From Chapter 1

It was a dream, but a dream that changed everything. I don’t recall anything particular happening that would trigger such a dream, but I was questioning many things at the time and had become curious about the spiritual dimension of life.

I recall being in a small church, with just a handful of people in the congregation. The organ was playing gentle music whilst a plain-clothed priest prepared bread and wine at the altar. For no apparent reason, the music abruptly changed mid-cadence and, like a magician casting a spell, enveloped me in a dark and very sinister field of energy.

I began to feel a ground-shaking fear unlike anything I had felt before, which only intensified as the priest came towards me bearing a chalice from which I was supposed to drink. In this chalice appeared to be blood—not the healing blood of Christ but rather, a sacrificial blood, one that I felt would steal my very soul were it to pass my lips.

As he came closer I began to shake, and suddenly from the depths of my being cried out, “Save me Jesus.” I don’t know where these words came from—I was certainly no Evangelical at the time—but they seemed totally natural when encountering the sheer, existential terror that gripped me in that moment.

All of a sudden, directly in front of me, a figure with long hair wearing a beige robe appeared. He had the most compassionate, loving eyes I had ever gazed upon, and there was no doubt in my mind that this was Jesus. As he looked at me, his eyes radiated ever more compassion and love until every cell of my body was filled and saturated. I began to experience more peace and bliss than I’d ever known; it was as if all prayers were answered at once and all sorrows and cares evaporated. As this feeling sank in, so I heard the words: “This is who you really are. This is who everyone really is.”

I woke up. Jesus was gone, and the church and the priest were gone, but the feelings of peace, deep love, and total bliss remained. So strong were these feelings I couldn’t leave the house; instead, I needed to stay still and undisturbed and allow this experience to integrate and permeate my being. For three days, my sensitivity was heightened to a degree that felt unsustainable in the “real” world, which felt noisy, busy, and overwhelming to a degree that was almost torture. I remember walking into Woodstock, the small Oxfordshire market town where I lived, and leaning into any wall I passed—anything to ground myself and return to normal functioning.

Gradually the intensity of my vision abated, and my ordinary mind began to return. This was not altogether welcome. I didn’t find life easy at the best of times, and was often beset by some emotional travail or another. The temporary respite I’d had from my own mind was a glimpse into another way of being, but as familiar thoughts, feelings, reactions, and memories took hold again, I realized that there was no short-circuiting the work needed to truly become the person, the being, I’d been told I was—and indeed, experienced myself to be.

For a while, I lived with this double reality—half here, half not here. I might understand this now as the coexistence of relative and ultimate reality, as it would be described within Buddhism, but at the time my only frame of reference was a Christian one. The meeting I’d had with Jesus didn’t fade like an ordinary dream, however. Something had happened that had changed everything forever. I needed to figure out what that meant and what I was going to do about it. Or so I believed. Doing rather than being was all I knew at that point.

As time passed, a sense of vocation seeded itself within me. The further the experience of peace and oneness receded, the deeper and greater the human longing for its return, and the growing conviction that nothing in this world could ever bring that about.

If Jesus not only knew who I really was but was Himself the full embodiment of this magnificence and capable of transmitting this information, this knowing, then He was the one I had to turn my heart and attention towards. I had to become like Him; to give my life to Him in some meaningful way—a way that would transform my earthly failings and sorrows, or allow me to transcend them, so that the version of myself He’d revealed to me was indeed a living truth that shone into this world with its qualities of total love, compassion, peace.

I sought answers in the Christian Church. I’d often been drawn to monasteries or convents, choosing most years to spend a week on a retreat somewhere. In particular, I felt at home in Burford Priory in Oxfordshire and at St. Mary’s on Lindisfarne. Burford was a traditional Benedictine monastery, and St. Mary’s was an open Christian centre, but the warmth of hospitality was always a reminder of the nature of Christ. I was welcome, everyone was welcome; not because we were insiders or prospective converts, but because we were accepted as fully as Christ accepted all those He encountered. But if I wanted to give my entire life to this quest, where could I go? Where could I be? Where could I live?

I decided to try living amongst nuns in a convent for a week, but it would be a week of silence and a turning within in a context that supported and encouraged that. I found a convent in Surrey and entered with trepidation and joy.

There was nothing particularly inspiring about this convent, and it had the smell of an institution and religious house, which always put me off somewhat. Was it the worn, tattered sofas and furnishings that exuded a slightly old and stale aroma? Was it years of burning frankincense that seeped into curtains and carpets and left a lingering sweetness that wasn’t entirely pleasant but nevertheless focused the mind and turned it towards prayerful matters?

My room was simple and the Daily Office, the Benedictine rhythm of prayer, became my structure for the day. Getting up early for Matins and Lauds was a struggle, and I slept through a few of these, but I enjoyed all the others. As I slipped deeper into silence, I felt held by the structure of the monastic day and by the nuns and the convent itself. Silence unravels. When we enter retreat, we often feel that “the world is too much with us”, but it’s not easy to put it down. Only by removing ourselves completely and entering a very different way of life is it possible to leave the world behind in any significant way. This is one of the main purposes and values of retreat.

I’ve often heard people dismiss the value of the more enclosed religious life, seeing it as selfish and disconnected from the suffering of the world. In my experience, it’s the opposite: By dropping out of our worldly preoccupations, we enter the inner peace that naturally includes and loves all others as part of the bigger self, and when we come back to the world, we come back with those qualities more readily expressed and available for others. Convents, monasteries, and centres of religious or spiritual focus are not easy places to live, and most communities work hard in every respect to maintain a stable, loving environment that fosters wellbeing and spiritual nourishment for themselves and others. There has undeniably been abuse within religious orders and organizations, and, sadly, continues to be in places, but it would be wrong to assume that they were, or are, closet dens of iniquity as a result.

In the protected confines of the convent, silence was as natural as breathing. Time was dedicated to what is known as the Great Silence or Noble Silence, so it was easy to stop talking. What wasn’t so easy was to get beyond the chattering mind. It was so loud! The sounds of the world mask and drown out the noise going on inside our own heads, and perhaps that’s why so many people seem to need radio or television constantly playing in the background. Our chattering minds are like tinnitus with thoughts, and when we’re not actively thinking, it can be a shock to discover just how busy the mind is of its own accord. Thoughts, feelings, judgements, memories—on and on and on they go, unchosen and out of control.

As I began to realize this, I became quite alarmed and felt increasingly trapped. There was so little space, and these thoughts were unbidden and operating without a thinker. I knew nothing about meditation at this point, and didn’t yet have any tools to work constructively with what was being uncovered. So, instead, I found solace through distraction or redirecting my focus. I went for walks in the woods, attended the Offices, read books, and tried to talk to Jesus, finding Him in the many statues around the convent and, in particular, in the chapel above the altar.