I was in jail for the weekend.

At least it felt that way to start.

I write all this stuff in my weekly blog about living deeply and fully, about being grounded, about being clear and listening with the ear of our hearts.

And then I realize I need to call bullshit on myself because I fail to actually live out what I try to teach.

I dragged myself this past weekend – kicking and screaming – to the Weston Priory. The Priory is a beautiful Benedictine monastery high on a Vermont hillside, with roots that can be traced back to the third century.  A dozen monks live there as brothers in community. They work and pray and sustain themselves. And as Benedict prescribed, offer hospitality to all who come to their door.

I went there to seek quiet, solitude, silence. Rest.

I went there to hear anew my own still small voice.

I went there so that I could touch again for myself what is essential, what is invisible to the eye.

It wasn’t easy to go.  Like so many of us, I travel at a speed that is dizzying.  But in the last several weeks, the velocity began to feel ludicrously supersonic, even by my own warped standards.

When I landed at Weston, it felt as if I had been caught by the arresting cable on the deck of a carrier: grabbed by my own tail, the jet plane of my life came to a screeching halt.

I hadn’t a clue what to do next.  The brother who greeted me pointed me toward my room.  He gave me the meal schedule and the brothers’ times of prayer. “Enjoy your stay,” he said.

I looked at my Blackberry. No signal.  I pulled out my iPad. No wireless. I became anxious. I began to pace. I ate an entire box of cookies. I felt sick.  I began to hold my Blackberry in various corners of my tiny room. To no avail.

I was alone. By myself. Off the grid. In the woods.

Maybe I would be murdered.  Maybe they wouldn’t find my body. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

And then I saw the sign.  It said: “Imagine Peace.”

Imagine a place rooted on the land, a place guided by the seasons, a place steeped in the ancient rhythms of monastic prayer and suffused with the music of its heart. Imagine a place that greets the dawn with light and songs of praise; and, as darkness falls, stands with open hands of gratitude and thanks. Imagine a people who live with radical love, true equality, social justice and a open heart.

Imagine a stillness so profound that it cannot help but seep into your bones.

Yes, imagine that: imagine peace.

Bit by bit, my body settled. And then my mind.  And my heart.  And my soul. I slept and read and walked and ran and prayed and listened to the wind in the trees and the rain on the chapel roof.  I shared my meals in silence with the monks and walked their paths and celebrated with them the hours of their days.

I was able to feel the ground again. My ground.

On Sunday afternoon, I fumbled for the keys to the ignition of my jet.  I looked with wariness at the Blackberry as I headed south toward home.

My friend Anne asked: how can we make decisions in our lives when we’re going 90 miles per hour?  The answer is: we can’t.

I recall a teacher telling me about his military training in special operations.  He and his comrades were dropped on an island. Their missions: avoid being captured by the enemy. He shared with me the sheer terror he felt as he ran up the beech, gunfire screaming overhead. His teammates disappeared into the woods.  Paralyzed with fear, my friend couldn’t imagine where to go. All he could do was stop. And dig a hole.  He crawled in and covered himself over. The enemy came tearing through the woods. And ran right past him. All of his colleagues fell captive. He was the sole survivor.

The notion of retreat, of seeking out the desert places, of finding solitude, is a lost art. But it is essential to our humanity.

Because, sometimes in our lives, all we can do is stop.  Sometimes it is the only sensible thing to do.

Sometimes what we need is peace.

Yes, peace. Imagine that.