A Week of Silence at the Abbey of Gethsemani
A familiar unease settled over me as I approached the Abbey of Gethsemani. It wasn't quite anxiety, not in the usual sense, but something more subtle — a tension I'd felt before, though rarely. It wasn't fear, nor was it excitement, but something in between — the feeling that arises when you're about to confront something or someone without knowing how the confrontation ends.
As the Bluegrass Parkway stretched before me in the lull between lunch and rush hour, a memory of another journey surfaced: years ago, boarding a navy blue bus bound for Air Force training — a version of boot camp for officer candidates. The memory of that day rushed back to me: the buzz of freshly shorn heads, the stiff air of forthcoming discipline, and the intense pressure that my entire future depended on how well I performed. How strange that the same feeling should accompany me now on such a different trip. There was no title to earn, no rank to achieve — just that nagging question: "Are you ready for this?"
There's an unsettling beauty in the contrast between these journeys. At twenty, I was on a bus barreling toward Ellsworth Air Force Base, where the B-1 Bomber stood guard over the plains. The landscape stretched, dotted with jackrabbits, impossibly large compared to the ones back home in Kentucky. The base was a staging ground for instruments of war — machines built for destruction and manned by those trained to wield them with unflinching precision.
The energy of youth pushed me forward, eager to prove myself in a world where strength was measured by how quickly you could destroy your enemies — or your friends, should they become one.
Eighteen years later, I find myself on a different road, not toward a base but a monastery. I am no longer the young man who thought he had the world neatly figured out, dividing it into clear lines of good and evil, right and wrong. Back then, orders and duty shaped my path, and I believed my purpose was to impose order on the world’s chaos — by force if necessary. But as I near middle age, the certainties of youth have softened. What once seemed black and white has blurred into shades of gray.
This destination is still a place of discipline, but there's no hardening of the body or preparing for war here. The Abbey of Gethsemani is no fortress of weapons — it is a refuge of silence, where the struggle is within the human heart.
People come here for all sorts of reasons: to draw closer to God, to seek meaning, or simply to escape the noise of life. As for me, I can't say exactly why I came — perhaps it's a blend of all three, or maybe some unseen force, something elemental, the pull of the cosmos or God, drawing me here for reasons beyond my understanding. The struggle isn't one I can engage with force; it's more elusive — a reckoning with unexamined assumptions, beliefs I've let settle unquestioned, and parts of myself buried beneath the distractions of everyday life.
We've grown so accustomed to these distractions that in their absence, we create them. On the drive to Gethsemani, I decided to leave the radio off, which is unusual for me. I did it as a kind of warmup for the retreat. But as the drive stretched on, I felt the urge rising again and again — my hand reaching for the dial like an addict for his fix. I pulled back each time, realizing that the silence wasn't as easy as expected. It wasn't oppressive, but it carried a discomfort that demanded more from me than I had expected.
The abbey is tucked away from the main roads, not far from where Abraham Lincoln first drew breath. Only a modest sign for Monk's Road marks its approach, easy to miss if you aren't looking. The parking lot emerged just beyond a low stone wall that seemed to hold the world at bay. Even before I turned in, the air felt different — more tranquil.
The lot was about a quarter full. I found a parking spot in the shade, grabbed my leather duffel, and walked toward the 'Retreat Entrance.' As I passed the sign marking the start of the silent area, my footsteps suddenly seemed louder. The world didn't fall silent, but the silence became audible. I was out of the world.
I'm not Catholic; the unfamiliarity with the faith’s traditions, the prayers, and the language made me more nervous than I expected. My experience with monasteries is limited to a few brief stops in my European travels. I remember Meteora, Greece, where the monasteries are built high into the cliffs, clinging to the sky's edge as if they were part of the clouds. They felt untouchable, otherworldly, somewhere between heaven and earth. But Gethsemani is different — its presence pulls inward, humble, rooted firmly in the ground.
