Contemplating Anchoresses: The Ponderings of a C19 Cellmate.

Lady Liminal Memory, Mental Health, Paranoid Architecture, Remember

During these past few months of lockdown, I’ve had time to sit and consider things that perhaps wouldn’t normally be at the forefront of my mind. The fact that as a person with a heavily compromised immune system I am one of the people who have been placed on our government’s At-Risk register This has meant that I haven’t been able to physically leave my small, garden-less, flat for over 7 months, apart from a very brief, highly restricted, respite for 2 weeks in April, and another sweet, but all too brief, taste of freedom from late July to September. Apart from these fleeting interventions, all my interactions with the world are conducted through social media, primarily Twitter, telephone and video calls, email, and by looking out from my windows.

The latter activity, in particular, brought to mind the Anchoresses of the High and Late Medieval periods. Women who consciously chose to physically withdraw from the world of the living in order to contemplate, meditate upon, and devote themselves, body, and soul, to God within complete physical isolation. Now, I’m not for one moment actively considering that my current situation is akin to the extended solitary lives undertaken by Anchoresses 6 – 8 centuries ago. However, during this unprecedented time in my life, where I have been effectively removed from society, albeit, against my wishes, these anchoresses have been inching deeper and deeper into my psyche. Women, such as Julian of Norwich, appear in my thoughts far more frequently than is, perhaps, comfortable.

The word anchorite comes from the Greek verb ‘to retire’. Before a woman could be considered for a life of enforced spiritual isolation, they had to undertake a gruelling selection process. The strength of the woman’s spiritual calling would have been intensely scrutinised before physical enclosure would have been endorsed, and even then, approval could only come from a bishop.

Once the woman had been deemed suitable for a life of solitary isolation, they would then have to undergo the ceremony of being removed from the world. Litanies would be recited, blessings of water and incense placed upon the anchoress, and candles representing the love of one’s neighbour and the love of God were handed to her. As she was led towards her cell, psalms from the Office of the Dead were sung. She would be sprinkled with dust, ‘Ashes to Ashes’, by the door to her cell before entering and having the door bolted behind her (Leyser 1995, 206). This bolted door would then have either wax seals applied or, as in some cases, would be bricked up.

Many anchoresses could spend decades within their cell. Some were confined within tiny spaces. The anchoress of Leatherhead in Surrey lived in a cell which measured a mere 8 ft². However, this wasn’t the case for all. Some were confined with other women, most of them would have had servants who attended to their daily needs, some Anchorite cells even had adjoining guestrooms (Ibid 206-7).

Perhaps the best-known English anchoress was Julian of Norwich. Born in approximately 1343, she lived until at least 1416. Julian entered into the life of an anchoress when she was in her early 40s. Her one room cell was located on the north side (most probably) of St Julian’s Church, which still stands today on King Street in Norwich.

Her cell overlooked this extremely busy thoroughfare, close to both the docks and the red-light district. Julian would have had a small window looking out upon the street. However, her interactions with the world of the living were strictly controlled, limited only to conversation from behind a thick, heavy, black curtain. This window was to be seen as a disruptor, as interference with Julian’s primary role, which was one of spiritual devotion and contemplation; “my dear sisters, love your windows as little as ever you can… All the misery that there now is and ever yet was and ever shall be all comes of sight” (Ancrene Wisse, [1993] in Ramirez 2016).

Julian was dead to the world, but she was still also within it, akin to a spirit. We know from historical records that Julian had a maid, Sara, who would have been able to access Julian via a small cell adjacent to the main enclosed space. Sara would have provided Julian’s victuals, clean linen, and maintained the cleanliness of the cell. Alongside this, Sara would also have provided books and writing materials, as well as visitors.

Although ‘removed’ from the world, Julian would have had greater freedom than many women of her time. Although there would have been an order to her day, it would not have been as rigid as that of a convent. Unlike nuns, Julian did not have to concern herself with everyday tasks such as cleaning, maintenance of livestock, needlework. She had control over her own time, she was physically safe and was free to contemplate, read and put her thoughts to paper (Ramirez 2016). Monastic hours were probably kept, with mass being performed 7 times a day. However, we must keep in mind that undertaking the life of an anchoress was not something that would have been embarked upon on a whim.

