Rosie Jackson, The Anchorite's cell, 2019
Many religious orders have chosen lives of seclusion, but in this country the most extreme were the anchorites in the late Middle Ages. Between 1100 and 1539, of 780 known anchorites in England, most were women. They were enclosed in tiny structures attached to the northern side of a church, cold and damp, and funeral rites were conducted at the time of their internment to signify their death to the world. There was no door – they were walled in for life – but a shuttered window allowed the passage of necessities and a ‘squint’ hole let them spy into the church. Strict rules and manuals such as ‘The Ancrene Wisse’ governed their conduct: their solitary time was spent in prayer, penance and Bible reading. One of the sources of my interest in anchorites was Arnold Wesker’s play ‘Caritas’ (1981), which drew on the life of Surrey anchorite Christine Carpenter. She begged to be released after a couple of years’ enclosure, but then petitioned (or was forced) to return and remained inside for life. Motives for seeking imprisonment might be puzzling to our modern sensibilities, but the poem hanging above the bed, ‘One Little Roome an Everywhere’ (its title borrowed from John Donne), is one of several I’ve written inspired by anchorites, imagining the depth of devotion and love for God which might inspire such life-long voluntary enclosure. This cell is not as small or dark as an anchorite’s would have been, but it revisits the basic elements of such imprisonment: bed, Bible, crucifix, candle and place for prayer.
|