Medieval Mindfulness:
Modern Day teachings from the 14th Century
The current era is one intent on finding time for ‘me time’, peace and tranquility with yoga, meditation apps and ASMR more popular than ever — particularly with the stresses of a fast — paced society in the throws of a pandemic….but maybe we can look to the past for a pointer or two.
. . .
The anchoritic vocation was on the margins not only of mainstream medieval society but also ecclesiastical rule — how was it that these spiritually independent figures were both attached to the church whilst simultaneously being ungoverned by liturgical rule. Anchorites hold a liminal place within medieval religious structures, they embodied ideal spirituality — both corporeally and psychologically and were seen as vessels of godliness. Over time, this radical, marginal position was brought into line with the centralised church and the anchoritic tradition was brought into line with the main body of the church.
Anchorites were distinctly separate from the other sections of the religious community — unlike monks and nuns they were not bound by vows or answerable to ecclesiastical legislation. In the wording and records of the anchoritic tradition there are many synonymous terms and parallels to hermits — both the word anchorite and hermit were used synonymously in the medieval period but the etymology of anchorite harks back to ancient greek — suggesting a longer tradition. In a society where bodies and their trappings were strictly regulated, anchorites, particularly anchoresses, were above these constraints and instructed by God’s direct, individual messages. To strive for emancipation of the soul through seclusion, in any of its myriad forms, was celebrated and venerated by medieval society. The sacrifice of material wealth in exchange for metaphysical understanding was so divine as to be beyond the bounds of the ecclesiastical bureaucracy’s understanding — the individuals who dedicated their life to the anchoritic way were truly seen to be called by God alone. At a time where bodies were believed to be made in God’s own image, anchorites provided tangible proof that this philosophy was fact: otherwise how else could a mortal person be so commanded by holy devotion.
Whilst anchorites were not under ecclesiastical jurisdiction in the same way that monks were, there was still considered to be an ideal for how an anchorite, or anchoress, might conduct themselves. One of the best records for anchoritic behaviour we have is Ælred of Rievaulx’s De Institutione Inclusarum written circa 1160. Ælred gives direction as to all facets of the secluded life — from the psychological penance of meditation and spiritual health of the soul (noting that an anchorite may become physically ill if the soul is not attended to) to warning against having too many visitors, lest the anchor-hold become a bordel. Unlike the monastic Rules of Benedict, Augustus or Basil, as specified by the Lateran Council, Ælred’s work was a practical guide , or institutio, to anchoritic existence as opposed to strict legislation — one can imagine that the Inclusarum would have been read in conjunction with the Vitae of other notable hermits and anchorites. In the invaluable written accounts that survive, we see the practicalities of the corporeal and spiritual treatment of the body of an anchorite and how their lives were dictated not by the cenobitic rules of monks and nuns but by the direct spiritual guidance of God through the soul.
As liminal people secluded from mainstream society, anchorites’ bodies held a unique status as living saintly relics. Given their last rites before enclosure within the walls of their anchor-hold, anchorites were seen as dead to the corporeal, earthly world and were transformed, in a similar way to the sacrament, into a vessel for divine spirits — a mouthpiece for spiritual guidance directly from heaven. The patronage of anchorites was another means for those in the wider community to ensure their passage to heaven and even monarchs such as Henry II donated alms to anchorites, illustrating the transient role of those in religious seclusion. The physical place of anchorites was just as important as their place within society — anchor holds were often directly opposite the porch of churches, the first thing congregants saw on entering, with a small window in line of sight of the altar so that the enclosed anchorite could witness the Mass each day. Through patronising the community’s resident anchorite, the church, anchorite and wider lay population were not only maintained but strengthened in their religious commitment and the spiritual fight against sin and temptation through the action of charitable offerings to a person who carried in them the spirit of God — a living reliquary.
