Silence on the River

The narrow gravel-and-dirt road to Como Plantation outside of St. Francisville ends at a small bridge over a tree-shrouded creek that runs right into the Mississippi River. Signage directed me to park in a grassy field. It was only fitting that I should begin the three-day silent retreat by leaving behind my mini-van—the embodiment of my busy mom existence these days—trusting I would reach my destination somehow. Before I could grab my bag, two other women arrived as a gentleman rolled up in a little white truck to offer us a ride.

The Como Plantation Retreat has been in the works for several years—a vision that has transformed this historic property into a site for spiritual contemplation for Christians of all denominations. Being solely dedicated to the silent retreat experience, Como is not available for weddings, corporate events, or the like. After a successful pilot retreat for men in October 2021, I was joining a small group of women who were invited to a silent retreat in midwinter of early 2022. The experience promised quiet prayer and meditation, guided by a series of lectures called the “Ten Stepping Stones”.

It was only fitting that I should begin the three-day silent retreat by leaving behind my mini-van—the embodiment of my busy mom existence these days—trusting I would reach my destination somehow.

I let my bags take the ride, while I elected to walk the rest of the way to the house, imagining what this place had been like two centuries before as the center of a busy riverboat-landing community. Since then, most of the original acreage that made up Como Plantation has been sold or shifted due to the deltaic nature of the Mississippi River, which quietly churned behind me as I headed up the slight hills towards the two-story main house. A variety of pathways presented themselves: old barely visible ones, newly graveled ones, and emerging foot paths. 

Who walked these paths before? I imagined field workers, riverboat captains, drivers in buggies, cooks, men, women, and children – both enslaved and free people – making their various ways from river to fields to chapel to house and to cabins.  Did they see paths left by the peoples of the Tunica tribe who once inhabited the land? Tracks of white tail deer and black bear? Did they sense the injustices surrounding them – whether they benefited or suffered from them, or both? Did I? Feeling humbly privileged to have the time to reflect on these things, I took the path past the large sweet olive tree, which led towards the sounds of voices and laughter. 

A group of smiling women greeted me, as they basked in sunlight on the wide porch off the kitchen. The Como Ambassador, a fellow retreatant familiar with the property, led me through the expansive center hallway and showed me to my room. The recently-renovated, late-1800s postbellum house offers the modern comforts of private bathrooms, air conditioning, and electricity. Exchanging welcomes and names, we also verified the origin of the house’s title—not a family name, neither Como nor Comeaux, but instead inspired by Lake Como, Italy as the home’s original owner had thought it the most beautiful place in the world.

[Read more about Como Plantation in Lauren Heffker's story from 2019 here.]

Afterwards, we toured the expansive property, the loess formations of the Tunica Hills offering various hiking paths before plateauing as they approach the riverbank. We passed five wooden cabins, newly built for the retreat experience, where some of the ladies were staying, each with her own porch for contemplative river gazing. Donations of funding and labor have already been lined up to build ten more of these cabins, and there are hopes to eventually see one hundred of them dotting the wooded hills of the property.

We paid a visit to the library; two bouncy recliners inviting retreatants to relax, journal, or read; the walls lined with bookshelves soon to be filled. We stopped for a quiet moment in the chapel, original to the property, where the wooden pews reverberate with over a hundred years of praises given in this rustic space. The moment was graciously interrupted by a retreat leader’s gentle urgings to join them for the setting of the sun, as the fiery oranges and pinks backlit a wintery grey tree line on the far side of the river.

A semi-circle of empty chairs awaited us at the blacksmith’s shop, an open-air structure near the riverbank, leftover from when a French movie was filmed on location in the 1970s. A warm fire crackled in a bricked pit and two gentlemen fried fish. We shared brief stories of who we are as we watched the sun disappear in a brilliant intersection of sky, woods, and water. Blessing the food, we broke sweet dinner rolls together, enjoyed hot catfish, and marveled at the coleslaw.

“Open the eyes of your heart”:  with this focus we officially entered the silence we had come for. Beginning that evening, the quiet would only be broken by daily lessons, bird calls, crunching leaves, and the low-chugging hum of barges moving along the river. We meditated on the “heart” as the life-giving muscle, the feeder of movements that make up a life; the “eyes” as the gateway to understanding how to make the decisions that will lead to a life of purpose and meaning.  With these thoughts in mind, I removed my shoes to quietly mount the wide, wooden staircase leading to my room, where I enjoyed a quick shower and settled into a cozy four-poster bed.

Beginning that evening, the quiet would only be broken by daily lessons, bird calls, crunching leaves, and the low-chugging hum of barges moving along the river.

