I can feel my discomfort magnifying as Jack talks. I’m resisting the reality of the situation and continuing to dread the idea of having to interact with people.
I WANT THE SILENCE BACK. I DON’T WANT TO LOOK PEOPLE IN THE EYES AGAIN. I WANT TO EAT MY DINNER IN PEACE AND CONTINUE TO JUST BE WITHOUT HAVING TO DEAL WITH ANYONE ELSE.
(Resistance. Resistance.)
DING. DING…
The announcements end, the room ignites with jabber, and I quietly put my sunglasses on, keeping my head down as I gather my water bottle filled with hot tea, my scrunched-up tissues and my journal, and quietly escape outside.
Most everyone is socializing, and I’m surrounded by a cacophony of confabulation, catching little bits of conversations here and there as I slip on my sandals.
My body grows tighter and more tense by the moment as I continue bearing down and solidifying around how unhappy I am that this is happening.
UGH. THOSE GUYS ARE SO LOUD. THAT WOMAN’S LAUGH IS SO ANNOYING. WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME THAT I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO ANYONE RIGHT NOW? WHY AM I SUCH AN ANTISOCIAL ASSHOLE?
(Judging. Judging.)
I catch myself judging everyone and starting to slide into self-flagellation. So I pause. Take a deep breath. And do my best to reconnect with the lessons I’ve been learning over and over again on this retreat.
Focusing on the negative is making me miserable right now. I just need to do my best to let it be. Just because I prefer to remain silent doesn’t mean everyone else needs to want that, too. I can’t control other people’s actions. All I can do is take care of myself.
So this is exactly what I proceed to do.
Instead of socializing at the dining hall with my fellow practitioners, I spend the rest of the evening communing with the desert.
By the time our 9:00 p.m. meditation begins, I’m feeling more open. More relaxed. More at ease. And I notice my earlier dark mood has shifted significantly.
Good job taking care of yourself, Jennifer. Good job.
Sunday, May 12
Day Nine, Heading Home
The next morning I wake up feeling rested and ready to head back to civilization. My throat’s still sore, but it’s bearable. And I can see the end in sight, fantasizing about Dayquil and the throat-soothing Starbucks Frappuccino I’ll be stopping to get on the drive home.
I’m feeling decidedly less pissy about the whole talking-again thing, but I can still sense a hint of resistance. Conscious of not grabbing hold of the negativity, I do my best to acknowledge it and give myself the space to continue to just “let it be.” As a result, my morning meditation feels relaxed and passes fairly quickly. And when silence is broken again, I remind myself to remain open and accepting.
Making my way over to the dining hall for breakfast, I decide to take a seat outside on the patio where the energy’s a bit more reserved—noting Grey-Bob Woman, Roger from my small group, and Sam from my UCLA mindfulness class all scattered at different tables—and all seated by themselves.
I choose a lone table off to the side. Start sipping my tea and writing in my journal when I hear a woman’s voice.
“Hey there!”
I look up to see a smiling face and familiar flaming red hair.
It’s my roommate.
She plops down at my table, opposite me. “I just wanted to say hi and tell you what an awesome roommate you were. You were SO quiet—I barely even knew you were there.”
We proceed to chat for a few minutes, during which time I notice how nice it actually feels to be talking. In giving myself the space to let my negative emotions “just be,” I’ve managed to create enough room for something more positive to fill their place. After a few minutes, the shift in my mood is noticeable, and I’m grateful for the smile on my face as we wrap up and say our goodbyes.
Clearing my dishes, I decide to meander back to the meditation hall to relax for a while before the closing ceremony. As I make my way under the canopy of trees leading to the hall, I see Sam walking a few feet ahead of me. Noting how I’d just seen him on the dining hall’s patio enjoying his solitude, I sense he might be a bit shy and introverted, like myself.
I should go up to him and ask him how his retreat went.
But then my ego kicks in.