The anchoritic life was one primarily concerned with the psyche and it’s effect on the spiritual health of the rest of the body. Written accounts of anchorites’ contemplative lives offer us an insight into the recesses of the medieval religious mind and the psychological experience that such a vocation demanded of those compelled to lead a solitary life. In Julian of Norwich’s Revelations she describes the monotony and depression caused by seclusion and, verging on blasphemy, she concludes that such feelings do not spring from sin but are a teaching from God: that discomfort allows the faithful to realise the mercy and certainty of God’s will. Julian’s radical Revelations show how the eremitic vocation was only possible when one was singularly accountable to God through a direct mental connection as opposed to one mediated by the ordained clergy. The practice of retreat is not one confined to the medieval period: in recent years there has been a re-invigoration of mindfulness practices as well as more structured practices — as seen most commonly in eastern religious such as buddhism. Across time and religions, we see an emphasis on the cerebral experience and interiority necessary to be able to maintain anchoritic conviction — surely just as waring on the mind and body as fasting or regular prostration practices.
The anchoritic tradition of the medieval period had a far older precedent, that of Biblical hermits and mystics who wondered the desserts of the Nile valley — most notably; Mary of Egypt, Paul of Thebes and St Anthony. The influence of these pre-christian figures permeates the imagery and guidance of later notable anchorites in the form of consistent metaphoric imagery in their accounts of the wilderness and dessert of the anchoritic life. It is little wonder that this metaphor was so readily taken up as not only was there a lived precedent but a scriptural one, in the form of Christ’s forty days and nights of temptation in the dessert by the Devil. As the Biblical site of spiritual warfare, temptation and contemplation of personal religious devotion, the motif of the dessert was the salient contemporary reference and guidance for anchorites coming to terms with the psychological states they might experience when in the most challenging periods of their hermetic life. The implications of pre-christian hermeticism is apparent in all facets of medieval anchoritic life — going so far as to give inspiration for the clothing that may be considered proper. As detailed in Ælred’s Institutione, there is a emphasis on plain colours, humble hand — made tailoring and most importantly, organic fibres or, in extreme cases, hair. The aim behind all such choices was as a reminder not only of the humility of religious devotion but also too of the earliest hermits such as Paul of Thebes. Anchoritic life was all encompassing and ever self aware of it’s direct ancestry from the time of Christ himself, thus assuring it’s venerated holy status above that of the church.
Intertwined with pre-christian influence was the relation of the body to the rest of the world in the anchoritic mindset — a holistic world view where the body, mind, and elements affected one another. As a result of the freedom from direct religious jurisdiction the anchoritic view of spirituality and connection to God was a far broader one than that of the centralised church that based it’s teachings and laws on scripture and gospel alone. The rumination of anchorites was more wholly philosophical — not limiting itself just to the nature of God but of Matter, Existence and what we now call Physics, a pursuit seeing a great revival after centuries of dearth since Aristotle’s explorations. In Julian of Norwich’s Revelations there is no mention of the devil, only the positive force of God’s love — a shocking revelation indeed at a time where the Catholic church based its doctrine on the binary of Divine goodness and Devilish sin. At the crux of this deviation from purist religious dedication into broader exploration of existence is one of the key developments of the Medieval period: that of man and, more often than previously thought, woman’s fascination with the nature of being in all it’s forms — whether spiritual or corporeal. Consequently, a parallel between the academic minds confined to universities and those in the spiritual seclusion of an Anchor-hold can be made as it evident that these two seemingly unrelated communities were inextricably connected.
At the height of it’s population, the anchoritic community was predominantly female, particularly within the Cistercian areas of East Anglia and Lincolnshire. There was a particular prevalence of anchoritic communities in this part of the country as the Cistercian order had a predilection for the more marginal areas and geographies of the country, with many of their monasteries and abbey’s being in valley’s in order to remind the holy of their quest for knowledge through seclusion. The Cistercian endorsement of anchorites, particularly female ones, is symptomatic of the limited opportunities in other orders for female devotional roles. However it can be argued that the male hierarchy of the organised church needed women to occupy the margins of the religious world, as they did in secular medieval society and so by choosing an unregulated, but nonetheless devotional, way of life women bypassed male authority. The female majority combined with anchoritic status allowed for developments in writing and the arts, the earliest remaining writings in the vernacular from this period are those by women such as Margery Kempe, Julian of Norwich and Margaret of Bingen. By setting themselves apart from the rest of society, the anchoritic women of medieval Europe carved themselves a niche where they had ownership and dominion over their minds and bodies as opposed to being controlled psychically or ideologically by the patriarchy or hierarchy of the clergy.