So why have deeply religious women, who lived over half a millennium ago, been occupying the mind of a 21st century Child of The Hum, who’s currently living in East London? This is a question that I have been asking myself frequently over the past few months. As I mentioned above, the notion hadn’t really struck me until I was sat looking outside my window one evening. For it was only in that moment that the image of Julian, who I had studied as part of an undergrad medieval archaeology module, came to my mind. But now that she’s there, she’s proving somewhat difficult to remove. In fact, I wonder if she will ever entirely leave…

Again, as mentioned above, Anchoresses actively sought enforced isolation from the world, I have not. Especially in the case of Medieval women, being removed from the world, it has been argued, gave them greater freedom, greater control. For myself, I have found this compulsory withdrawal from the world, from life, debilitating, both psychologically and physically. The loss of control over my life for the greater part of this year has been profound. Yes, once we had settled into that somewhat uneasy, and, for myself and pretty much everyone else, unnatural routine, I did find myself contemplating thoughts, concepts, and possibilities, that I hadn’t done so before. Perhaps this previous lack of engagement was due to a busy lifestyle involving research, travel, and socialising. However, as weeks turned into months, I began to wonder if I had shied away from these thoughts as an act of self-preservation; a way of not having to excavate my life, my deeds, both past, present and, potentially future?

Through television, social media and various websites, we have been constantly bombarded with the visual evidence of people regaining control, attaining ‘enlightenment’ through baking, exercising, writing. How easy it is to achieve an epiphany through nurturing a sourdough, to witness illumination during a Peleton spinning class. At times, these latter-day saints have come close to crushing me, physically, psychologically, and morally. Yet after emerging from my latest Corona confessional, instead of being ordered to recite ten Hail Mary’s and perform an act of charity, I instead feel compelled to bake a cake, but only after I’ve completed my High Intensity Interval Training session.

Although I have held the keys to my front door, during the greater part of 2020 I haven’t been permitted to walk beyond it. I have sat by my (physical, Twitter, FaceTime, email) window, behind the black curtain, and conversed with people; sometimes just listening to friends’ news, their hopes, and fears, sometimes I’ve been asked for advice. During the first days and weeks of the lockdown I felt like a caged animal desperate to break the door down and escape in order to be with my friends, but then these desires began to ebb, only to be passionately reignited once I was forced to re-retreat from the physical world after those brief, yet highly addictive, tastes of freedom. Of course, I’m looking forward to seeing people in person eventually, but It’s going to take some time getting used to being physically around people again. Perhaps elements of this reticence will stay with me, and others, forever?

Unlike Julian, and the other anchoresses of the medieval period, I know that I will eventually be allowed to leave my ‘cell’ permanently, to walk within the world once again. Have I undergone some form of spiritual conversion? Probably not. Although I do feel that after an extended period in solitary isolation, I’ve experienced some form of transition, but I’m still not sure whether it’s a positive or negative transformation. One of the most recognised quotes from Julian of Norwich’s book, the Revelations of Divine Love, declares that,

“all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well”

(chapter 27, c. 1380).

People talk about the world being forever changed after these events surrounding the C19 outbreak, I do not know if this will necessarily be the case. Yes, I would like to see greater kindness in the world, greater empathy, greater understanding. However, when I see images on one of the various screens that I constantly carry, of people around the world marching through the streets hauling automatic rifles; demanding the right to get their hair cut, their nails manicured, their Big Mac meals to go, unrestricted by ‘controlling’ masks, juxtaposed alongside footage of people of colour literally fighting for their right to exist in peace and safety in this world; of homeless people who, after being given shelter during the initial outbreak, have now been unceremoniously dumped back onto the streets, I don’t get too hopeful. The odds don’t look great.

Perhaps it would be a life better spent by remaining in this cell, retreating completely from the world, contemplating from a distance? All shall be well….?

Postscript, May 2021:

It’s now been over 6 months since I wrote the above Pondering. There have been significant changes in my life, some good, some painful. Friends passing over, without me being able to tell them that I love them, unable to bid them good wandering. Seeing, from a distance, friends struggling with their own personal experiences of living through a global pandemic. Feeling completely impotent through my inability to offer them any real, and meaningful, help and support. Having to cope with the impact on my own mental health, brought on by extended periods in enforced solitary isolation.

When tallied up, I spent a total of over 280 days confined to my small, gardenless flat within the 12 months following on from March 2020. A number of friends and colleagues have remarked on how strong I am, how brave, but I don’t feel that I embody either of these attributes. They (thankfully) didn’t have to bear witness to the extended bouts of insomnia, which still vex me. Nor the protracted periods of depression and self-pity, where it literally took all my willpower just to get out of bed, only to end up on the floor, curled into the foetal position, crying for hours on end.

The past 14 months have often felt like something akin to an extended psychotic episode, an almost schizophrenic experience. The daily struggle of honing the person I wish to project on to society, whilst constantly battling with the individual that I know myself to be. Although often feeling like I was literally dying inside (I, sadly, slipped back into self-harming for a number of months, & even contemplated bringing things to a permanent close, for a time), when I went online, either to Zoom or engage on social media, primarily Twitter, I had to present ‘Happy Me’. Lady Liminal had/has to be strong for her friends, keep them smiling. They all had so much to contend with, navigating their own personal lockdown scenarios, that I couldn’t bear to possibly add to their already considerable burdens. I managed to keep up the pretence, for the most part, but every now and then the cracks would begin to show. During these periods I would recede, removed from both the physical and virtual worlds. It was tough, the experience will stay with me for a long time, perhaps the rest of my life.