HE GOT INTO THAT CERTIFICATION PROGRAM YOU WANTED TO GET INTO. IGNORE HIM.
(Pride. Pride.)
But the compassionate side of me persists.
It felt nice when my roommate came up to me and started talking. Sam would probably appreciate it if I said hello. And I bet we have a lot in common. I should make an effort to step outside of my comfort zone here.
I quicken my pace and reach out to tap him on the shoulder.
“Sam? Hi!”
He turns around and smiles with a look of surprise.
“Oh, hi there!”
“I just wanted to ask how your retreat went.”
“It was fantastic. Wow. Thanks so much for asking. What about you? How was your retreat?”
I feel somewhat awkward, but I can tell he’s happy to be engaging with me, so I continue.
“It was incredible. I learned so much about myself—I’m actually feeling really inspired to write about all my crazy inner adventures and share them with folks who might be interested.”
“I’m so inspired by this practice, too! It totally changed the way I look at my life—well, the way I look at everything, actually.”
We continue standing there, chatting for what feels like almost an hour, covering every topic from mindfulness to the effects of semantics on human behavior to postmodern deconstructionism. And I notice how completely energized and excited I feel to be connecting with someone who shares so many common interests.
WHY WAS I SO RELUCTANT TO CONNECT WITH PEOPLE BEFORE NOW? AND WHY AM I ALWAYS SO QUICK TO JUDGE PEOPLE AND ISOLATE MYSELF SO MUCH?
Does it really matter? Right now is all that counts.
DING. DING…
The bell rings, signaling that it’s time to head to the meditation hall for the closing ceremony. Sam and I exchange info, and I smile to myself as we part, feeling happy and proud of myself for pushing through my Shit.
(Smiling. Smiling.)
—
Standing in a giant circle in the meditation hall with my fellow practitioners, I’m tucked between a willowy twenty-something Aussie to my left and a short, stout thirty-something woman to my right. All our meditation gear has been packed and put away. And the energy in the room feels electric.
Jack stands directly across from me as foot-long pieces of red string are passed around the circle. He’s flanked by Trudy on one side and Howie on the other, and he’s reminding us that mindfulness practice is, at its core, fundamentally all about quieting our minds, opening our hearts, and being as aware as possible in our lives.
He holds his thread up for everyone to see.
“This red thread is called a ‘protection cord.’ It’s considered to be a thread from a robe of a monk, and it’s a symbol to help us remember what we hold in our hearts.”
We all watch as he ties three knots in the cord. “The first knot represents truth. The second knot represents compassion. And the third knot represents intention.”
He pulls the cord taut to tighten the knots. “Now go ahead and tie three knots in your cord, remembering that you can always come home to yourself and reconnect with these ways of being when you go back out into the world. It’s also a reminder, when you see others wearing these cords, that you’re not alone in the inner work you’re doing.”
I tie my three knots, feeling the meaning and weight of Jack’s words touching my heart. He then asks us to turn to a neighbor and tie their cord on to either their wrist or around their necks.
The Aussie turns to me and holds out her string with a smile. I tie hers onto her wrist—careful not to make it too tight. And she reciprocates.
We all close our eyes for one last moment of silence together, familiar tears of gratitude, joy and relief rolling
down my cheeks.
I did it. I made it through.
Standing there, I allow the tears to continue flowing as the circle slowly collapses around me. Closing my eyes again, I connect with my experience. How excited I am to see how the work I’ve done here flourishes in my life. How motivated I feel to continue diving deeper into my personal practice.
“—I hope you feel better soon.”
Startled, my eyes pop open to see Grey-Bob Woman standing in front of me. I start wiping my tears with the back of my hand and grab a tissue from my pocket to blow my nose.
“Oh, hi. Thank you. I’m so sorry if all my coughing and wheezing disturbed your meditations.”
“Don’t give it another thought. It’s all part of the practice, right? Take care of yourself now.”
She pats my arm and trots off as I gather my meditation cushion and sunglasses and make my way outside.