Day 1
I was alone when I entered the registration room, save for a monk standing behind the counter in his white cowl. He had a round face, which seemed to swallow his wire-framed glasses. He stood of average height, though the years had pulled his head and chest toward the floor and lifted the middle of his back to the sky. There was nothing hurried about him, nothing in need of proving. He nodded as I gave my name — unassuming, unquestioning. When he looked up, I noticed something — his eyes. Although his face was lined with age, his eyes gleamed with the brightness of a child's.
Without a word, he handed me the key to my room and a printed schedule outlining the seven daily prayers, beginning at 3:15 a.m. I felt a surge of gratitude for this stranger who had chosen a life so different from mine yet welcomed me into his world without question.
My room was in the monastic wing, a space that once housed monks but has been converted into rooms for retreatants. When I opened the door, I was met with a study in intentional sparseness: a small dresser, a simple desk, and a twin bed. The plainness was stark but not cold. It brought to mind the silence of turning off the radio during my drive — the room held the same intention. A space emptied not by absence but by design, making room not for what was missing but for what could be.
With a few hours before supper, I decided to listen to Max Richter's Sleep. The minimalist composition felt perfectly at home here, as if the music had been waiting for the silence to complete it. There was no rush, no urgency. The composition didn't demand anything; it allowed space for breathing and thinking. Richter's style, with its quiet, repeating motifs, doesn't dominate; it weaves into the moment as if the sound had always been there — perfect for meditation.
After some time, I reached for Thomas Merton's The Seven Storey Mountain. Reading Merton here, in the place he once called home, felt less like a study and more like a conversation. His writing unravels things slowly and deliberately until all that remains is the bare, honest truth. In the stillness of the room, with its intentional simplicity, Merton's words didn't sit on the page — they inhabited the space, as real as the chair I was sitting on.
I left my room a few minutes early, intending to find the dining hall before supper, but I only made it as far as the church balcony. As I crossed, the sound of the monks in prayer stopped me. It wasn't the words that struck me, but the merging of voices — not a performance, but an offering in glorious cadence. There was no single monk here but a choir. There was no spectacle, no polished crescendos. This was different — unvarnished. There was a realness, a depth born from a genuine desire to honor God. The prayers carried a humility that felt definite.
When the prayer ended, I joined a small group descending the stairs to the cafeteria. No one spoke; no one even glanced at one another. We simply moved together in silence.
In the dining hall, quiet took on a different form. The clinking of forks and spoons against plates and bowls, usually lost in the drone of conversation, became a kind of music — chaotic, yet somehow rhythmic, like the dissonant beats of an avant-garde performance. From the chapel, muffled chants drifted through the walls, their soft melody folding into the clatter of the meal. The sacred and the mundane collided — the ordinary brushed against the divine, creating a song that could only be felt in that room.
After dinner, I made my way to the conference room, where one of the monks was set to give an orientation talk. By this point, the strangeness of silence — the constant, low-level awareness where you're waiting for someone to call your name, where every sound feels like it might be meant for you — had begun to lift. I felt a sense of pride, as though this was an achievement. But I quickly thought better of it, realizing how easily that default mode could return to humble me.
The talk was helpful, a blend of practical advice — like what to do if you lost your room keys — and a reflection on the distinction between true faith and merely being part of a church. But what stood out most was an insight into the first ethics lesson a human receives: a mother's smile while nursing her new child. It is a language older than words, a gesture that speaks of the intense bond between giver and receiver, of a love that flows without demand. In that instant, the child learns what it means to give and be given to, not through instruction but through existing in love.
After the talk, I retired to my room. The morning promised a demanding hike, and I knew I needed rest. I returned to Merton, letting his words fill the quiet for an hour or two before turning off the lights. Sleep came easily.
Day 2
I woke the following day without an alarm, just in time for the 7 o'clock breakfast. It wasn't much — oatmeal and coffee — but it was enough. What a feeling it was to be surrounded by ordinary people, more attuned to their own spirit than to the presence of others — not here to flaunt their shoes or watches but to search their souls. There was no temptation to glance around, no impulse to measure myself against others, and no sense that anyone had an eye on me. That sense of freedom, unburdened by comparison, gave me more energy than the large cup of coffee I drank.
