Thursday, November 29, 2013.
The Twenty-Seventh Iteration In Convent.
In 1978, my life hit not a particularly bad period, but one I wanted to escape from. I was twenty-seven, reasonably happy, had lots of friends and even girlfriends. I had a supportive little business of writing and publishing newsletters for local companies. And one for myself: The New Orleans Menu, then in its first year. Near the end of that year I got my first radio talk show gig.
These were things I'd always wanted to do. But I felt uneasy and directionless, because I felt it was too soon to say that all this was what I'd do the rest of my life.
I didn't ask him, but my brother-in-law Walter Howat said I should go to Manresa Retreat House. That rang a bell. Manresa was (and is) operated by the Jesuits. I had taken two weekend retreats with them at Xavier Hall in Pass Christian and found the experience wonderfully broadening. And some of the retreat masters at Manresa were former teachers of mine during my years at Jesuit High School.
I couldn't get into Walter's Manresa group, but a few weeks later there was an opening. I still recall every detail of that weekend, down to where I was at what time. I have returned most years since, always either right before or right after Thanksgiving. Same bunch of guys, some of whom were famous: Chef Warren LeRuth, historian Buddy Stall, Dr. John Menville, and novelist Walker Percy. All those have died, along with quite a few others; their places have been taken by younger men.
Today was the beginning of my twenty-seventh Manresa retreat. I had to miss it last year, for the worst of reasons: I was so overwhelmed with work that I couldn't. I was primed and ready this time.
I have written about the Manresa experience in great detail in past years in this diary. And one of the joys of the place is that it doesn't change much, either physically or in the effect it has on my body and spirit. For me it's not especially a religious thing, although as regards the rituals I'm much more observant there than I am the rest of the year.
I left home about forty-five minutes earlier than usual. I thought I'd surprise the captains, who ought to know by now that I never arrive until right before things really get started. That head start was exactly lost by a long traffic stoppage on the I-12 south of Robert. A double-wide trailer had a battle with some other vehicle, with predictable results. I arrived at my usual time.
Which is just long enough to have a gin and tonic. They serve cocktails before the retreat starts, mainly to keep the men from stopping along the way for a drink. This year's party was fun in that many of the other hundred-something fellows--including a few I don't really know--stepped up to tell me how good I was looking and how much weight I have lost. The last time they saw me was before I broke my ankle and dropped those pounds.
I resumed my longtime job as leader of grace before meals. I have a shtick: I call it "grace before spaghetti and meatballs" tonight, and alter the introduction (but not the prayer) to fit the menu. The guys get a kick out of that.
And the spaghetti and meatballs are good. Small change this year: instead of spumone, we had all-pistachio ice cream. That's the first change in that course since before I started coming. That's why we notice even the smallest changes. Not many of them.
No change in my first-night hike, which takes me down a long avenue of oaks through the darkness to the levee, where I look up and see Orion and Sirius, usually for the first time in the current season. Today I also marveled at a close conjunction between the full moon and Jupiter. The latter is just days away from opposition, and very bright.
Went to bed early, just after ten. Nothing to do that would keep me awake. I'm tired, but thank God not stressed. Really, I didn't need this retreat the way I once did.
Or did I?
