From the Front Lines of a Silent Retreat (Part THREE: Arriving Home on Empty)

by Sara Flitner

This post is the third of three installments on my recent experience at a silent meditation retreat. Read Part One here and Part Two here.

I have survived five days in silence and reflection and am headed home in a state of gratitude—that I had such an opportunity, that I survived the “midlife crisis” day and gained so much insight. And honestly, that it is over.  

On the flight home I am glad to sit quietly. I watch the clouds and ground below me tell a story of westward migration, homes and roads becoming sparser as we leave the coast and fly west. The ground empties beneath us. Though we are moving at more than 500 mph, things below appear in slow motion, reminding me how much more I can see when I slow down. After days of moving slowly, unencumbered by distraction, I am primed to recognize how much more I take in from an attentive, intentional pace. It’s interesting how much easier it is to observe things without attaching a story…and more interesting still to see how the “stories” are simply distraction in a different form. For now, my mind seems to have made peace with itself and follows the nature of things below, emptying.  

We see small towns, ant-like signs of life below on country roads and highways, neat pastures signaling spring with green tufts of crops coming up in the dry desert, in the most ancient cycle of renewal and passing away. The Big Horn Mountains appear below us, my childhood home, and I watch for familiar landmarks: Devil’s Leap, Red Basin, the “W” where two canyons cut dramatically at the base of a western slope, forming the letter out of granite and valley floor. My grandfather said it stood for Wyoming and would always be a sign of homecoming. Finally, we are over Yellowstone Lake, the Tetons peeking up, a still shot of prayer flags welcoming us home.   

I am struck by how comfortable my body feels, taking in the familiar landscape as I fly over childhood haunts, and how awestruck I am getting off the plane and taking in the Tetons: the promise of their beauty is never broken. This spectacle begs to be seen with a beginner’s eye. While the familiar made me comfortable, the unfamiliar presents a different opportunity: how this light casting pink tendrils over the mountain’s shoulder makes me feel awe. I am empty of the need for anything to be different than it is. 

Like most people, I’ve spent a lot of time spinning thoughts, forgoing what is right in front of me for the made-up catastrophizing in my mind. I get nowhere. Answers can’t be found in our made-up thoughts and insecurities. Arguing against reality—clinging to things we’ve outgrown or beliefs we no longer embrace,  or even reacting in anger to summer drivers—just adds more pain. To slow down enough to empty the mind of opinions about what should be to take in what’s actually happening is the simplest—and most challenging—feat of all.  

It takes practice. 

So here I stand, slowly taking in my surroundings and feeling grateful not to have missed this with preoccupation about where my luggage is or what time I’ll get home. In the emptiness, there is a fullness fueled by something that is within my reach, and yours, too,  every minute of the day: the choice to slow down long enough to see what is right here, right now.