Afterward, I returned to my room, laced up my hiking boots, grabbed my backpack, and set off. My first stop was "the statues". The hiking map mentioned two collections — one by Walker Hancock from 1964 and another donated in 1966 in memory of Jonathan Daniels, an Episcopalian seminarian who was killed protecting a 12-year-old girl during the racial violence of Selma, Alabama. The statues would have been impactful in any setting, but they were heavier in the quiet of the morning, the soft September sun filtering through the oaks, casting a glorious light on the sculptures.
Next, I set my sights on Cross Knob, several miles ahead and 800 feet of ascent. The trail itself didn't challenge much, though hunger crept in, a quiet reminder of the sparse breakfast. I was grateful for the bag of homemade granola tucked into my bag, something of an afterthought before leaving home. As I reached the summit, the view opened up — an expansive overlook of the monastery, framed by the quiet vastness of nature. It was the perfect spot to pause, catch my breath, and enjoy a treat.
I chose a different route on the way back. By then, the sun had fully claimed the sky. I shed my jacket, feeling the heat settle into the earth and rise back up again. The rest of the trail offered little in the way of surprises — no sudden vistas or challenges — but that was a gift. The uneventfulness became its own kind of satisfaction, the type of walk where the body moves without much thought, and the mind drifts.
I returned just in time for a quick shower before lunch. The offerings were few by the time I made my way down, but I pieced together enough to call it a meal. This time, I sat in the silent dining room, where no chants or music could be heard. I ate quickly, not out of hunger, but because the pull of Merton's words was strong. Afterward, I found a chair in the garden, a hundred yards from his resting place, and reopened The Seven Storey Mountain.
Merton's grave stands quietly among its companions, marked by the same plain white cross as the others. "Fr. Louis Merton, Died Dec. 10, 1968," the inscription says. Draped around the cross are rosary beads, left behind like a continuation of the prayers he inspired. At the marker's foot, a constellation of offerings spreads: river-smoothed stones, paper fragments inked with personal reflections, trinkets imbued with private meaning.
Merton is one of those rare religious figures whose words have touched many, not just within the Catholic circle but among Buddhists, agnostics, and those grappling with life's fundamental questions. The objects left here are gestures of gratitude for a voice that, though gone from this earth, continues to resonate.
I settled into the chair, the hardback resting in my lap, reflecting on what draws me to Merton. It's not only the depth of his Catholic faith, but how he weaves it with insights from other traditions — how he uncovers the sacred in both the familiar and the mysterious. His faith is undeniable, but his understanding of love and compassion feels boundless — not confined by doctrine but rooted in a shared humanity. Yet, what moves me most is his vulnerability — how he brings his flaws and doubts into the light, offering not just the story of faith but of what it means to be human in a world that often forgets faith altogether.
I started reading again. The sun moved across the sky, and the trees and spire took turns casting their shadows over the pages. I was fully immersed in Merton's story — his birth in France, his restless childhood in England, the troubled years at Cambridge, his journey to Columbia, and his becoming a Trappist monk here at Gethsemani. His accounts of rebellion and searching, of rejection and fear, were raw and full of contradictions. How could someone who had walked through so much darkness write with such clarity? Then again, perhaps it was precisely because of the darkness and the light he eventually found that he could write with such grace.
His words drew me in so completely that I nearly missed the 6 o'clock supper.
I was already settling into the rhythm, adjusting to the cadence of Gethsemani. Dinner came and went in silence, and this time, I allowed myself a little longer at the table — to be, to exist without expectation.
As much as I longed to return to Merton's story, his prose called me to write instead. And so I started this piece inspired but humbled. I realize that I lack Merton's capacity for honesty, not because I aim to deceive but because the veil of ignorance still clings to me. His words cut while mine fumble. His writing carries a grace that I can only aspire to — my own falling short, not as clear or full of meaning. And maybe that's part of the reason I'm here.
