The grace of solitude.
Last week I went to Gethsemani Monastery in Kentucky. Traveling to an austere Trappist monastery might seem an odd decision because I’m not Catholic, but the week of solitude helps me imagine what my life is going to be like if/when my cancer is no longer detectible.
One reason for going is that Thomas Merton lived here when he wrote the words that have guided my life for a long time. He helped me accept that periods of being alone are needed to understand my struggles. I’m hoping that being quiet and listening for five days will calm my monkey mind and help me discern what I want to do with the life I have left.
Gethsemani is a place of silence because people on retreat are instructed not to talk inside the monastery walls. The monks don’t even talk to each other, but use sign language to communicate. I am left alone to think, feel, and reflect, my focus uninterrupted by polite banter and social interactions with the twenty-five other people on retreat, although we nod at each other as we pass each other in the hall. I want to face my nagging fear that cancer might come back, and how to cope if it does. This is a realistic concern because cancer returns in thirty percent of the men with my cancer who have been successfully treated, and I have the aggressive form.
In their sandals and black and white robes, the rather hairy monks sing Gregorian Chant at seven worship services each day that begin at 3:15 a.m., some that last only fifteen minutes. I don’t try to make it to all of them. The message of their prayers is consistent, that we are to be bread, broken to nourish others, and that only compassion for the suffering of others matters.
If the large bell that calls monks to worship bongs when I’m out in the woods, I pause and say a prayer for my friends with cancer, especially Mary, who had lung cancer and died two week ago.
Meals are simple and at set times. If I arrive late, I go hungry. The food is mostly vegetarian and generally light on the seasonings. I don’t think that eating is high on the monks’ priorities, although fasting is. Thankfully coffee is always available.
Every morning at dawn, I walk in the fields around the monastery. Being in nature encourages listening. In the hickory and oak woods, I sit and watch water shimmer in shallow, black shale creeks that slide down creases in the land, listen to the joyful, communal singing of song sparrows and mockingbirds, and try to decipher the solitary echoes of crows. I want to be completely present to this moment without thinking about what comes next.
Back at the monastery, I pick up a book on Celtic spirituality from the library, and read it on the second-floor porch with other not-talking people, nodding to each other when I arrive. Because of persecutions, the Celtic people accepted that hardship would be part of everyone’s life and exist alongside their celebrations of joy.
Being focused and quiet for five days does not come easy. My grandparents taught me that there are always chores to be done, and I feel guilty not working on something. Here my only responsibility is to be attentive, and it’s hard because my mind keeps looking for distractions. There are no televisions or radios. No evening conversations with the others about why they have come here.
At Compline, the last service of the day at 7:30 p.m., the monks offer up their gratitude for what the day has been. I am moved by the simple beauty of one hymn that isn’t chanted but sung in one united voice by the monks: “Before the ending of the day, Creator of the world, we pray.”
When the service ends, the monks file out of the sanctuary and to go to bed. Most of the lay guests retire to their rooms. I go outside to watch the last of the orange sunset fade from the sky, and find hope in the witness of the stars emerging in the solitude that comes with night.
Back in my spare room with a bed, a chair, and a desk, I ignore the rumblings of my stomach as best as I can. The desk light leaves most of the room in shadows.
After the first day of silence, the running chatter in my mind slows, and my thoughts calm. As I stop trying to control what I’m thinking, different possibilities and perspectives on life emerge, ones that I hadn’t thought of before. Having cancer raises questions: Who am I when I’m not working? What do I value most in life? What activities back home am I doing out of habit, and which ones do I actually want to do?
I write in my journal about the encounters that moved me during the day, an intriguing thought from something I read, a curious feeling that stayed close. In the glow of the lamp, I sit with each one until it leads me into understanding, or it remains a mystery that I will continue to think about tomorrow.
One night, I can’t fall asleep. Around midnight I give up trying and walk quietly down the hall and into the sanctuary where wisps of incense linger. It’s dark, except for the light by the tabernacle at the far end that holds the consecrated bread of the Eucharist. It is held there until its leaven is needed. What leaven is waiting inside me?
Sitting in the darkness on a wooden pew, I feel the presence of Merton and the generations of monks who have lived here for over a century, who sang of the mystery that cobbles all of us together, who sacrificed their careers and egos to come here and pursue their salvation with all the humility they could muster, trusting the unknown without knowing where this path would take them.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I notice the faint outline of a monk kneeling by the altar in prayer. I doubt he knows I’m here. From listening to the prayers during worship services, I know that besides praying for his struggles, this monk is also praying for those who feel broken and forsaken, the sorrowful, the ill, the lonely, those who have recently died, and those who continue to struggle with the trauma of cancer.
I am weary of dealing with cancer. It has been four years of struggle. I want to feel the joy of life again without dread entering in. I want to set my insecurities aside and dance in the light of the rising moon.
© 2026 Mark Liebenow
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