There is such a thing as exile, an irrevocable renunciation of everything in one's familiar surroundings that hinders one from attaining the ideal of holiness. Exile is a disciplined heart, unheralded wisdom, an unpublicized understanding, a hidden life, masked ideals. it is unseen meditation, the striving to be humble, a wish for poverty, the longing for what is divine. It is an outpouring of love, a denial of vainglory, a depth of silence. (John Climacus)

There is such a thing as internal exile. Ovid was exiled to the shore of the Black Sea. Joseph Brodsky was exiled to Archangelsk. J.D. Salinger exiled himself to Cornish, New Hampshire.

Each could follow whatever muse might find them there. But they were unpublicized, hidden, and unseen. At least that was the intent.

Ovid is still read. Brodsky was acclaimed, as much for being exiled as for his poetry. Salinger was celebrated for the depth of his silence.

In some ways I have exiled myself. But it is less than whole-hearted. I would be thrilled to be called from exile, admired for the sacrifice of exile.

It is vainglory and undermines whatever discipline, wisdom, and understanding the exile has cultivated.