"...it's okay to have seasons when we're weary and wasted with grief. God loves us and wants us just as much when everything is a hot mess as when we have it all together."
--James Neal
THE ANXIETY ATTACKS STARTED COMING towards the middle of fall. I didn't want to admit it, but I was a hot mess, and I was weary. Good American males are not supposed to feel this way, and especially not when they are as blessed--materially, professionally and personally--as I am. Nonetheless, as August bled into September, as fall baseball and soccer began in earnest, as the days grew shorter, I found it harder and harder to push myself through extracurricular activities, wanting, more than anything else, to return to that spot on my couch, lights down low, Sonia's TV show in the background, eyes closed, hoping to rest enough to not feel so damn tired the next day.
But it never worked. Each morning, I would vow to seize the day; but by the end of it--whether it was 4:00, 6:00 or 8:00--all I wanted to do was lay down in that semi-darkness. I vowed the weekend would be different: I would get to the gym, I would take a brisk walk at Hickory Hill Park, I would get to the Java House and write or read something intellectually stimulating. And then I would lay down on the couch and read Helter Skelter, the true crime thriller from the 1970's, for the twentieth or thirtieth time. And then, of course, I would feel guilty. Of course I felt weary! How could I expect to feel good if I wasn't challenging myself, working out, enjoying nature?
One evening in October, pulling into the driveway after coaching Orlando's soccer practice, a memory popped into my head from 2007, when I sometimes felt so scared, so off-balance, that I didn't even like it when Sonia left the house because I was afraid of my own thoughts. And suddenly I became worried that this might happen again, this all-consuming fear, that I would again become that needy, that out-of-sorts, that much of a hot mess. And my body and mind kicked into that familiar but forgotten cycle of thoughts causing the heart to pound, causing more thoughts, causing more heart-pounding, causing more thoughts, and on and on....
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ONCE THESE FUCKING THINGS START, anxiety attacks are like lightning strikes on a humid June evening: sometimes they don't materialize, but there's always the possibility, and you never know when or how strong they'll be. They started popping up in all sorts of places; sometimes I'd be in front of my students when a thought would seize me, and teaching through it was like dodging lightning bolts. Invariably, they'd leave me exhausted: I could damn sure forget about the gym on those days.
As November deepened and I recommitted to healthier habits, I began to feel better; but just when I thought maybe I'd cleared the danger, I'd have another friendly incident, as if God was telling me, "No, you're not there yet." Talking things over with Sonia and a couple of close friends, I began to formulate the idea of going on a private retreat, where I could be in silence, with only books and nature for company, away from the noise of the world; I suppose the idea was akin to taking a blimp-level view of my life, to see if such time might aid me in teasing out the stimuli that wouldn't let me just be.
The more I thought about it, the more I liked it, and I'm lucky to be married to a woman who encouraged me, rather than complaining about being left alone in charge of the kids. One morning in December, I did a Google search on "spiritual retreat Eastern Iowa", and three places popped up on the little map. The closest one was Prairiewoods, in Hiawatha; at first, I was concerned I wouldn't be close enough to nature, but as I browsed the website, it became clear that Prairiewoods, indeed, had immediate access to Nature.
A couple of days later, I talked on the phone to Sister Ann Jackson, who explained how it all worked. We agreed on the dates--3 nights in early January--and then she said to me, "You know, it sounds like you might be interested in using one of our hermitages."
"What's a hermitage?" I asked.
"It's a little cottage," she explained, "about 50 yards or so away from the main buildings. It has a stove, refrigerator, table, shower, a twin bed, a recliner, and that's about it. Totally Franciscan."
I thought about it...but not very long. "Yes," I said. "That sounds like exactly like what I'm looking for."
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ON JANUARY 1, 2020, I LOADED up the trunk with 3 days worth of frozen meals and other little treats. I had a small suitcase with 4 changes of clothing, winter gear, and two bags full of books.
Sonia drove me up to Hiawatha. Ann Jackson met us, showed us around the place, and took us out to the hermitage; we agreed on a time to meet the next day, then she left. The hermitage was exactly as she described it, a maximum of maybe 400 square feet. Sonia helped me unload the car, smiled at me, told me she loved me and to enjoy this time. And then she was gone, too. It was late afternoon in the woods and soon the sun would be setting.
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