I grew up in the Catholic Church, with one foot in the Methodist. Today, I continue to straddle these two denominations with occasional forays into the sacred texts of non-Christian religions, while maintaining a respect for nonbelievers and seekers. The beauty of this retreat’s silence was that I didn’t have to expound on any of this. I was free to listen, learn, and take a break from feeling the need to define or explain myself.

Mornings were a time for private prayer, followed by a continental breakfast laid out in the kitchen. Freed from the burdens of small talk, I discovered a certain sense of wonder fostered by the inability to voice the questions continuously coming to mind. Who painted the stencil work on the ceiling? Was that a woodpecker? Why is there an antique clock in a baby bed under the staircase? Steeped in self-reflection, these superficial questions eventually made way for more difficult ones:  Am I living a purposeful life? How can I be a better person? Do I really know how to love? A refrain of the Ten Stepping Stones is the message that we are called to have a spirit-to-spirit connection, in which the Holy Spirit communicates with us, guiding us in grappling with these deeper questions.

Later that morning, during a lesson, our teacher said something that struck me: what has our attention has our power. I thought of all the nonproductive hours I’ve spent on apps that end up owning a chunk of my day. I found myself nodding in agreement throughout this lesson, resolving to strategize better use of my attention. Then, the teacher said something I disagreed with theologically. Frustrated, I wanted desperately to tell her how I thought she was wrong, to change her mind. I wanted to speak out. Instead, after the lesson, I walked down to the river.

Silence is humbling. In an earlier lesson we had learned that prayers can be made of our wordless sighs, but in that moment all I had to offer were inner grumblings. I sat on the riverbank and recalled an analogy comparing meditation to watching a river flow, where thoughts come along like barges, and we can let those thoughts float by as we maintain our focus on the river of no-thoughts. I tried it. The river traffic was heavy at that hour as I watched my need to have my opinion heard, my need to correct others, my self-righteous thoughts all pass downstream. There was a bigger force at work, helping me keep the eyes of my heart open and put the inconsequential disagreement in perspective. Walking back towards the house my frustration subsided. Sitting on a blanket of once-golden leaves under a moss-draped gingko tree, I thought of arguments with loved ones I might have avoided if I had embraced such silent consideration ...

I was grateful for the generous time allocated for personal prayer and meditation in the retreat’s schedule, as well as the time set aside for journaling, hiking, and resting. The woods offer several short hiking trails to vantage points overlooking the river, passing through a plethora of native flora including palmettos, bamboo, trilliums, and roses—the barrenness of winter revealing the beauty of the exposed trees and thorny vines. The trail up to the future site of the Writer’s Cabin offers a wide view of the river through tall pines. Another path passes through an old family cemetery, and yet another takes you along a ridge to an old cistern which used to provide water to the main house. There is a joy in finding the word “rest” on your schedule after a hike and a fat chicken salad sandwich. One afternoon, I took a solid hour-long nap sprawled out on the front porch like a cat—another blessing of silence was the freedom to avoid excusing myself for such instinctual, perhaps “improper” behavior.

Sitting on a blanket of once-golden leaves under a moss-draped gingko tree, I thought of arguments with loved ones I might have avoided if I had embraced such silent consideration ...

On the final day as the sunrise illuminated the bare trees, silence was broken with a feeling of release as we all joined together to sing hymns. We ate breakfast and I now welcomed the small talk, especially when the Como Ambassador asked us to take home all the leftovers from the previous night’s dinner of smoky pulled pork and perfectly sweet beans.

We had one final lesson before we left in which I found myself listening more intently, still quieted from the previous days. I gave thanks for the blessing of being able to silently rest in a beautiful old home near the banks of the powerful Mississippi River with a group of kind, joy-filled women focused on finding purpose and meaning in a life lived for God. 

At this reflective time in our region in which we are reconsidering how to navigate the spaces that were once locations of grave inhumanities, I found the Como Retreat experience an opportunity to take it all in, to consider the  wrongs of the past and practice the art of quiet, the art of listening, as we make way for a better future.   

Find information about future retreats at comoplantationretreat.com.

Editor's Note: This article has been amended from its original version in response to critiques of our editorial team's failure to ensure that the property's history as a former plantation site, where human beings were enslaved, is adequately recognized. Country Roads is in no way affiliated with the Como Plantation Retreat, but we mourn the lives of those lost on that land and celebrate the countless spiritual, cultural, and other contributions Afro-descendants have made to our region. In the articles that appear in Country Roads we’ve worked hard to deliver an honest account of the horrors endured by enslaved people, and the impact slavery’s legacy continues to have on the region we cover. We are always learning and listening and aiming to do this better. 

Some have critiqued our decision to cover the use of this property for a retreat at all. This is a consideration that has been brought to the forefront of our editorial planning as we continue to ask the question: what do we do with these places where the horrors of slavery occurred? If you have thoughts on this issue or on this article, we'd love to hear from you. Please reach out at editorial@countryroadsmag.com.