By Kitty Davis
I begin the writing of this blog as I enjoy the privilege of a several night stay at a retreat center near Winston Salem. The center is called the Well of Mercy, and it was an odd turn of events that led me here. My original plan was to spend several days at an Episcopal monastery in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Just saying the words “Cambridge, Massachusetts” brings to mind hallowed cloisters, magnificent stone structures, and contemplative prayer. The monastery offers guided silent retreats for novices such as I, and many of the staff members are well-known and well respected members of the Ecclesiastical community. It is a place of respite, erudition, tradition, and structure.
The Well of Mercy is different. The best way to describe the difference is to chronicle the experience of my arrival. Had I gone to the monastery, I would have flown in to Boston and hired a cab to deliver me to the doorstep – more costly and somewhat nerve wracking – but not out of my comfort zone. Driving to Well was less costly but if it had not been for my GPS I would not have had a chance of finding it. In fact, when my GPS faded out for a brief moment, I was concerned that I might be in trouble. I was in the middle of nowhere. The last turn into the Well property is a gravel road and the road is “Mercy Lane.” It was the right place for me.
As you turn in, however, there is no evidence of any kind of retreat center. Instead, I saw a woman in a golf cart pulling up to the mailbox. Running along beside the cart was her trusty companion – a black and white mutt of a dog. What a great welcome! She waved, and I continued on the drive. I arrived at the center before her. As I parked and walked toward the office, she arrived. She was about 65 years old, a small woman, and she was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. She stepped out of her vehicle and walked up to me. She introduced herself as Sister Brigid, pushed past my extended hand, and offered me a hug of welcome instead. It was the right place.
Well of Mercy came into being through the collaborative vision and effort of two women who belong to the Sisters of Mercy in Belmont, NC. The goal of their wisdom was to provide a place of rest, hospitality, and care for all people – men and women, Roman Catholic and Protestant, religious and non-religious. Decidedly, more women attend than men, but couples often come on the weekend to slow down and unwind together. There were divorced women, married women, partnered women, single women, and female Episcopal priests. It was a field of dreams-type place. They built it. We came. I do not know if the two sisters were saintly or not, brilliant or not, happy or not. All I know is that they gave us all a temporary home to feel safe, safe to be free to be oneself with God.
I am a woman who, as a Deacon, is used to talking. I am also a woman who, as a therapist, is used to listening. I can be silent or I can speak. I can be with others or I can be alone. I did not know how the silence would proceed but I soon learned. Silence or conversation proceeded with respect. We were discouraged from engaging in arm chair spiritual counseling and cell phone usage inside the residence was strongly discouraged. At meals, however, we could eat together and engage in light chatter or we could carry our meals outside to eat alone. There are no rules other than respecting others.
As the days progressed, I spent most of my time hiking. Along the trails are places to sit and view the creek if you like. There are small signs nailed to trees. The signs say things like “Clarity” or “Grief” or “Forgiveness.” You can pray for those things if you like. Mostly I just liked to walk and talk with God. Kind of like the old Baptist hymn, “And He walked with me and He talked with me…”. There is a labyrinth to walk and contemplate. There is a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary and Bernadette kneeling before her if one wants to sit with her. Or not. There is a hammock and picnic tables. Use them or don’t. True hospitality.
At one of our meals, a woman mentioned a retreat center I had once visited in South Carolina. It was the only other place I had been for a silent retreat. She said that she had not felt safe there. It had been too institutionally cold; she had felt as if it had been too “male.” I was relieved to hear her say that. I thought something was wrong with me for also having that impression. The place to which she referred is a lovely setting for a retreat. The monks who live there observe the hours, and their reverence and their music is captivating. But there was something about the place that made me feel unsafe.
A friend of mine and I went on retreat there several years ago. We stayed in an old cottage that had been a residence for the caretaker when the site was a plantation. We signed up late for the retreat and it was the only room still available. The cottage, located just inside the front gate of the facility, was a long walk from the rest of the center. If I had not been with another woman, it would have felt spooky walking the road at night. The path was cold, dark, and filled with shadows.
And then an unfortunate event happened: an elderly gentleman, a guest of the retreat, followed me during the day as I walked on a trail near the river. He did everything he could to convince me to return to his room with him. He did not leave as I returned as quickly as I could back to the area where I would be near others. I assume that he was experiencing some sort of dementia. His aging brain must have convinced him of the veracity of his thoughts, but they were only thoughts, not facts. I have not forgotten the discomfort that I felt that day. It was so odd to me that a person can be engaged in prayer, trying to develop a relationship with God, and yet find themselves in an environment that was unsafe. Unfortunately, I suppose this happens more often than I would like to think.
I had always thought my bad experience at the monastery was the reason the entire weekend was uncomfortable for me. And I am certain that was part of the reason. But it also seemed as if the woman who spoke at the luncheon table gave voice to a deeper wisdom, something that felt closer to my experience. The Well is a place of hospitality, a place that I feel free. There are no restrictions as to how or where or when one should pray. Freedom of prayer is what I need at this time in my life. That does not mean that traditional and formal methods of prayer aren’t extremely important to me. In fact, I believe they are essential. I need the sharing of the Eucharistic meal. But there are times that it seems as if one just needs to be with God without formal direction. Spending time with God was what mattered.
Throughout my life, I have been quite active, I enjoy being out of doors and I prefer it. My parenting style was one in which I took my children outside – bike riding or going to the park or playing at the beach. I have always thought that being out of doors made a person sleep better, and I like to move. So I have been surprised at how comfortable I have been with sitting at Well. At home, I generally walk for exercise; there is a goal, and I want to accomplish it. At Well, I stop when I want. I sit when I want. I move or not, and, surprise, surprise, God is always there. The only agenda is spending time with God. During those times, God and I have joked around – as irreverent as that may sound. In our conversations, I know that God listened. I hope that I have listened to God. Admittedly, I have had times of “beggy prayers” as Anne Lamott would say. (We’ve got to get in those requests somehow.) But mostly, I have not needed to ask for anything. I have just been able to be present.
One last thought about the male and female character of these two disparate places of retreat – perhaps better described as the male and female aspects of the nature of the Divine. If a “male” characteristic is classically considered to be orderly, the female counterpart would be flow. If the classic male image is to provide, the classic female image is to nurture. If the classic male image is to achieve, the classic female image is to surrender. If the classic male image is to develop appropriate hierarchy, the classic female image is to include. Neither is complete without the other. Neither is fully formed in isolation. Both aspects are essential and good.
My heart is at home here at Well – not because it is a place of unparalleled and stunning beauty. It is just pretty enough. Nor am I at home because I of the familiar liturgy that I love. Instead, we are invited to a prayer gathering in the evening, and we can come or not as we wish. I am not at home because they offered me my favorite coffee or because I brought my favorite pillow or because I ate my favorite foods. I am at home because prayer, lots of it, oodles of it, buckets of it – made Well a place of peace for me, a place where God could dwell within. Right here on Mercy Lane.
The Rev. Deacon Kitty Davis serves as deacon to St. James Episcopal Church. Kitty is also a therapist. A native Wilmingtonian, she and her husband enjoy life on the waterfront and being grandparents.
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