Medievalish 4.5

On Visiting an Anchorhold

Dear friend,

I must admit that I usually write this monthly letter a few days in advance before the twelfth of each month, then spend a little time those days rewriting and polishing. But this month, I woke up and realized it was May 11th and I hadn’t written a thing yet. It is May-cember in our house, so I am a bit butter-over-too-much-bread in general, to paraphrase Bilbo. Moreover, I must admit to feeling emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually hungover from the richness of my research trip, which ended on Tuesday.

Nevertheless, the twelfth is here, and I am here to uphold my end of the newsletter bargain. So I think I’ll tell you a story.

An anchorhold, not a usual word for us today, is the name of those little cells attached to churches where medieval anchorites, like Julian of Norwich, lived. One of the main reasons for my trip was to visit a few of these, or note where they used to be. It’s so hard to imagine this lifestyle that I wanted something a little more concrete to supplement all the times I’ve imagined an anchorhold or even taught what it was.

There are very few surviving anchorholds today in England.¹ This dearth can be traced to multiple factors. The first, and perhaps most surprising, is that many cells were pulled down by the medieval church itself. Bishops, concerned that people would rashly enter into the anchoritic life with no means to support themselves—you had to have either very charitable neighbors or an independent means of support to feed yourself if you were vowed into a room for the rest of your life—often ordered these structures torn down once the anchorite died. The wood and building materials were then used for other projects within the parish. The second, less surprising reason is the English Reformation, which disbanded monastic and quasi-monastic practices like anchoritism. So to see these remaining cells, or even the traces of them remaining, like the windows for the anchorite to look into the church and witness the liturgy, was a thrill for me.

We were on our way to King’s Lynn, to the home parish of Margery Kempe. The traffic was bad, and we were late, too late to see what she would have known as St. Margaret’s, now just called the Minster. The church would have closed. Nonetheless, I had heard that there was a surviving anchorite cell at the neighboring parish of All Saints’, so we quickly discarded our things at the classy Travelodge and sallied forth to find it. I knew it wouldn’t be open, so I just expected to walk around the building and then go find something to eat.

All Saints’ is in the middle of a dilapidated, half-abandoned housing project, though the church itself is as lovely and beautiful as any grand dame parish church. I felt like we were lost as we wandered through the housing project, then we at last saw the flint exterior looming up in the half-light of early evening.

What luck! The church was open. We peeked our heads through the door, to discover that they had just finished with an evening service. The lovely priest and staff informed us that this was the only time we could have gotten in—they were not open during the day, when I had planned for us to visit. I now felt gratitude for the bad traffic and delays.

We wandered into the chancel of the church. There was a door into the main body of the church (who knows, original or not, but it was old) and then there was the cell. Two windows filled the room with that particular quality of muted, pale buttery English light, so foreign to me as a person who has lived almost exclusively under the burning oranges and lemons and searing blues of the particular light of the American West. Of course, there was the expected window into the church, that led wandering eyes straight to the altar to witness the miracle of bread become Christ’s flesh. I looked through it, strangely feeling my own eyes traverse the ancient sight-paths of the eyes of the long dead.

I imagined all the women here.² I imagined Margery Kempe herself murmuring through the window, hungrily seeking spiritual counsel and believing ears. I imagined the women who had loved God with an almost unintelligible passion and discipline inside this space. I imagined their bodies now one with the soil beneath their cell, where anchorites were often buried; I imagined their pale faces, now with God, imbued with light and spiritual authority. Was their cavernous yearning that they sought to foster in a tiny cell at last satiated? Or—once it no longer laid so strait within four walls, little windows and doors, within the beloved frail body, had the yearning instead grown, comfortably, expansively, in the generous, eternal presence of the Lord?

And T.S. Eliot’s words in “Little Gidding,” fresh from the Lent series on Old Books with Grace, danced within my mind:

If you came this way, 
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season, 
It would always be the same: you would have to put off 
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity 
Or carry report. You are here to kneel 
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more 
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying. 
And what the dead had no speech for, when living, 
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living. 
Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and always.

How limited are my resources to inform curiosity or carry report as I try to describe this encounter. My hands shook with the proximity to tangible, confusing holiness.

The lovers and keepers of All Saints’ quietly kept their distance as Scott and I took it all in. I will always be thankful to them for stewarding this treasure, and sharing it with us.

What I’ve been up to this month:

• I published a piece with Mockingbird on a broken medieval head of Christ that I saw in the magnificent Siena exhibit at the Met.

• Old Books with Grace finished up the Lent series on T.S. Eliot (naturally, before Easter, that seems like ages ago). But you don’t have to be in Lent still to take a listen… just interested in Four Quartets. Catch it on Spotify or Apple Podcasts.

• The rest of my time was eaten up in trip preparation, trip, and garden preparation. But I look forward to some serious summer writing—my favorite time of year to write!

What I’ve been reading this month:

• Nonfiction: Evelyn Underhill. Love her.

• Fiction: Rereading the enchanting Elizabeth Goudge’s The Little White Horse.

• Medieval/Medieval-adjacent: Julian of Norwich, as ever.

• Article: Alas, I have not been reading journals lately.

A Prayer from the Past

A beautiful prayer from Thomas à Kempis (1380-1471), late medieval author of The Imitation of Christ, retrieved from my little purple book of prayers, Prayers Ancient & Modern compiled by Mary Tileston.

I offer up unto Thee my prayers and intercessions, for those especially who have in any matter hurt, grieved, or found fault with me, or who have done me any damage or displeasure.

For all those also whom, at any time, I may have vexed, troubled, burdened, and scandalized, by words or deeds, knowingly or in ignorance; that Thou would wouldst grant us all equally pardon for our sins, and for our offenses against each other.

Take away from our hearts, O Lord, all suspiciousness, indignation, wrath, and contention, and whatsoever may hurt charity, and lessen brotherly love.

Have mercy, O Lord, have mercy on those that crave Thy mercy, give grace unto them that stand in need thereof, and make us such as that we may be worthy to enjoy Thy grace, and go forward to life eternal. Amen.

Peace for your May,

Grace

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1. The ones I saw on this trip are the rather confusing, disputed one at Compton in Surrey (where anchorites certainly lived, but whether or not in this particular structure is in question); Hartlip in Kent (which was, alas, locked and looked just like a regular vestry); the remains of the window and squint at Shere; and the reconstructed modern anchorhold at St. Julian’s in Norwich. There is a very intact two-story anchorhold at Chester-le-Street in Durham, however, that was too far north for us to get to on this particular trip.

2. There were also many male anchorites! But in this location, I believe there were only documented women.