Illustration by Joey Guidone
“I felt the deep, deep silence of the night, and of peace, and of holiness enfold me like love, like safety.”
–Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain, 1948
My little sister Christine died in 2020. She was 34. In a year of headline-making crises, she fell victim to one of them: opioid addiction. I was with her during her final days in hospice, unsure whether I could handle seeing her die, but certain she needed me there. I now know it was me who needed to be there the most. Devastating as those days were, they were among the most sacred of my life.
After Christine passed, grief didn’t feel like I thought it should. Because of Covid restrictions, we couldn’t hold her memorial until nine months later. I returned without ceremony to a life in which my kids’ virtual elementary school was headquartered in my living room, work deadlines loomed, and laundry had to be done. Sometimes in the evenings, I would walk my dog alone and see pink clouds in the sky. “Hi, Christine,” I would say. When she died, her skin was yellow. But I always think of her as pink.
And now a writing assignment about silent travel has brought me to a Trappist monastery in rural Kentucky for a week. You don’t have to be Catholic to stay here (I am not), but you do have to be totally quiet. Trappist monks live much of their lives without speaking, as a form of contemplative prayer and a means for tuning their senses to God. Retreatants are invited to experience this way of life—and refrain from imposing the opposite. For me, this doesn’t just mean not talking to anyone here; it also includes turning off all technology, all week long.
Courtesy Monks.org
But when no one else is around, I still find myself speaking. To myself. To God. And occasionally, to Christine.
• • •
Silent travel is an ancient tradition. It’s also an exploding trend. Its recent popularity grew out of the “silent walking” phenomenon that went viral on TikTok a little over two years ago, coupled with football star Aaron Rodgers’s much-publicized, four-day silent retreat in a dark Oregon cave in February 2023. In 2024, Conde Nast Traveler named silent travel one of the year’s top trends, including everything from digital-detox cabins to non-speaking sabbaticals at Buddhist monasteries. Judging by the number of options a Google search yields for “silent stays,” the fad isn’t fading: Apparently, there’s no shortage of people who see the benefit of turning everything off—including their mouths—for a period of time.
The monastery I’m visiting, the Abbey of Gethsemani, began hosting silent retreats long before Adam Driver and Lupita Nyong’o jumped on board. Founded in 1848 in the rolling green hills an hour south of Louisville, it was the first Trappist monastery in America. It shot to fame a century later when one of its monks, Thomas Merton, published The Seven Storey Mountain, a now-classic autobiography about his unlikely journey to the abbey.
Pulling into the monastery off Highway 247, it looks like a church you might see in the French countryside, surrounded by a fortress-like wall and topped with a large steeple. A garden tucked inside the wall is dotted with oak trees, benches, and birdfeeders. A cemetery for monks scored by small white crosses includes one for Merton. (One Tripadvisor reviewer gave the abbey a low rating because Merton’s grave isn’t different or easier to find than those of the other monks. I had to shake my head.)
Courtesy Monks.org
The monastery’s main campus is square shaped with a courtyard in the middle. Enter the front gate, and you’ll see the retreat wing on the left-hand side of the square; monks live on the right-hand side. The church is in the back. Guestrooms are simple and clean: Mine has a twin-size bed, a desk with a lamp, a chair, and a small bathroom. The walls are papered in beige grasscloth, and the floors are carpeted gray. A single window overlooks the garden and opens to let in the breeze. A crucifix hangs on the wall above the desk.
A part of me is unnerved by the simplicity of it all. There’s nothing to distract me. No task for me to check off a list. No reason not to sit quietly with my thoughts, my memories. Mildly panicked, I remember that there’s a monastery library I can go to. I hurry there and almost bump into a monk.
I’ve been around priests before, but this trip marks the first time I’ve ever seen a monk, so it feels a little bizarre encountering one dressed in a hooded robe and cowl, like in the movies. I nod at him, and he nods back. He’s one of 38 monks living here. They range in age from their 30s to their 80s and hail from all over the world. They tend the grounds, grow crops, and make Kentucky bourbon fruitcake and assorted varieties of fudge to sell in the gift shop. Seven times a day, they report to the church’s nave to pray, meditate, and chant the Psalms. Their first liturgical service begins at the pitch-black hour of 3:15 a.m. The public is invited to attend any of their services, and I do—though not the ones in the middle of the night. (The church bells wake me up anyway.)
Each time I sit in the back of the church, I watch the monks with a mix of curiosity and awe. What is it like, in this world so very loud, to live a life that’s intentionally quiet? To step into the shadows of obscurity when our culture insists being conspicuous is how we prove we exist? I look at their faces as they sing, their robes as they bow in worship, their movements as they depart from each service in silence. And I wonder how they grew up to be who they are, and I grew up to be who I am, and if I’ve grown up at all.
• • •
Illustration by Joey Guidone
As a kid, Christine ate apples like they were Oreos. She’d finish at least three a day, gobbling up the core and the seeds, leaving only the stem behind. She’d watch reruns of I Love Lucy in my parents’ bedroom and laugh louder and longer than Lucille Ball herself. When she was 8, she made a scrapbook with cutout pictures from bridal magazines and called it her future wedding album. She wanted a princess dress and satin gloves and lots of red roses.