He writes with the passion of a street preacher, the beauty of a lyrical poet, and the wisdom of a philosopher. There's a force to his words— his writing whispers softly, only to roar like a voice possessed by serenity and rage simultaneously. He can shock you not just with his descriptions of man's horrors but with his artistry — how could anyone string together those words in such a way?
And so it began—this piece, whatever it is, part journal, part homage, part something else. The words came without formality, part reflection, part wandering. I wrote until my eyes signaled it was time to stop, a reminder of another morning hike ahead. And like the night before, sleep found me as soon as I flicked the lamp off.
Day 3
It's strange how quickly a place can slip into familiarity. After only a few days, I no longer had to think about which turns would lead me to the library or where the stairwells opened into the dining hall. Something is both impressive and startling about how easily the new becomes the known, shaped by our actions without our full awareness, unnoticed until they've already settled in. I rose just in time for breakfast — oatmeal and coffee again.
After breakfast, I unfolded the trail map and traced the path to The Hanekamp Homestead — a clearing that once sheltered a German seeker who arrived at the abbey in 1912, searching for a vocation. Instead, he found solitude, living as a lay hermit in the forested hills. The trail was easy, following a wide tractor path.
The sun was already climbing when I reached the clearing, and it was time to shed my jacket. The sky was clear, and the day unfolded in perfect balance — cool autumn-like mornings giving way to the warmth of summer's last breath. Heavenly. I sat down in the open space, sipping water, letting my thoughts drift. I imagined what it must have been like to live here, alone for 40 years, with only the occasional presence of nearby monks breaking the isolation.
Overall, silence was coming more easily than expected — refreshing, even. Up to that point, the only words I'd spoken were to a local fisherman I encountered by Dom Frederic's Lake, named for Abbot Frederic Dunne, who guided Gethsemani from 1935 to 1948. He was every bit a country man, his rugged face lined with years spent outdoors, yet there was an honesty in his eyes, the kind that doesn't survive the city. He had a long white beard, worn overalls, and a faded ball cap that any thrift shop hipster would covet. Packing up, he was eager to show me his catch — six or eight nice-sized smallmouth bass still flopping in the fish cage. I congratulated him and made the usual remarks about the weather — we both smiled and nodded.
I found myself missing my wife and daughter. The thought of living in silence any longer than this 5-day retreat unsettled me. But we adjust, us humans. If I had to, I suppose I'd settle into solitude, letting reading and writing tether me to the world.
But for now, I'd make the most of these remaining days without the blare of horns, the wail of sirens, the hum of engines — without the grind of trains, the roar of planes, the thrum of traffic, the vibrations of phones, the ping of emails, the flood of news alerts, headlines, ads, and voices. Here, there's only the song of the warbler, the rustling of leaves as squirrels scurry to hoard acorns, the trickle of a spring feeding the creek below, the music of the chapel's bells, and the far-off chanting of Trappist monks.
After my break, I chose a different path back to the abbey, one that passed by Slate Pond. When I arrived at Gethsemani, the lunch offerings didn't seem appealing, so I made a PB&J sandwich and refilled my coffee cup instead. I returned to my room, freshened up, and hurried to reunite with Merton in the garden.
It wasn't until almost 300 pages in that The Abbey of Gethsemani was mentioned, and even then, only in passing — as just one of many possibilities for Merton, who was seeking guidance on a religious vocation. Back then, Merton couldn't imagine himself as a Trappist — all the fasting, the silence, the meatless diet. "It would kill me in a week," he declared. I couldn't wait to figure out how he ended up in he order after all. With that curiosity, I was pulled back into the story exactly where I'd left off.
Hours passed, though I could've sworn it was only minutes. I only became aware of the time when something remarkable happened. Merton was painting a scene with his usual brilliance when I read the words "huge bells began to boom." I hadn't finished the phrase before the church bells erupted.
I looked at my watch. 12:11.
I couldn't help but smile. Merton had just been talking about grace. Was this a divine moment, or just coincidence? The rationalist in me reminded me that these bells rang often and that I was reading a book rich with church imagery. But another part of me stirred. I still don’t know why those bells rang then.
