Page 48 - Presence-20.3

REFLECTION

that same line for myself. I tried, but it was harrowing, novel Monsignor Quixote (New York: Penguin, 1982). A
and I was constantly being tripped up. conversation transpires between two travellers—Sancho
The line meandered. It zigged and zagged and led into and Father Quixote—the morning after Sancho has spent
the densest bush. I was not an ascetic. I could lay no claim the night at a brothel. No longer able to bear the tension
to sacred seclusion. Permission was not granted to with- as they drive, Sancho suddenly attacks the priest:
draw from the everyday social interactions that enmeshed
me and complicated my relationships. Each time I drew “Why don’t you speak up and say what you think,” chal-
the line, someone would step right through it. A longtime lenges Sancho.
spiritual directee pleaded earnestly to be struck off my “Think about what?” says Father Quixote.
list so that we could just become friends. A new spiritual “Last night, of course.... You know well enough what I
directee, arriving for her first session, suddenly got cold was up to.”
feet and unexpectedly announced that she might prefer to “I don’t know anything.”
have me as a friend. A woman who came regularly voiced “I told you clearly enough. Before you went to bed.”
her anger at my refusal to side with her over an inter- “Ah, but Sancho, I’m trained to forget what I’m told.”
church quarrel. Our sessions became awkward and stilted. “It wasn’t in the confessional.”
It became clear, over and over again, that I was neither “No, but it’s very much easier if one is a priest to treat
fish nor fowl. Clearly not a vowed religious, nor a profes- anything one is told as a confession. I never repeat what
sional counselor or therapist, nor a priest or pastor, my life anyone tells me—even to myself if possible.” (88–89)
remained an open book, and I was regarded by those who
came for spiritual direction as just another woman in their Each time I revisit this profound and moving tale, I
lives. A woman who kept their confidences rigorously, but find myself longing to possess that priest’s enviable self-
just a woman nonetheless. discipline. At the same time, however, I remind myself
When a spiritual directee offered me a warm bed on that I am not a priest and could never attain to such lofty
a night when the storm blew cold and the road turned levels of benevolence and disinterest. Would that I could!
to ice, it was offered by one woman to another of her Now that retirement and a major life shift has re-
acquaintance who she feared might end up in a ditch. ordered my vocation, I am forced once again to ask,
When a spiritual directee asked me to preach at his “Who am I in all of this, and does it really matter?”
ordination, he was asking a favour of a woman who had Having moved in 2004 a significant distance from my
walked the road beside him and well knew his heart. longtime environs, I now reside on a rural road a two-
When a spiritual directee phoned to say that she was hour drive from the nearest city. Having felt a call, my
delighted to receive my daughter’s invitation to her wed- husband and I purchased a farm too spacious for two but
ding, she was responding to a woman who had a daugh- well suited to hospitality.
ter for whom she felt deep affection. Should I have smiled Our intent was never to offer bed-and-breakfast or farm
coolly when she arrived for the ceremony? Should I have holidays or to run a business. Deeply concerned about
eased her in the spiritual direction of my husband who the growing expropriation of retreat centres and religious
was “free” to be hospitable? That would be madness! houses in both Canada and the United States, we felt our-
I have tried to take a page out of Sister’s book and selves moved to provide a modest alternative. Continuing
follow it to the letter. I have tried, walking in her shoes, to offer individual spiritual direction to those in my imme-
and I have failed ... am failing ... keep failing. Or is this diate vicinity as well as to former spiritual directees who
failure? Each situation and each challenge causes me to make the long drive up from the city, I let it be known that
weigh the risk, to turn it over in my mind and in my spiritual direction is available upon request to those who
prayer, and discern. If I take this step, I ask myself, will it choose to come to the farm for rest and refreshment.
intrude on the privacy of the other? Will I be able to listen We now share our house, our fields and woods, and
to this life without impediment? Without bias? Without a rustic cabin with anyone in need of respite and retreat.
judgment? And time and again, I recall Graham Greene’s As the majority of visitors that come to the farm are

46 Presence: An International Journal of Spiritual Direction