As I’m walking, I catch Trudy’s eye.
“Thank you, again, for the beautiful flowers!”
She waves with a beaming smile. “You’re so welcome. I look forward to seeing you in LA!”
In the parking lot, I pop open my car’s trunk, toss my meditation gear inside and look over to see Roger walking up to the back of his car, a silver classic 1960s Porsche, parked directly next to me.
I feel a kinship with this man. When I look at him, I feel like I’m seeing a part of myself.
I close my trunk and walk over to him as he loads his suitcase into the back of his car.
“Roger—I just want to let you know I was really touched by what you shared in our small group meeting. I identify with your experience. I haven’t been very emotive in my life up until recently either and, well, I hope when you get back home you’ll continue to let that big heart of yours shine.”
He starts tearing up as he gives me a warm hug.
“Thank you for saying that. I will. And you do the same, OK?”
We look at each other, acknowledging our connection for a few tender beats as we exchange teary-eyed nods and gentle smiles.
Then we both take deep breaths, put on our sunglasses and turn to get into our respective cars.
—
VROOOOM!
I turn the key in the car’s ignition and roll down all the windows to let the desert’s midday heat escape. Carly Simon’s “Haven’t Got Time for the Pain” blasts through the speakers. And I chuckle at the significance of the song’s lyrics.
Backing out of my parking space, I pull up behind Roger. And then we both head out onto the highway—driving off on separate paths. But clearly heading toward the same destination.
Back home.
To ourselves.
Epilogue
Four Years Later
I’d love to report that my life changed radically the moment I got home from retreat: that all my judgments disappeared; that I never struggled with even an ounce of pain or suffering; that, in short, I became this magically enlightened bliss-filled being who started handling anything and everything that came my way with nothing but grace, ease, and equanimity.
But I’d be lying.
My Shit still gets kicked up. I still judge, feel anxiety, depression, and pain.
In short: I’m still human.
But, as time continues to pass, I find myself moving more agilely through the places I used to continually get stuck. And because of this, I suffer less. I might still judge—but I don’t believe the judgments. I might feel anxiety and depression—but they’re less likely to hijack my life for hours or days on end. I accept pain more quickly when it arises now. And I do my best to bring compassion to both myself and others. Even my ups aren’t as all-encompassing as they used to be—and that’s not a bad thing. I’m not grabbing onto them, trying to make them stay. I see the nature of change more clearly. And as a result, I’m more willing to “go with the flow” (although, admittedly, not always right away.) My sense of well-being continues to increase. And life just keeps getting “better”—or maybe it’s that I’ve learned to live it with more ease.
Perhaps the two are one and the same.
As of the publication of this book, I’ve attended a total of seven residential retreats of five days or more, and I continue to attend at least one retreat annually. I’ve also maintained a regular meditation and mindfulness practice. And, while it’s impossible to tell whether I could claim the same “results” I mentioned above if I’d chosen not to continue attending retreats, I genuinely believe they’ve been a vital contributing factor.
Silent meditation retreats might not be an automatic cure-all for the human condition, but they’ve proven an essential add-on to my dedicated practice. They’ve impacted—and continue to impact—my life in deeply profound and significant ways. And for that, dear reader, I’m humbly grateful.
Special Thanks and Gratitude To:
Kate McCracken, without whose unconditional love, nurturing guidance, and steadfast encouragement this book would not exist.
Trudy Goodman for her generous contributions to this book, and to my ongoing mindfulness practice.
Diana Winston, Marv Belzer, and the UCLA Mindful Awareness Research Center (MARC) for facilitating the continued deepening of my mindfulness practice. Gratitude also to the 2013 UCLA MARC Intensive Practice Program members for their invaluable fellowship.
Nathan Bergeron for fostering ongoing space for my safety, healing, and self-knowledge.