As a result of the female majority within the eremitic community, religious imagery such as the Wound of Christ and early diagrams of the cosmos take on a distinctly feminine nature, commonly appearing to be very yonic in form. Depictions of the Wound of Christ dating from the early 15th century are particularly evocative of female genitalia whilst early representations of the solar system follow a similar structure — even going so far as to be suggestive of the labia and clitoris. Comparisons can be drawn between the spiritual void-space of the psychological experience of eremitic life and the spaces within the female body, thus providing a relatable model for anchoresses to refer to when struggling to maintain their commitment to seclusion. This culmination of spirituality, sexuality and, most radically, female pleasure, is best elucidated in the work of Hildegard of Bingen whose writings show the coming together of mysticism, spiritual interiority and the application of female anatomical parallels to the stigmata and suffering of Christ. As a nexus for spiritual, physical and terrestrial alignment, the female body was empowered by anchoresses who, when in doubt, contemplated the most primal processes of their bodies, and by doing so, were able to reflect upon the most elemental facts and inexplicable Divine mysteries of life.
Towards the latter centuries of the medieval period there was a calculated institutionalisation of the eremitic community of Europe by the centralised church who, until this point, had had no jurisdiction over anchorites who were physically, psychologically and spiritually beyond the bounds of ecclesiastical rule. By the mid — thirteenth century a tide of zealous clerical reformation was sweeping the church establishment, as supported by Pope Innocent IV, resulting in a seismic re-definition of anchorites place in the Church hierarchy. Such developments allowed for later mystics and their hermetic associates to be persecuted by the crown and church simultaneously and at the height of the Dissolution, anchoresses, and to a lesser extent male recluses, were beholden to take vows, as a nun or monk would, upon entering seclusion. At a time where the church was beginning to become an arm of the state, and the very existence of Catholic worship to be questioned, those that had previously been venerated as living saints and reliquaries for the Holy Spirit were now hastily re-categorised so as to allay fears of idolatry. By being made to subordinate itself to diocesan authority, the anchoritic community of England and Europe alike forfeited its role as a stepping stone between the secular and spiritual worlds. In turn the bodies of the anchorites previously solely answerable to Holy guidance alone were now at the bequest of the bureaucracy of the church’s patriarchal hierarchy — yet another example of masculine fears surrounding female autonomy and their implications on the social and religious fabric of the local and wider community.
Anchorites were a radical part of the medieval religious class that was the result of a conglomeration of christian and pre-christian corporeal beliefs that was then brought into line with the centralised church. The liminality of anchorites bodies can be seen as a reminiscent feature of the early christian devotees whose lives formed the basis for the medieval boom in the eremitic vocation. More compelling, however, is the opportunity that anchoritic seclusion afforded for medieval women at a time where they had little physical, social or religious space, as set out in their own terms. Time and again through the contemporary accounts and and manuscripts written by and for anchoresses, we see how the body was conceptualised as it pertained to the telluric and spiritual realms alike. The importance of space, edges and boundaries between our mortal world and the next, Holy one, reflects the new medieval understanding of human biology. The skin, clothes and internal cavities of the anchorite’s body were understood to be the physical metaphors for the thresholds of the mortal world and that of the holy firmament. The proximity of the Godly to the mundane was ever apparent in the medieval world, where everyday existence, down to the most basic of bodily functions, was a constant reminder of God’s creation. Anchorites were the conduits and living bodily monuments to God’s divine will, exemplary prototypes for a holistically spiritual life.