I placed the book in my lap, turned my face to the sun, and closed my eyes. I didn't fall into sleep, but neither did I stay awake. When I returned to full awareness I decided to head to the library — I had ideas that needed to find their way onto paper.
I spent the remaining hours of the day alternating between reading and writing. If ever two pastimes were made to complement each other, it's these. Dinner passed uneventfully, and before bed, I put on Beethoven's Symphony №7.
Though Beethoven isn't celebrated for beauty in the way Mozart or Chopin are, this piece, for me, stands among the most beautiful ever composed. The second movement, the Allegretto, held me as it always does. Leonard Bernstein's remark came to mind — how Beethoven seemed to have a private telephone wire to heaven, always knowing what note must follow. But here at the abbey, God's presence was everywhere — no telephone was needed.
Day 4
I won't bore you with the details of what has now become routine: rise, breakfast, hike. But this hike was more demanding. I decided to push out to the edges of the trail map, aiming for the distant 40-Acre Knob. I started on the familiar path toward Cross Knob until I came to a fork and took the one opposite the Cross. Everything seemed fine at first, but several miles in, the terrain became rougher, more unpredictable. Eventually, the trail became completely overgrown, with fallen trees scattered everywhere, making it impassable.
I knew I needed to climb, so I left the trail, aiming to catch the next one several hundred feet up. What followed could easily be seen as a mistake. Deep crevices split the ground beneath me, and loose rocks shifted, making traction hard to come by. Spider webs, invisible until the moment of contact, tangled across my face and arms. The walking stick I picked up along the way proved inadequate, flexing and creaking under my weight. I enjoyed the challenge, though I'd be lying if I said the thought of falling into a ravine didn't cross my mind more than once.
I kept ascending, but the trail I expected to find was nowhere in sight. Embarrassing to say, I opened a hiking app on my phone, only to discover I had wandered far beyond the 40-acre knob and drifted east. Armed now with technology, I mapped out the best route — McGinty Hollow Path toward Vineyard Knob.
Still without a trail, I came across the shed skin of a large snake. When one is staying at an abbey, reading Merton, and walking alone in nature, symbols seem to emerge from everywhere. What does this mean? I wondered. Then, I buried the thought and kept walking.
Fortunately, I found the trail again and turned the app off, as if I'd never needed it in the first place. During the last mile, I nearly walked into another one of those spider webs. This time, though, a falling leaf had been caught in its thread, suspended in mid-air. Another symbol. I was exhausted when I made it back to the abbey and needed a shower. I grabbed a cup of coffee on the way to my room, welcoming the shift from physical exertion to the calmer work of the mind.
After some much-needed rest and a bit of writing, I decided to see the visitor center and gift shop. Naturally, I went straight to the Merton section and picked out several titles from my reading list: Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, The Way of Chuang Tzu, New Seeds of Contemplation, and Echoing Silence — On the Vocation of Writing. Just before checking out, I couldn't resist grabbing a box of monk-made coffee fudge.
It was my last full day, and with 100 pages of The Seven Storey Mountain still ahead of me, I had to get to work if I wanted to keep my commitment to finishing it before departing.
The Abbey
It occurred to me now that I haven't described the abbey. The Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemani belongs to the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, or as they're more commonly known, the Trappists. The monks raised the rectangular block of buildings in the 1800s, carving it out of the Kentucky wilderness.
This place stands in stark contrast to the grand, ornate churches I've visited in Italy, France, and Greece. There is no grandeur here — no intricate mosaics or gilded embellishments. The Neo-Gothic structure is humble, almost austere, as though the monks, so close to God, felt no need to impress Him. The walls are bare and practical, not built for spectacle but as a quiet testament to reverence, honoring something far greater than anything man could hope to adorn.
Inside, the space is bright and sharp, stripped of all excess. The long, narrow sanctuary pulls your gaze, guiding it toward the distant altar, while slender stained-glass windows filter the sunlight, offering each ray as a prayer. There's no glitter, no decoration — just the sacred, distilled to its purest form.