Yet, positives did begin to manifest, and, thankfully, these have empowered me to initiate projects which I never thought would be possible. Projects which, in turn, have enabled me to get myself back on track psychologically. Not just through the process of creating, but also through engaging with episodes from my life which, before last year’s hiatus from the physical world, I was always too anxious to revisit. Writing for a virtual audience has offered me another form of release. I guess it’s been my own personal Anchoress, sat by her window/my laptop screen, curtain slightly parted, quietly listening to my woes. Providing a non-judgemental ear. Absolving me of my self-perceived shame, allowing me to move forward.

Revisiting, often painful, memories and engaging with them head on, via the written word, has been a highly cathartic experience. My Anchoress encouraging me to purge myself of a guilt that was never my responsibility to bear. Regression enabling progression. The albatross finally beginning to slip away from my neck…

And now, here in mid-May 2021, the physical world is (hopefully) slowly reopening its arms to embrace me. I received my 1st C19 vaccination in late February. I am having my 2nd shot in exactly 36 hours’ time. Although I have undertaken a few tentative sorties out into the urban landscape, I have yet to embark upon an extended wander. I’ve never really felt very comfortable around other people. Anxiety feeds the ADHD, words come out wrong, the dyspraxia decides to join in the fun and games, I must turn and take cover. Often, solace can only be found within the solitary.

And I think that this is the real paradox of my experiences as a C19 Anchoress. Initially, many friends offered support by highlighting that I spent the greater part of my ‘pre-covid’ existence alone. That because I mainly wander and ponder the world on my own, infrequently mooching with others, I’d be able, in their minds, to handle lockdown fine. And yes, this was, initially, and to some extent, the case.

However, before March 2020, I could choose when, and when not, to hang out with friends and colleagues. Solitary lockdown denied me this agency, I lost control of my life, and I think that it was this loss that affected me, and many others, so profoundly.

In past relationships I had no control over my life. I was, quite literally, at the mercy of others, to such an extent that after being physically abandoned by my (now, thankfully, ex) husband, I was diagnosed with Stockholm Syndrome, along with PTSD. It took 12 very long years of intensive psychological treatment and therapy to get to where I was in early 2020; a person who had, for the most part, reclaimed herself. The onset of C19, and the subsequent lockdowns, threatened to tear down all those advancements I had worked so hard to achieve.

Yes, the anxiety of contracting the virus was intense, but greater yet was the fear that I may, once again, succumb to the psychological conditions which had robbed me of the greater part of my late 20s and 30s. The fact that this could all happen so quickly; that things which we consider so solid, safe, secure, can crumble so rapidly, terrified me. I think that this aspect also frightened people around the world, regardless of the robustness of their mental health. And I guess that this is the true fear that I, and most likely, many others will carry, probably, to some extent, for the rest of our lives. That no matter how solid we think our foundations are; social, romantic, familial, financial; they are all built upon quicksand. Nothing is a given, a ‘dead-cert’. These things really can collapse quickly, leaving us trailing in their wake, and this is a very frightening realisation to have to contend with.

So, as I begin to bring this post to a close, I once again turn to Julian of Norwich, the Anchoress who initiated my initial pondering all those months ago. As mentioned above, now that she’s within my mind, she’s proving somewhat difficult to remove. In fact, I wonder if she will ever entirely leave. But the truth is, I don’t think I want her to…

As time progresses, people are talking more and more about returning to normal, some focusing specifically on a ‘new normal’, however that will manifest. The past 14 months have changed me. There’s been periods of true desperation, tempered with a creeping sense of hope. Am I nervous about the future? Yes. Am I going to remain within my flat, continue life as a C19 Anchoress? No! The realisation that the things we take for granted are by no means a given certainty, that they can be whipped away from us quickly and brutally, is unsettling, frightening. And it’s this realisation that now drives me onwards.

None of us knows what the Fates have in store for us. Perhaps Coronavirus will continue to significantly disrupt our lives for the greater part of this remaining decade. Who can tell? But what I do know is this; personal agency is a precious gift, not possessed by everyone. I had forgotten how important it is. I had unknowingly begun to take it for granted. I will never do so again. I will use my agency to keep on keeping on. Through regressing I will progress. Through wandering, pondering, writing, I will finally cast away that burdensome bird who has lazed around my neck for far too long. All shall be well.

Bibliography:

Leyser, H., 1995. Medieval Women: A Social History of Women in England 450 – 1500. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson.

Ramirez, J., 2016. Julian of Norwich: A Very Brief History. London: SPCK.

White, H. (Trans.) 1993. Ancrene Wisse: Guide for Anchoresses. Harmondsworth: Penguin.