Tony Bates: Silence is a way of expressing what words can’t say

Clinical psychologist Dr Tony Bates is halfway through a six-month retreat at a Trappist monastery, a sanctuary where he can quietly reflect on life and deepen his understanding of love

Dr. Tony Bates. Photograph Moya Nolan

At 3.15am I am woken by my alarm and slowly register where I am. I’m exactly where I want to be. But even after three months, this premature sleep interruption still feels cruel.

I rise and dress myself in clothes carefully laid out the night before. Experience has taught me to minimise the need for decision making when half asleep.

I brush my teeth, slip on my slippers, and walk quietly to the small chapel. It is silent in the pre-dawn light. I like to get here alone ahead of Vigils, the day’s first prayer, at 4.15am.

I take my seat in my assigned choir stall, pull my hoodie up over my head, coax my body into a wakeful posture and open myself to this sacred space.

I’m midway through a six-month retreat at a Trappist monastery in Ireland. I have visited this abbey regularly for over half a century since the mid-70s. Being welcomed and accepted by the community over the years, I’ve always felt at home here. At one point I considered joining, but the abbot believed that my ‘affectional needs’ were too strong for this way of life. Six grandchildren later, how right he was.

The monastery has long held a special place in my life, so I asked if I could spend an extended period there as part of the community. It’s an amazing privilege that I do not take lightly.

Arranging to step away from my life wasn’t easy. Work commitments had to be resolved, domestic projects had to be taken care of, and children needed reassurance that their dad wasn’t going ‘all religious’. I’ve had to reduce social interactions, but the family know they
can reach out to me at any time for any reason.

Regular check-ins with home have been an important part of this retreat.

During the day, I do very little, which is more challenging than it sounds. I brought a few select books with me that had been sitting on my shelves unread at home and I keep a journal. I also participate in the Divine Office when the community meets in the chapel seven times daily to sing psalms and listen to scripture.

I look after two collies at the abbey who have become very dear to me. They ensure I get out and move at least twice a day. Being in their company, strolling along lush green country lanes is as contemplative as it gets.

Simplicity and consistency in the daily routine help create a sense of calm and minimise concerns about what will happen next.

An orderly external environment makes it easier to cultivate an inner silence and focus on why I’m here: to honour the truth of who I am, to take seriously my instinct that there is more, a mystery that is greater than me but also within me. And to hold in my heart, through prayer, people I care about who are navigating challenging circumstances in their lives.

People are wary of words like ‘god’, ‘faith’ and ‘prayer’. They may feel a desire to be ‘spiritual’ in their lives but are highly sceptical of the relevance of conventional religion. So much harm has been done in the name of religious belief. Who can blame them?

Faith is an affair of the heart more than the head. I ‘know’ God through the experience of loving others and of being loved by others for who I am.

To be spiritual, for me, is to deepen my understanding of love and let it shape the choices I make. Religion, by whatever name it is called, is meant to scaffold this journey through structures and practices that guide and encourage us.

Prayer is poetry for the soul, especially when sung. It is an intimate conversation between two hearts seeking each other.

Silence is a way of expressing what words can’t say. It is perhaps the most profound kind of intimacy.

The beauty of this abbey helps me stay the course. Lately, the setting sunlight splashes through stained windows, creating a montage of colour on the wooden floor of the chapel. At other times, I find the sound of pouring rain on the roof immensely comforting as I sit here alone in darkness. And last night, a flight of swallows, swooping outrageously through leafy trees as I wandered around the garden, took my breath away.

Contemplation is not about detaching from this life and stepping into another world. It is about being grounded in reality and noticing how beauty and compassion penetrate even the darkest corners of our lives and open our hearts.