Mount St. Benedict

The first photo is the silence sign. The second is the stained glass window in the chapel.

Dear Sister Julie,

     I hope you ventured out as much as you pleased despite relentless winter storms in Chardon. 

     When I drove to Mount St. Benedict for a writers’ retreat at the end of January, I asked why the sisters lived in a monastery, not a convent like you. They explained they weren’t under a bishop's rule. And they suggested we follow a rule of silence. “We gift each other with QUIET in the halls and bedrooms,” room signs announced—perfect conditions for a writer's retreat. 

     But silence rarely happened. Friday the 24th, eight of us greeted each other with exuberance. Conferences with Timons, our writer in residence, were boisterous. Laughter filled the halls. Several of us met Sister Karen, who was making a quilt for her great nephew in the sewing room. I apologized for our noise. She said, “Don’t worry. Sisters get rowdy too.” We grew rowdier.

     The gift of silence did visit. Around 4:30 a.m. Saturday, I pulled a sweatshirt over my nightgown and wrote while others slept. Sunday morning people wanted “to get words on the page” before they left. Latches clicked as doors shut. Halls quieted. Computer keys tapped. My neighbor’s computer murmured, reading her book back for editing. I welcomed the melodic bells calling sisters to chapel and the wind whirring around the courtyard outside my window.

       Around 3:00 p.m. Sunday, after a succession of hearty goodbyes in the hall outside my room, I was the only writer left. Silence shouted at me. A shock. The sign in the guest kitchen read, “Listen for the SILENCE. LISTEN carefully . . . with the ear of your heart.” Welcoming the silence with my ear and heart, I wrote.

Love,

Janet

Dear Darlene,

     I hope your health is cooperating. Is your book finished? You have to be closer than me.

     When I prepared for the writers’ retreat at Mount St. Benedict, I checked the submission questions for Sunbury Press so I could polish answers at the monastery. But I discovered the publisher wants a minimum of 50,000 words. My stories totaled 28,650. I’d already emailed Timons, the writer in residence, for help with bios and the ideal reader in our private interview. We discussed those. Instead of writing submission answers, though, I worked on new stories.

     Beside the desk in my retreat room, a window overlooked a courtyard garden. Wind whistled around the yard shaking branches of evergreen bushes. A photo of pussy willows hung above the desk. As I typed, I glanced at each of these views to clear my mind. After every hour, I put my computer on a filing box and stood so I didn't aggravate my arthritis by sitting for long stretches. I revised  “An Evening’s Entertainment” and a story about the tabby kittens interacting with a Norway spruce, birds, and a field mouse.

     Seven other writers from Western Pennsylvania—Pittsburgh to Erie—attended and wrote on a variety of topics. Janyce edited her children’s book. Christa worked on the last seven chapters of her science fiction novel. Catherine wrote fantasy short stories. Donna composed a YA novel in verse about a sheltie mourning the loss of an older dog. Sheila worked on her medical advice book for lay people. Todd made chapter summaries of his historical fiction, coming of age novel. And Timons created forms for flash fiction stories. Our creative energies empowered each other.

Love,

Janet

The first photo is a macrame sunrise hanging outside the garden room. The second is the hexi flower quilt my friend Christa bought.

Dear Julia,

     I hope you’re keeping warm during this extreme winter and trust you’ve been creating art.

     The frigid weekend of January 24-26, I treated myself to a writers’ retreat at Mount St. Benedict in Erie. The sisters filled the monastery with their art. Their stained glass windows glowed in the chapel. Nature photos and paintings decorated the walls. A macrame sunrise hung outside the garden room. A photo of pussy willows hung above my room’s desk and a painting of great blue herrings hung on the opposite wall. A near life size wood mosaic of St. Benedict and Sister Ellen Nielaleng were placed on the first floor near the stairway to the ground floor guest rooms—magnificent and helpful to lost guests.

    Saturday I took a break from writing to gawk in awe around Chapter 57—their gift shop named for the chapter in the Holy Rule of St. Benedict dealing with the sale of Benedictine artisan products. The gift shop overflowed with paintings, mugs, quilts, candles, and cards. My friend fell in love with a hexi flower quilt. I couldn’t leave without photo note cards of birds.

     Two rooms were dedicated to famous artists. The first honored Thomas Benzanson. Brother Thomas, artist-in residence at Mount St. Benedict for over two decades, created special glazes for ceramic designs. If his pieces didn’t fire perfectly, he shattered them. His work is in over 80 museums around the world. The other room was for author and speaker Joan Chittister. She served as prioress years back. Now, she’s co-chair of the Global Peace Initiative for Women.

     The monastery artists created an atmosphere which inspired creativity—perfect for writers. 

Love,

Janet

The first photo is the garden room plants. The second is a sprawling spider plant. 

Dear Marlee,

     I imagine your 2025 garden plans are set and you’re busy with preparations. Only the wild winter weather prevents you from weeding and planting outside. 

     When I was at Mount St. Benedict in Erie for a writers’ retreat at the end of January, snow covered their grounds but plants thrived inside. I took a break from my desk to wander in the garden room and think of you. One of the sisters had brought her plants with her to the monastery—spider plants, Christmas cactus, and many larger tropical plants. Outside the wall of glass windows, evergreen bushes grew. The view only differed by forty-five degrees from that of the view from the writing desk in my room. Though most individual rooms didn’t have plants, I fangled one.

     I was storing my food for the weekend in the kitchen refrigerator, when Sister Marsha and Todd, Pennwriters Area 1 leader, were discussing where he could set up the huge coffee machine he brought for the retreat. “Writers need coffee.” He made the assertion in his authoritative voice.

    Sister grabbed a potted philodendron off the counter and said, “You can put the machine here.” Our amiable host surveyed the kitchen. “I guess we can find a place for the plant.”

   Before she could make other arrangements, I reached for the pot. “I’ll keep the philodendron in my room.” I set the plant on my windowsill. The heart-shaped leaves—grass green striped in ivory white—dangled over the sill and cheered me throughout the weekend.

Love,

Janet

The first photo is the dining room where we had our workshops. The second is a bluebird note card from Chapter 57.

Dear Nancy,

     I hope you’re enjoying your new home and BFFs—best feathered friends. Or did their pond freeze and they all migrate south for our frigid winter? Brrr.

     I spent a weekend in January with seven writers at Mount St. Benedict in Erie. The only birds I saw there were in the gift shop where the sisters sold their artwork. Writers met in the shop, admired the artwork, and chatted. Such informal meetings built community. Though I missed late night gatherings—my 8 o'clock meds make me nauseous—and missed cafeteria discussions because of food sensitivities, I connected. I ate my own food in the guest  kitchen. Todd came for coffee and Sheila for tea. Sisters May and Hao, visiting from Vietnam, fetched food. Christa ate lunch with me. I also set my laptop in a comfy lounge chair and clicked on a Yoga with Adriene video. Janyce, Donna, and I stretched together on the carpet. All these kept me in the loop.

    My strongest sense of community came from workshops led by our writer in residence Timons in the dining room. He offered lots of tips. One exercise intrigued us—write on what doesn’t belong. After scribbling for five minutes, we were curious about what each other had found: the drinks cart under the crucifix; the step stool or a baby high chair; a vase of dried hydrangeas or white flowers; an unpainted spot under the thermostat; a broken chair; and an empty chair. We marveled at not seeing what others had seen and at how different each story from the same room flowed. More than inspiring our creative juices, the exercise bonded us. For weeks after the retreat, writers exchanged group emails on the exercise. Community indeed.

Love,

Janet