(or What Do You Mean There’s No Coffee?)
Sometimes I think that it might be nice to live in a convent. I find the idea of always knowing that you have shelter, food, a job and a purpose in life to be quite comforting. Never mind all the many sacrifices required: I’d nearly trade marriage and motherhood and free-will for a life where I didn’t have to worry about bills and career and retirement. I said nearly. Plus I’m not religious, much less Catholic.
This weekend I got a 48-hour insight into what a monastery life might look like. In search of a break from the unrelenting demands of motherhood and an intense need to reconnect with the outdoors, my own breath and spirit, I headed to a yoga retreat at a nearby ashram.
I’d never been to an ashram before, and I probably should have done more research first (although to be fair, the website could have included a bit more information about exactly what I had just signed up for). The specifics of the retreat really didn’t matter to me; I just wanted a time-out for a few days and the promise of hiking and yoga was enough for me to commit.
