
We all can practice this type of community whether we live in a monastery, a condo or a cul-de-sac. As I continued my silent retreat, I meditated on how showing up for each other doesn’t have to be spectacular. It doesn’t have to be loud. Protecting people and places while amplifying stories of both injustice and joy might be the most important witness for our time, with and without words.
On my last night, I sat on a bench facing west, overlooking the gigantic orange ball of sunshine levitating above the river. The sunset seemed to take forever, and then daytime disappeared in seconds. Returning to the church, I passed the spot where the alligator sat without moving for two days. The space was empty, like a tomb. Several yards away, I saw two reptilian eyes peering up at me from the surface of the pond, the rest of the alligator’s body submerged.
Sometimes change comes slowly, but then it accumulates and rushes forward. Before you know it, everything is different. Looking up, I saw a slice of new moon in the sky at dusk. With monks and strangers around me, I asked for safety and strength for all for another day. And the great silence of the night began again, after the ringing of the bells.
