It stands majestic up on a hill at the edge of my town. I seldom have a reason to go to that side of town, but on occasion I find myself on the winding road that leads past this retreat, Carmel Retreat. Each time I pass it there’s a familiarity about it, like I’ve been there before. Turns out I have been there before, almost 50 years ago. Could it be? It was a retreat sponsored by CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) and that’s about the extent of what I remember about it. I remember CYO even more vaguely.
It’s for sale now, the Carmelites couldn’t keep it up, and mostly abandoned so on my way home the afternoon winter light was so good I had to poke around to confirm this might be the place. When you’re thirteen years old everything seems so far away how could this be it, right around the corner?
Driving through the arched entrance to the priory parking area seemed intrusive. As I looked around the sense of familiarity grew, things started to feel the same, like walking down the stone stairs and poking around the abandoned greenhouse.
Each of the doors had a cross etched into the window so looking in was obscured just a bit. The large building housed the guests, but the small building across from it nearly sent me to my knees. Looking to the side of the etched cross into the wood paneled room left me speechless for two reasons, the light shining through the opposite window and the reflections from behind where I stood converged and I was back in time.
This was the room where the retreat came to a close, where transformations became apparent and young people were lifted by God, I wasn’t one of them. I was transformed but not by the closing ceremonies. I was transformed from the night before.
Each of us was paired with a roommate, mine was to be one of the counselors. The rooms were actually the size of my bedroom at home and set up the same way with two twin beds. There were no sheets on the bed and I distinctly remember the mattress ticking fabric. On each bed were envelopes addressed to us. There were maybe a dozen on my bed and there were maybe a hundred on the counselor’s bed. I’m sorry I don’t remember her name, I never saw her, she never showed up, I spent the night in that room by myself.
By myself.
By myself.
I have no recollection of what I felt other than alone. And that feeling settled right into my bones, I would feel it again and again throughout my life and it would become familiar.
There is so much I don’t remember about this experience, how did I get there? Was it my idea? My mother confirmed some memory of my going and having to write one of the letters. Was I being punished for something, was I that bad a kid, out of control, destructive that I was sent there? She says no it was something she thought I’d enjoy. I didn’t. She remembers me not saying anything about it when I got home. I never spoke of it.
Apparently the combination of the teachings and the letters received was enough to bring many of the people attending to their nirvana, I wasn’t one of them. In the paneled room the next day I marveled at the shine of the wood and the smell of the room. Murphy’s Oil Soap which I didn’t know then. Later when I lived on my own I would use it on my floors and I remember the smell was familiar but I didn’t make the connection until I looked into that window the other day.
I also connected with the memory of those kids, overcome with joyful tears, vowing to devotion and sacrificing pieces of themselves to the altar, their brother’s watch, their mother’s ring. There were moving, cathartic heart wrenching stories of loss or transformation and each of us needed to speak, to tell our story. The most poignant among them was nurtured and adulated by the priests and counselors. I told a story, it was a lie. I don’t remember what the story was, there was no adulation but I do remember it was a lie.
There are so many things that I don’t remember about that weekend, what did we eat, what did we learn, who was there, the names of anyone. I do remember hearing that one of the counselors had been killed in an accident on the Turnpike a few weeks later but I couldn’t tell you his name or what he looked like.
What I remember now as an adult is that it shaped a part of me at the bone level; deep enough so that all the ensuing years and experiences and pivotal moments couldn’t pry it loose. It was instrumental in forming my character and directing some of the decisions I’ve made along the way. Phillip Brooks said that character may be manifested in the great moments, but it is made in the small ones.
I remember it was the end of religion for me, not God but religion. I have always known that “God ain’t mad at me” as I’m so fond of saying. I never went back to CYO and I never spoke of that weekend again until this weekend with my mother and sister.
They say that familiarity breeds contempt, I don’t believe that’s entirely true. The familiar moments are for examination especially when you feel you can’t quite put your finger on something. When something gnaws at the bone it needs to be examined or your decisions will hinge upon something you may not be aware of.
It was hard to look at this but I’m thankful I did. What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us…Ralph Waldo Emerson What lies within our bones is even bigger. It equals our truth, it truly sets you free.
