Limits
This last January I accompanied a dear friend to a wedding
which was being held in the tiny hamlet of
I had known something of the Shakers, being a student of American religious movements, but had never actually been to one of their sites. Hancock, in its heyday, was one of the larger villages and is well known for its distinctive three story round barn which hosted a sophisticated diary operation. The village had been completely self-sufficient for most of its history, and for a while in the mid 19th century, operated the only truly functioning public school and vocational training facility in the county. Then, changing fashion, rapid technological change and population depletion caused Hancock to gradually decline until it finally stopped functioning as a true community in early 20th century. The last members were moved into permanent care in the 1960’s and now these beautiful, sturdy and innovative buildings: kitchen and dorm, healing and sick rooms, barn, machine and laundry shop, all stand empty, except for equipment, frozen in time.
Our guide was a genteel, 60ish man, a confessed Episcopalian, who, in his own words, had been moved by the history, intentions and deep spiritual sincerity of the Shaker movement, and so had decided to assist in bearing witness to their legacies. He had schooled himself, visiting every major Shaker site in the United States, and even, on his own coin, visited the last remaining sisters who reside at Sabbath Day Lake, Maine, waiting to pass on and meet Mother Ann. His knowledge of every room and corner of the site was exhaustive, and he ceaselessly asked questions of those of us who had joined this particular tour which had been especially arranged for the wedding guests. In the barn I could still smell the mixture of hay, grain and “cow” that is so familiar to me from my childhood. Our guide was amazed and bemused when he discovered that I was the only guest he had had in many years that correctly identified all the farm machinery—but only because, as I told him, my grandfather had been a Kansas farmer who had refused to over-mechanize. My friend and I were also the only folks who chose to befriend the barn cat that accompanied us through the empty buildings.
Every square foot of the site seemed to vibrate with a curious resonance, but there were two specific places in which I had what seemed to be very rare, waking visions. In both instances, it was as if I’d walked into an extraordinary electric field that included both auditory and visual data. The first was completely unexpected. We walked from the barn into the kitchen, a short distance of no more than 50 yards. Our guide was telling us about Shaker kitchens and the routine of food gathering and preparation that consumed much of the time of the community….particularly since the Shakers loved to eat. They may have given up the marriage bed and alcohol, but they didn’t skimp on the baked goods and meats. He opened the door and we stepped down into this amazingly large sunny, bright red and yellow room, with huge sinks, ovens and, as you would expect, simple but stunningly beautifully made wooden prep tables and cabinets. The room was awash with a late winter sun, lighting every corner, and a warmth and coziness seemed to seep from the floor, the walls, the expertly made wooden pillars, the cooking utensils themselves.
Quite suddenly, I saw them there, heard them, women singing as they cleaned vegetables, stoked the fires, and kneaded dough for pies and bread. It was a completely physical experience: I felt their deep love for one another, their contentment in giving up what seemed to be so much to others, (and maybe still for us) but was, for them, a refocusing, a realignment of energies for the love of God and a larger vision of community. I could smell the dust of flour, the soil being washed from potatoes, the smell of wood smoke as the ovens were prepared. But most of all, I felt them, the mothers and daughters and sisters and brothers and fathers and sons who had all decided that living together equally as human beings before the Lord and sharing all the labor of survival was more important than anything society might do or say to entrap the soul. In that moment I understood the deep yearning of the Shaker song, “I Give Up This Day My Carnal Life,” which describes the peace and comfort that attended a Shaker convert when s/he realized that attachment to the sexual urges and the societal compulsion to marry and reproduce (which was even stronger in the 19th century than it is now, especially, for women) could lead one away from, not toward, the great Communion that Christ had ordained.
When we speak of the Shakers today, we often see them as limited people, whose convictions regarding the intoxications of sex, compulsive love, compelled reproduction, and mind altering chemicals, such as alcohol, were sure to alienate them from the majority of Americans. Although we may appreciate their industry, their business sense, their furniture, we experience their strict celibacy as aberrant, their dismantling of the nuclear family as problematic and even perverse. Yet, that is not what I experienced in that kitchen, or as I walked from room to room in the dorm, and finally into the meeting chamber, wherein these Shakers discussed issues that concerned them, settled disputes and worshipped by singing and dancing in their characteristic ways.
When you discipline what is common, and give up as a spiritual practice what is considered “normal” or customary human behavior, you also open up new possibilities, new energies, and new ways to love. For it was deep abiding love that I felt within these walls; love, joy, almost a childlike vision, an appreciation for human eccentricity, humor, forbearance and contentment, and most of all a profound sense of silent Presence. Those who have been on retreat know what I’m talking about. Fast from food, from sex, from drugs/alcohol, from lying, from gossip, from the television, from the newspaper, from the stereo, from the ipod, from coffee, from any of our distractions….and the heart can be opened to the Presence from which we seem to flee. No, I’m describing, not prescribing. And it does seem to be true that most folks will not understand you if you choose to give up a culturally conditioned distraction. This connection to Presence is what the Shakers, as a community, sought together.
We ended the tour by sitting in the meeting hall. Our guide talked about categories of singing and worship dancing that the Shakers developed (apparently, they’ve bequeathed a cataloged but barely plumbed legacy of between 8,000 and 10,000…that’s thousand…. songs). I walked slowly about the room and again could hear the sounds of shuffling feet, the swaying of bodies, and the spontaneous singing of a woman or man who was receiving a song from a departed Elder. I sank into a kind of reverie…..that was only interrupted, an indeterminate amount of time later, when the guide told the story of a group of Sufis who had asked for permission to dance in one of the meeting halls of another village, and had been granted limited access. Sufis dancing in a Shaker hall…..I sent out a silent blessing to all who had lived in this sacred place. Salaam, Salaam, we shall all meet, sing and dance underneath the most blessed Tree of Life, our disciplines unchaining us, our limits finally free.