Weekend Retreat

So much of the summer seemed wrapped up in busy activities and crowded weekends that I thought a restful retreat away from the world would be a welcome change. It was a revelation, but not of the sort I'd expected.


I first thought of going on a retreat in early April. It was around then that I met Mark, a lay brother at the Camaldolese monastery in Big Sur. He worked in the gardens there, but he was about to move out of the monastery and into the ecologically-self-conscious commune down the street from me. We met at the commune one Saturday night and started talking. He thought my spiritual interests would lead me to appreciate the monanstery and my naturalist interests would lead me to appreciate the setting. I wanted to go during Memorial Day weekend, but it was already booked. With so many other summer activities, it wasn't until the weekend of August 9-11 that I was free. I chose that weekend in particular because it coincided with the Perseid meteor shower, and the isolation of the monastery promised a clear view of them.
I arrived at the monastery late Friday evening, just as the sun was setting. This made for a very moving arrival, since the coast was fogged in, but the monastery grounds, several hundred feet above the surf, were above the fog. Driving up the entrance road, the light grew from gray and indistinct to shades of yellow, rose, and pink. I finally emerged from the fog bank into crystal clear air, trailing wisps of golden fog behind me.
It was an auspicious start.
However, when I arrived, I could not find any directions to my room. There was a notice posted for "Lucy," however, giving directions to the retreatants quarters. Could they have mistaken my name? I took the directions and went to the room. All seemed in order. However, on the desk was a miniature rosebud from the local wild roses and a tiny note that said, "Welcome, dear Lucia."
This did not seem to be meant for me. Sure enough, a short time later a woman arrived. The room was meant for her. I moved my stuff into an empty room (named after St. Andrew) and immediately felt more comfortable. It was emblematic of my weekend there. There was certainly welcome, and certainly a kind of invisible hospitality, but it all seemed aimed slightly over my shoulder, at someone else.
I learned a number of things, nevertheless.
The fog rolled higher the next night and the Perseids were not visible. I decided not to stay Sunday, but to drive up the coast and through the Los Padres National Forest.
I actually had my most contempletive moments driving back from the retreat (retreating from the retreat?). I drove slowly through Los Padres national forest and Fort Hunter Liggat to Mission San Antonio de Padua. It was the site of the first marriage performed in California, and at one time had the largest Indian population. Then European diseases killed off the Indians, the Mexican government seized the monastic lands and divided them up among Mexican settlers, the United States took over, and the whole thing went to hell. Now, it's been restored (somewhat). It seemed rather odd to have this Franciscan monastery and mission in the middle of an Army fort where they regularly test armored vehicles and tanks.
Then I drove to King City, had lunch, and drove on to Pinnacles via the east entrance. It was the land there that gave me the most spiritual uplift: rolling hills dotted with large, isolated oaks. The Pinnacles themselves were fun in a family-oriented way: lots of hikers on the trail up through the "caves" to the reservoir. There were not enough scantily-clad boy rock climbers for my tastes, though.
Then on through Hollister and over to San Juan Bautista. To my surprise, there was a concert being held in the church. To my utter delight, it was a performance of Gorecki's 3rd symphony. To my great relief, the concert was going to be repeated that evening. There was some uncertainty about the tickets. There might only be standing room, and the tickets wouldn't go on sale until an hour before the performance.
I realized Barry's place in Aromas was not far away, so I dashed over there. Alan was just moving in and things were in a high state of disarray: boxes and rolls of carpet in the halls, more boxes stacked on the patio, the laundry room full of paraphernalia. Though they both expressed keen interest in the concert, they decided they couldn't afford to slack off. Expressing my regrets, I drove back to San Juan.
I bought a ticket and strolled around the mission gardens. When I went in to be seated, however, there was another person in my assigned seat. I was oddly not the least disturbed or put ourt by this. The head usher came up, examined my ticket, and said, "No problem." He then lead me to a far better seat, closer to the orchestra and with an excellent view of the soloist. "Welcome, dear Lucia," I said to myself.
The first half of the concert was a piece called Veni Veni Emmanuel, which did several complex, loud, and violent things to "O come, O come, Emmanual," most of them involving percussion instruments. The featured percussionist was a cute young thing from Scotland, who certainly should have gotten a gold medal in floor exrcises for dashing from drums to marimbas, marimbas to cow bells, cow bells to gongs, and back again. For the finale, he stolled through the orchestra into the santuary, climbed a ladder, and whaled away on a set of tubular bells.
The mezzo who sang the Gorecki had a darker, lower voice than Dawn Upshaw. Although this meant a thinner, less ethereal sound in the second movement, it meant the final movement was actually more powerful and heartfelt than the London recording. It was an Earth-mother lament, and you could feel every pulse of her sorrow.
I spent the night at Barry's in Aromas, just 15 minutes from San Juan Bautista. It was a perfectly clear night, a rarity in Aromas. We watched the Perseid meteor shower from his hot tub. Alan, who was staying there that weekend, joined us briefly. I decided to sleep outside, and Barry joined me. We were soon embracing, and soon after that were fully engaged. I lay on my back and he straddled me, silhouetted by stars. Behind him, overhead, and on all sides, shooting stars celebrated the night.