I think about that as I walk the miles of wooded trails that crisscross the monastery’s outer grounds. How she wound up with men who led her far, far astray. And how perhaps she did the same to some of them. And how she never got married.
I crunch along the gravel trail until I reach Dom Frederic’s Lake, named for the abbot who encouraged Merton to write about his life at the monastery. The monks dug this lake in 1938, and it remained the abbey’s main water supply until the 1990s. There’s a stone wall on the lake’s southeastern edge with a cross rising from the middle of it. Without really thinking, I walk along the wall like it’s a balance beam and take a seat in front of the cross, my legs dangling above the water.
Wind sends leaves twirling off the trees. The lake’s top layer glides toward me like a sheet being smoothed. I grew up on a small lake in central Florida. It’s where we eventually held a memorial for Christine and scattered her ashes. I feel pressure on my chest, like I might cry, and a longing to tell her I love her. In the quiet, I hear a voice in my soul: “You are loved.”
• • •
Silence is a funny thing. It makes you notice things about yourself:
I don’t feel awkward not speaking to other people when we all understand that’s the deal. That said, I am Southern, so I offer a smile as a greeting. Most people return it.
Courtesy Monks.org
I haven’t felt the urge to do anything during my meals, not even pick up a book. I follow the other retreatants in silence through the cafeteria line, grabbing plates of iceberg lettuce topped with tomatoes, baked chicken and rice, and a small bowl of of caramel pudding. I find a seat at a long table facing a wall of windows. Through those windows, cardinals, hummingbirds, and robins flutter around eight bird feeders. Soft instrumental music plays from the speakers overhead. I love watching the birds while I eat; their jockeying and mischief could keep me entertained for hours.
There’s a lot you can do when you’re quiet. Read, write, take a nap, stretch, meditate, pray, walk. I had thought I might get bored, but quite the opposite: The days have passed quickly.
When I’m not talking to other people, I talk to myself. A lot. Especially when I’m trying to figure out which direction to go while I hike. There’s a lot of, “Hmm, well, this appears to be the way,” and “Nope, I clearly have no sense of direction.” It’s kind of embarrassing.
When surrounded by stillness, I manage to find reasons to be worried. What if a tick bites me? What if something bad happens at home and no one can reach me? What if I look like a fool during the church services when I’m trying to bow and kneel at the right times? And the winner: What if someone kills me on the monastery trails and I become part of a true-crime podcast?
There’s a good side, though, to being quiet enough to hear my thoughts: I’m very dialed in to the creative ones. Ideas for poems are bubbling up; that hasn’t happened in quite a while. I see leaves chewed through with caterpillar holes and instantly visualize a stained-glass window. I stop to look at a butterfly and decide to time my breathing with the flutters of its wings.
I’m also feeling all my feelings, including ones about Christine. Frustration. Sadness. Nostalgia. Anger. Exhaustion.
And I have a sort of love for everyone at this place—fellow retreatants, the staff, the monks. None of us are here in silence because it’s easy. Some of us are doing it because life has been kick-in-the-gut hard. Whatever we came in with, we’re willing to be quiet and acknowledge it. And listen when the voice within us speaks.
• • •
Illustration by Joey Guidone
It’s been a week here at the monastery, and my flight out of Louisville is at 11 a.m. I figured I would be ready to go—and text, and talk—but I’m actually a little torn. The monotony has felt like stability, the quiet like peace. I roll my suitcase to the rental car that hasn’t moved since I arrived. The air smells sweet, like someone poured a giant bowl of honey into the ozone. I load up my car and look back at the church. The monks will gather to pray in a few minutes. I sit in the driver’s seat, turn on the ignition, and pull onto Highway 247. Golden rows of corn stand tall to my left. A green hill dotted by a lone hay bale rises to my right. Half a mile in front of me, the road curves out of view. Overhead, a pink cloud dots the sky.
• • •
Shh . . .
Here are some silent stays around the region
Abbey of Gethsemani
Trappist, Kentucky
You don’t have to be Catholic to take part in this 19th-century monastery’s year-round slate of self-directed silent retreats. Attendance at liturgical services is allowed but not required, and payment is by donation only—the amount you give for your three- or four-night retreat is “between you and God,” according to abbey materials.
Art of Living Retreat Center
Boone, North Carolina
Daily yoga classes, guided meditations, and lectures on calming mental chatter are all part of the structured silent retreats offered year round at this Ayurvedic (related to ancient Indian medicine) wellness center. Four-night retreats start at $1,495.
Getaway cabins
multiple cities
With five locations around the Southeast—including ones outside Orlando, Nashville, and New Orleans—these tiny digital-detox cabins offer kitchenettes, private bathrooms, firepits . . . and little to no Wi-Fi. One-night rates start at $86.
Monastery of the Holy Spirit
Conyers, Georgia
Meditate by the lake, walk the trails, and enjoy the silence during contemplative retreats held every few weekends at this Trappist monastery, considered the daughter house of the Abbey of Gethsemani. The suggested donation for your stay is $100 per night.
Southern Dharma Retreat Center
Hot Springs, North Carolina
Leave your technology and even your hair dryer behind when you embark on a multi-night silent retreat at this center that mandates perfect silence. Guided activities are based in Eastern traditions and include walking meditations and mindful-movement classes; meals are mostly vegan. Three-night retreats start at $435.
This article appears in the Winter 2025 issue of Southbound.
