This column was suggested by Bruce Russell who is well known for many wonderful island undertakings, other than silence. I was having breakfast at The Snug a few days ago, and Bruce told me how much he enjoyed my column on the art of conversation. He wanted to know about the silent retreat. “Was it everything you expected?” I told him it was everything I needed. This did not satisfy him. He said many people would want to know what it’s like to be in silence for ten days. So here goes.
It’s always a challenge to leave behind one’s daily life, the people we love, the familiar landscapes, the technology we have come to depend on - for me it’s the computer. I have been in silent retreats before. This brief respite from my everyday life can actually lead to a deeper appreciation of that life. I go into retreat to learn new habits so when I am faced with difficult situations, I might find new ways to welcome them, to work with them. Rather than resisting what comes into my life, I can choose to pause and reflect before I judge or react.
Silence is vastly undervalued in our culture of constant contact and instant communication, with voices coming at us from the radio, TV, the Internet. Silence is not just for the nun or the monk. Silence can be part of an everyday life. I learned this from being a musician. It’s the silence, the rests, the pauses in a piece of music that hold it all together, creating the dynamic tension and shaping the melody and harmony, leading to a satisfying, and sometimes surprising, resolution.
As a writer, I’m used to being in a quiet environment, but the quiet is usually purposeful as all get out, focusing on the book, the story, the song, the poem, the column that is wanting to be written. In a retreat, the purpose is to embrace the silence, and notice the thoughts and feelings that arise, to acknowledge them and let them go. Most often, one can get a brand new perspective on one’s life, on one’s relationship to the rest of life.
The entire day is spent following another rhythm. My mornings were stretched out, uncluttered by have-to-do’s, emails and deadlines. The only deadline was making sure I got to lunch on time. There was time to sit and meditate, walk and meditate, to move my body in pleasurable ways, to stop and notice what was ahead or at the side of me, to listen to the dawn chorus, to cheer (quietly) the first signs of spring. For the first few days, I slept al lot, making me realize that I don’t get enough of it in my daily life. I made up for that in the ten days.
My thoughts – always so busy with project ideas – also lost their velocity, although, I was inspired to write one poem about the silence. As I emptied of unnecessary thought and activity, I learned how to listen again, to myself and to others, in a compassionate way. Emptying the clutter in my mind left space to become aware of the deep life force within my self and the world. It felt like a coming home.
I love the clarity that comes from being in silence. The mind can get quite still without the myriad of things talking at us every day. There is the opportunity to take a good deep look at one’s thought patterns and one’s habitual patterns of action. Everything slows right down in the silence. The way I walk – usually a brisk pace – becomes a slow, smooth, glide, as I listen for the heartbeat of the Earth, knowing this heartbeat is shared with all life. Thoughtfully placing one foot after another upon the Earth, I recognize the life that goes on beneath my feet, as well as above them. Even my handwriting slows down – more like the script I had as a young woman before the world got so accelerated. At the end of the retreat, I came to a deep appreciation of my intimate relationships with family and friends, trees and soil, water and air. And I experienced a greater acceptance of a life that has been full and rich, sweet and sour, timid and bold.
Now that I am back to the ordinary chaos of my life. I’m faced with hundreds of emails all clamoring for my attention, a pile of papers on my desk, and work to get to. It’s a challenge to maintain all that I have learned in the dazzling silence and to carry it into the every day. I will go as slowly and thoughtfully as I can.
