Remembering Julian of Norwich
On this day in our Great Cloud of Witnesses in the Episcopal Church, we remember Julian of Norwich, and English mystic who lived as an anchorite in Norwich. She is especially remembered for a series of mystical visions and conversations she had with Jesus at the age of 30 which led her to devote the rest of her life to prayer and contemplation ultimately moving into what is called an anchorage where she lived in permanent seclusion for the rest of her life. (See the previous book review of I, Julian.)
I recently came across this lovely poem by Rosie Jackson which ponders, as I have pondered, what it was like to be an anchorite!
When I Wonder What It Was Like to Be an Anchorite
the nearest I can get is that day I locked myself
in the house, in one room, huddled in darkness.
It was January cold, I wore gloves and a beanie hat,
lay hunched on a makeshift mattress in what would one day be the lounge. I was newly moved into
a ruin of a place, all stone and draughts. For days I'd made builders' tea, talked builders' talk, and now they were fixing the roof, but I was weary of the world,
craved peace and silence. I couldn't put on the light,
in case they saw, or listen to the radio, in case they heard,
or have a fire, for smoke would travel to them up
the chimney. All day I lay in darkness while shouts
and sounds of hammering came from another world,
as an anchorite would listen to men mending
the church roof. It felt miraculous, like being
at the bottom of the sea. In their lunch break,
suspecting I was there, for my car was in the drive,
they came close to the window, made smutty jokes,
wondered where I peed, mocked single women
who don't, after all, have much of a handle
on the world. And perhaps an anchorite knew
the same relief I felt that day, when the sweetness
of dusk finally fell, the hammering stopped,
the men packed up their tongues and clatter
and darkness was once again mine, all mine.
I could breathe, pray, praise and curse out loud
without anyone, except God perhaps, listening.
