Recently I went to a
monastery overlooking the Hudson River. I was attending a memoir writing
workshop there.
I left work at noon
Friday so I'd have time to go for a walk on the monastery grounds before dinner and the
first workshop that evening. I was curious to see what happened with my writing
– if I would find new enthusiasm for it, or bag it. Not that that would be a
decision I’d take lightly, after a 30-year apprenticeship in the craft. But I
have to admit, now that I have two novels published, writing feels different.
I think I used to think
that “being published” would be a huge satisfaction, a confirmation of my
artistic gifts. I thought it would give me a feeling of being “enough.” I think
it’s helped my self-confidence some. What I find, though, is I feel less urgency to write, and that bothers me. Without my prior strong sense of urgency, I'm concerned I'll slack off. Writing has taken me on great adventures, and I don't want to lose out on future ones.
On this particular Friday in September, to get to the monastery, for the first time in my
life I took the Hudson River branch of Metro-North. It leaves from Grand
Central in New York City, goes due north for two hours, and stops in
Poughkeepsie, end of that line. If you want to continue north, you can switch to
Amtrak, which will take you further up the Hudson to Albany, then north to Rutland, Vermont, last stop Montreal.
My train careened past
towns of huge name recognition, like Scarsdale and Sleepy Hollow.
It also hugged the edge
of the Hudson River. The trees weren’t turning yet, but still it was beautiful.
The clouds were reflected on the steel gray water, and the reflection of trees
and mountains on the far side made a dark gray-green border.
The tracks were only a
few feet away from, and only slightly higher in elevation than, the river. In 2012, Hurricane
Sandy pushed so much water into New York Harbor and up the Hudson River, that
cars parked at these riverside train stations were swamped with water and
ruined. This happened, I know for a fact, at least as far north as Rhinebeck,
which is further north than Poughkeepsie. And like I said, Poughkeepsie is two
hours north of Manhattan by train. That gives you an idea of the volume of
water pushed miles up the river. What tremendous force that storm had.
I enjoyed looking out
the window at the now-calm river. In Poughkeepsie I took a taxi to the
monastery, which is on the opposite side of the river, on the west side, which
is the side where New York State apples and grapes for wine are grown.
The monastery’s driveway
exits onto Route 9, a busy highway. The taxi took two switchbacks down the hill
toward the river and deposited me at the visitor’s door.
I was the first person
to report for the weekend, so I asked for and got a room that overlooked the
river. I was given a tour. The chapel is plain but beautiful, the entranceway
to the monks’ residence intriguing: stained glass panels throw
colored light. Visitors are encouraged not to trespass on their space.
On the ground floor there’s
a place where anybody who wants to can live longer-term. It has four bedrooms
with single beds, kitchen, common area, and its own entrance. It overlooks the
river too. It would make a nice place for a writing sabbatical. That is, if you enjoy
the other people who turn up willy nilly. If you can uproot yourself from your
life and live exceedingly quietly for months.
After uprooting myself
from my life in the U.S. and moving to Paris for a year, I know what it takes.
Banking, mail, a thousand things have to be managed before you leave. I started
over in a place where I knew no one and not a word of the language. It’s a
huge effort. I think I only have one or two such uprootings left in me in this life. I’m
saving one for a return to Paris, and the other will probably be moving back to
the U.S. in my very old age.
That’s my impression of
my plan for the next (and last) 25 years of my life. And it doesn’t quite jive with the
fact that I now have a grandchild whose life I want to be a part of. Maybe he
would spend summers with me in Paris? Learn French as a child and speak
fluently?
I can’t figure that part
out. Well, you know me and my Higher Power – something great will work out. I have
FAITH, an acronym for Fabulous Adventure In Trusting Him. He’s taken me on
great adventures: the circumnavigation of America on a bus (pics here), a
creative writing sabbatical for a year in Paris (pics scattered in this blog
from 2016 on), living three months in Barcelona (pics here), and now an
adventure living and writing in Brooklyn (pics here).
Writing in a Monastery, in Search of the American Dream.
Let me take you on a
quick tour of the monastery. Next time, more pics of this a just a brief description of a writing workshop--in case you're curious as to what the heck we get up to at one of these.
One of the monks loves to garden. September asters make a big statement here.
The refrectory (dining hall) is the octagon extending from the back.
A fireplace in one of the common rooms.
Cozy seating in a common room.
A lovely, moss-ridden old oak just off the cloister.
The cloister.
Another view of the imposing oak.
Icons in the chapel.
Simple and true.
View of the entrance to the monk's wing.
A walking path.
How about you? Ever sought refuge in a monastery? Comment below!
