From the Front Lines of a Silent Retreat (Part ONE: Arrival)
by Sara Flitner
Seventy-two hours before, I was planning my work week, noting the schedule of a board meeting, team huddles, and trainings, the usual oversight of things. Instead, I have just landed 2,300 miles from home, at a retreat center, where, thanks to my friend and dear mentor, I’ll join a silent meditation retreat for the week. It’s been a few years since I’ve done a longer retreat, and I am the least experienced “retreatant” of our small group. But the invitation to join was too good to pass up, this surprise invitation from my friend, with whom I will get to share in learning from two of the finest minds in teaching and writing about mindfulness and compassion and awareness training.
The first thing you, my friend, likely said to yourself after reading, “silent retreat,” was something like, “Why would you ever want to do that?” Or, “I could never be quiet for that long.” I know, because I said that, too, many times. Now, here I am, waiting for the results of my COVID test and looking at the daily schedule. Suddenly, it feels like a long time until Friday.
5:30 AM: Waking bell
6:00 AM Meditation
6:30 AM Breakfast
7:15 AM Walk, yoga or volunteered service, like cleaning or helping prepare food
8:30 AM Seated and walking meditation with instruction by teachers, 45-minute teacher lecture (called a dharma talk) where specific meditation and mindfulness techniques are introduced for the specific purposes of stabilizing thoughts and mental patterns.
12:30 PM Lunch, exercise, rest
2:30 Afternoon seated and walking meditation, closing with another talk and a few questions from students about techniques or experiences.
5:00 PM Afternoon session concludes
6:00 PM Dinner
7 – 9:00 PM Evening seated and walking meditation, concluding talk by teacher
Staring at the schedule, I’m intrigued. I am ready for the neurological rest, the quiet. I am ready to learn from such luminaries, and to be part of this group of seekers. My biggest apprehension is fear of boredom and missing my loved ones.
The bell rings to signal the start of silence.
I passed the first test, for COVID, and now move on to getting my bearings without asking questions. I had just enough time to beg for a watch charger, having smugly left mine behind, then realized that my volunteering to ring the bell 15 minutes prior to the start of the morning meditation means I will need a functioning timepiece. The bells are the community’s clock, and for this job I will actually need to be aware of the time quite specifically. My generous companion slips the charger into my fingers, and I lumber off to the foyer to collect my “black hole” Patagonia bag and locate my room. Much to my horror, as I approach the pile of luggage, I hear an insistent vibrating buzz coming from inside my bag. I look quizzically, trying to catalogue the contents of my bag as I see eyebrows raise, smiles appear. Assuming I read the eyebrow raises accurately, I wait until the room empties before I pick up the offending bag, throw it over my shoulder, and scurry to my room. (Please understand: scurrying is generally not done here.)
Upon unpacking, I discover my electric toothbrush, locked into a setting that I can't unlock. I leave it wrapped in a towel, figuring it will have to buzz its way to death, a metaphor that would come very much alive for me in the days to come. I gave my first hat tip to silence, having avoided expending energy on explaining what the buzzing could or could not possibly be, wasting time and attention as if it were not more precious than money, as if it were not the most finite of precious things.
We file into the meditation hall for the next few hours, and I settle in. As usual, we receive orienting instructions, given with no judgment or air of enforcement. On the contrary, the instructions are offered as guides to get the most out of the week, and it is made clear that we are adults and we ought to make decisions in the context of what is best for us. In short, we are invited to renounce anything that could distract us from watching how thoughts and patterns form and govern our lives. This level of awareness is the holy grail, the place where we move from impulse and into skillful choice-making. I put away my phone, my laptop, my books and journal. I surrender to experiencing the whole shebang, something I’ve been experimenting with for a few years or more. There are a few other suggestions, like refraining from intoxicants, and also sex, something I don’t see as a big sacrifice for anyone, given that we are a group of people in schluppy sweats, with bedhead and little interest in eye contact as we turn our focus inward.
We begin with silent and seated meditation, and I fall into a sense of presence and okay-ness, naively believing this could be my experience for the week. A little after 9 PM, in my room, I fall into bed, tired and ready for sleep, though it is barely 7:30 in Wyoming. Because there is nothing to “do,” like fire off a last email, text my sister, send dog videos to my sons, I relax into rest and the prospect of sleep. I am aware of the gift of this rest and also of the feeling of loneliness when I cannot hear my loved ones’ voices saying, “Good night. I love you.”
Sleep comes.
The 5:30 morning bell rings and I remember that I have forgotten to bring coffee. The first flash of discomfort arises, and I feel grateful, perhaps even a little proud, of my ability to shake it off.
I see a scrap of paper in my toiletry bag, a quote from Anne Lamott, which seems to portend a sweet experience: “The world glorifies expansion, but the magic is in refinement. Trim what drains you. Protect what nourishes you. Prioritize depth over breadth. Because in the end, it’s not about how much you have – it's about how much of it is real.”
This is the part where the movie queues dramatic, ominous music.
What it portends is complete dis-order.
(to be continued...)