Silent Retreat

I first remember hearing of someone going on a silent retreat a few years ago.  I was in Brown's , an upscale country gentleman/gentlewoman's clothing store in Chatham, NY. I was browsing, when a man, around sixty-five years old, with an armload of expensive flannel shirts and wool socks, asked the shopkeeper if she thought he had enough clothes for a week in the Adirondacks. As many words came rushing out of his mouth, he explained that a friend had talked him into doing a week-long silent retreat and that he was scared stiff of it and was gearing up.  Now, I don't know why he needed new clothes to sit in silence for a week, but I suppose that shopping was a way for him to deal with his nervous energy.  Which he had much of.  I remember saying that a week of silence sounded heavenly. He didn't agree. I think we each thought the other fortunate - I thought him so for having the time for the retreat, he thought me so for not. After he left, the shop-keeper and I looked at each other and laughed.  What chance did I think he'd have of being quiet for the week?, she asked.  At the time, none (although now I think I'd be more open-minded).  She agreed.

The next time I stumbled upon someone doing this practice was a couple of years later.  I was visiting my brother and noticed an in-depth note for him, written by his wife.  I inquired if she'd was away.  "No," he replied, "She's upstairs doing a silent retreat."  At the time, I found this odd: she's doing a retreat at home?  She's silent, but can write? How's that really different than speaking?

The idea of silence appeals to me.  It always has.  I was a pretty quiet child.  So quiet that my parents will say that at Open School night, even my elementary school teachers didn't know who I was (that's hard to believe, but I get their point).  I've never been totally comfortable with the give and take of conversation.  It happens too fast for me.  It's often fine - I'm comfortable speaking with friends, family, and have even learned to have my say in groups, both large and small.  But there's something so reactive about talk. The mindfulness I've developed over the past year flies right out the window when I'm speaking with other people.  The cartoon "Zits" had a panel this week that illustrated what happens to my mindfulness in conversation.  In the panel, Jeremy, a sixteen year old high school student sits down to take a final exam and his brain jumps out of his skull.  That's me in conversation.

When I was in my early twenties, I worked at the Grand Canyon.  I vividly remember a spot, along the Bright Angel trail, where I could sit on a ledge, far enough off the trail to be alone.  I remember it being a mile or so down the trail and that was a mile both away from my life and into the earth. I'd only go there alone.  It was my haven.  It was quiet.  It was cozy. I'd sit for an hour or two (or more?) and recharge.  I always felt badly that I'd have to eventually leave and return to the rest of my life.  I've always remembered that place as a perfect spot and my time spent in it as perfect time.  The funny thing is, I went back to the Grand Canyon a few years ago.  I walked the first couple of miles of the Bright Angel trail looking for that spot and couldn't find it.  The Grand Canyon changes so slowly, that if that spot was there thirty years ago, it would have to be there now. In my mind's eye, I can even see the bend of the trail where it was. Maybe I missed it. Maybe I imagined it.  It doesn't really matter: only the feeling of finding peace matters.  The lesson for me for now, is that I was able to find peace through finding quiet time for myself.

This weekend I attempted a very brief silent retreat (at home!).  My family went away for the day, I stayed home and decided that since I was home with only the dog, he probably wouldn't miss my chatter and this was the perfect chance to do this.  I now understand doing a silent retreat without going to a retreat center: it's cheap, it's easy, there's no gas used, it's where I really am. I figured I'd have 13 hours of silence.  Rule 1: I would break my silence if I ran into any neighbors when walking the dog.  Rule 2: rule 1 was the only rule.  

Other than not speaking, I went about my business.  I tried to be mindful.  I found that my mind spent a lot of time on really trivial stuff. Really, really trivial stuff. Embarrassingly so. This was not unlike when I first started meditation, and the rest of my class seemed to be dealing with "deep" and "heavy" insights about themselves.  I learned that my thoughts are really pretty shallow.  Is this good? Does it mean I'm not neurotic? Is it bad? Does it mean I'm not smart? I dunno. It just is what it is. I decided to go with the flow and just observe all my banal thoughts. On the one hand, it was pretty funny to turn down the noise and see that what came through the static was....useless! From time to time I tried to listen to my mantra instead of this drivel, but I was mostly looking for the experience however it came to me, accepting each moment as it was, mundane as it was.

So, the more thoughtful (I hope) observations from the day: I now understand why people go on longer silent retreats.  I think that if the mind has a long enough time to listen to itself and empty all the goofy thoughts, it has a better chance of becoming still. I think the teachers that say that 95% or so of our thoughts are useless are totally correct (and in my case, that's a very conservative estimate - I'd say a good 99.99% of my thoughts that day were useless). 

It was a nice day. I forgot and spoke to the dog a couple of times. He was forgiving and relieved (I think). I think he thought my quiet was a bit strange. Aside from that, I made it through eleven hours until I ran into my neighbors. I enjoyed the experience even though I didn't get any nice new flannel shirts out of the deal. Next time though, I'd like to do it for longer and that may take a trip to a retreat center.