Spinning Stillness: A Monastic Retreat and the Meditative Art of the Spindle
There’s a stillness that lives beneath the noise.
Recently, I had the gift of entering that stillness during a retreat at the Society of St. John the Evangelist, an Episcopal monastic community nestled in the heart of Cambridge, Massachusetts. For several days, I stepped into a rhythm far removed from my usual life: days shaped by silence, ancient prayers, simple meals, and quiet walks by the Charles River.
In that space of reflection, I brought along my Turkish drop spindle.
There’s something profoundly meditative about spinning on a spindle. Unlike a wheel, the spindle doesn’t rush you forward with momentum. It asks for presence. It insists on patience. Every length of wool must be drafted slowly, deliberately. If your mind wanders, if you tug too fast, the thread breaks. The spindle drops. The whole thing can unravel.
It’s a deeply honest metaphor.
In my own life—as in so many of ours—speed is often mistaken for productivity. We think faster is better. But in the stillness of the monastery, and in the slow turn of the spindle, I remembered what it means to go gently. To pay attention. To honor each small transformation.
Spinning became more than a craft. It became prayer.
And as I spun, I felt an unexpected connection— to Mary, the mother of Jesus. In her time, spinning would have been part of a young girl’s daily life. The drop spindle would have been as familiar to her as a cooking pot or a water jug. As the wool twisted through my fingers, I imagined her doing the same—spinning by lamplight, shaping thread as her own soul was being shaped.
In that moment, her words from the Gospel of Luke came alive in a new way:
“My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced.”
Spinning is magnifying. It takes what is loose and scattered and draws it together. It adds strength by twisting what is fragile. It rejoices not in speed, but in presence.
For me, as a Christian and a fiber artist, the connection between creation and Creator runs deep. I love the image of a God who formed the cosmos from chaos, who shaped us from dust and breath. But even outside of theology, I think we can all recognize the sacredness of making—especially when it’s done in silence and with care.
To spin is to shape raw material into something whole. To create is to reflect the mystery of becoming. And in doing so, we ourselves are slowly shaped.
So many threads broke during those days. And I kept spinning. And something beautiful came of it.
You can watch my short video reflection on this experience here.
And if you’re curious about the life of prayer and hospitality at SSJE, I encourage you to explore their community at ssje.org. Whether or not you consider yourself religious, there is something deeply healing about their quiet witness to the beauty of rest, slowness, and sacred presence.
Stay gentle, and keep spinning.
—Trent