The simplicity makes sense once you learn more about the Trappists — the "Poor Brothers of God." You don't merely become a Trappist; you must drown to society, surrender your possessions, and sever the ties that bind you to the world's expectations. In our modern world, the goal is to stand out, to shine, to excel. But in the Cistercian life, the aim is the opposite. The ideal Trappist is the one who is least seen, least heard, and least distinguishable. Only in relinquishing the need to live for others can one begin to perfect the union with God.
I won't pretend to understand monastic life after just a few days in the visitor's gallery and a couple of books. I can say that the sacrifices — solitude, fasting, renunciation of property, and penance — are beyond my comprehension. And for that, I hold deep respect.
Day 5
It's a stretch to even call this day five, given that I checked out at eight o'clock in the morning. But for the sake of simplicity — and to honor the significance that even a few hours can hold — I'll call it that.
I finished The Seven Storey Mountain about a half-hour past my self-imposed 9:30 lights-out, but breaking one rule to keep an important commitment felt justified. To wind down, I put on Officium, Jan Garbarek's collaboration with the Hilliard Ensemble, where 12th-century Gregorian chants meet Garbarek's saxophone. Recorded in an Austrian monastery, the sax sounded less like an instrument and more like a voice, weaving in and out of the chants. Sometimes, it followed their lead, at other times it offered counterpoint, and in some moments, it blended so seamlessly with the voices that I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
After a few songs, I turned off the music and lay there, hoping sleep would come. But it didn’t come as quickly. I don’t know how long I stared into the darkness, my mind caught on the closing pages of The Seven Storey Mountain. The restlessness built until, just as I was ready to surrender to it, sleep overtook me.
I woke without an alarm. I still had my oatmeal and coffee but skipped the hike to return home to my family. Having mostly packed the night before, all that remained was a quick shower and one of those last-minute "am I leaving anything behind?" checks. I left a retreat offering and retraced the same path out that I had taken in. As I crossed the threshold, I didn't feel overcome with any particular emotion — no relief, no disappointment, no pride. Just a deep sense of contentment and the quiet joy of knowing I'd soon be hugging my wife and daughter.
The weather had been perfect all week — mostly blue skies with the occasional streak of cirrus clouds. But when I stepped outside, the sky was a solid blanket of gray, flat and featureless, like slate. It was raining — not hard, but not a drizzle either — just a steady downpour. Was it another sign? I don't know. I used my duffel to cover the top of the paper bag filled with books from the gift shop, and jogged to my car.
The Way Home
On the way home, I no longer felt obligated to keep the radio off. But there was one song I wanted to hear — one last taste of chanting — Tigran Hamasyan's Holy. As I pulled onto the two-lane highway, the rain provided a backdrop for the piano, and for a moment, it felt like I was recreating that blend of the ordinary and divine as the monks' chants mixed with the sound of tableware. But the attempt was futile — such glory cannot be summoned on a whim.
And then, the inevitable question crept in: "How did the retreat change me?" It's a question that demands a clean narrative, a tidy arc of transformation. But the soul doesn't follow such simplicity. Real change doesn't happen that way.
In the monastic quiet, time bends, and the soul expands to fill the space of introspection. Without noise, we might finally hear the whisper of our own becoming. The true gift of this retreat isn't a sudden transformation but the realization of the ebb and flow within us.
Changes to the soul, like body weight, are imperceptible day-to-day but undeniable over time. Growth takes longer than five days of silence. As Heraclitus said, "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river, and he's not the same man."
There is no going back.
The question isn't if we've changed, but how. Are we moving forward or retreating? Worse yet, are we stagnating, too scared to try — to step into the uncertainty of growth, to surrender comfort for the promise of something greater, to risk the unknown for the sake of the soul's unfolding?
A retreat isn't a destination but a practice — a choice to make — to tune in to the quiet of our own becoming or get lost in the noise of the world. In that listening, we might catch the faintest melody of the divine, playing through the instrument of our ever-changing selves.
When I arrived home, I broke my silence, calling out, “My girls! I missed you.” And in that moment, I realized just how much I truly had.