My work-in-progress readers and fellow writers: Simon Spelling, Jamie Selzer, Betsy Kalin, Stephanie McCanles, Marlene Ondrea Nichols, Sam Dulmage, and Ross Mihalko, whose feedback, support, guidance, and cheerleading were essential to the process of writing and putting this book together.
Jessica Graham for seeing this book’s potential and for so generously championing it.
Jennifer Kamenetz for ushering me into the Parallax family.
Rachel Neumann, Hisae Matsuda, Nancy Fish, Terri Saul, Earlita Chenault, Jacob Surpin, and the entire Parallax team for your tireless and wholehearted support in shaping this book—and for your ongoing dedication to promoting mindful awareness in the world.
APPENDICES
Twelve Tips to Help You Survive a Silent Meditation Retreat
1 Be aware why not attending a silent meditation retreat might be wise. While attending a silent meditation retreat can be a very positive, life-transforming experience—it can also be quite intense. If you have a history of significant depression, anxiety, PTSD, trauma, or mental illness, check with a therapist who can help you determine if attending a silent meditation retreat is appropriate for you.
2 Make sure to do your research about the organization that’s offering the retreat. There’s no ONE way that a retreat is run, and some retreat centers have stricter schedules than others. For instance, an S. N. Goenka Vipassana retreat (or “Ten-Day Course”) will likely provide a less lenient experience than a Vipassana retreat given by Spirit Rock. Know what you’re getting into.
3 When planning your retreat, build in at least a day or two of downtime when it’s over so you can gently reintegrate yourself back into the pace of everyday life. You might be surprised how tired you feel upon your return—don’t plan on hitting the ground running.
4 Drop any expectations you might have. You can’t predict what your experience is going to be like before you have it. Do your best to stay open and remain present for whatever shows up.
5 To help ease the transition away from your digital devices, try refraining from checking your email or surfing the web for a few hours at a time before your departure date.
6 If you have loved ones at home who might be missing you while you’re on retreat, consider crafting handwritten notes and hiding them throughout your home for them to discover, and/or create short video messages they can watch to help feel connected to you while you’re away.
7 If you don’t own a watch, borrow or buy one. Using your cell phone to tell time on retreat is risky—you might be too tempted to use it. Plus, many silent retreat centers won
’t allow them.
8 Be prepared that your accommodations are apt to be minimal (if not spartan), and you will likely be sharing a bedroom and/or bathroom facilities with fellow retreatants. Also, know that most Vipassana-style retreat centers will expect you to participate in a regular period of “work meditation,” helping with light chores like cleaning, cooking, dish washing, etc.
9 Take care of your body and make a point to build stretching into your daily schedule. Back pain is a common issue at meditation retreats, and a few minutes of stretching/yoga before and after each sit will help keep you more supple.
10 Be your own best friend. If/when your Shit gets kicked up, do your best to be there for yourself. Self-compassion is a must.
11 Ask for help if you need it. At most retreats, you can write notes to the meditation teachers to ask for help or advice if you’re struggling. You will also, most likely, have the opportunity to have a brief meeting with a teacher if you have more in-depth questions or issues to discuss.
12 Enjoy the silence. You’re bombarded by chatter and incessant messaging from the world 24/7. Even if you’re itching to get back to it all, you’re not going to die from not talking for a while. You can do it!
What to Bring
Most silent meditation retreat centers provide suggested lists of what to bring and will inform you what they do—and don’t—provide. Here’s what I consider essential:
1 Comfortable clothing (and plenty of layers). There can be large temperature fluctuations between early mornings and late evenings. Layers are essential. Also, make sure to bring a sufficient supply of clothing to last the duration of your retreat. Laundry facilities are generally not available.
2 Shoes that are easy to slip on and off—and that are weather/season appropriate.
3 Indoor slippers and/or warm socks. Shoes aren’t allowed in meditation halls.
4 Flip flops for the shower room.
5 Your own meditation gear. If you have it, bring it. Most retreat centers offer zafu cushions, mats, and chairs—but they tend to run out of supplies quickly.
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