Holding a transparent plastic pouch, my cellphone zipped inside with a white label displaying my name in bold letters, I followed the line as it snaked toward the front of the meditation hall. With a small knot in my belly, I inched forward and approached the small stage where five meditation teachers sat silently. When it was my turn to stand front and center, I placed the bag into a deep wicker basket — piled high with other phones in plastic bags — waiting for the reverberating gong of a Tibetan singing bowl to announce its surrender. I walked back to my meditation cushion, took a deep breath, and felt a wave of lightness come over me.
This ceremony was the start of my silent meditation retreat in February at the Insight Meditation Society, a retreat center on 400 wooded acres in Barre, Mass., just 60 miles from Boston. While preparing for my youngest child to leave for college, I decided I was ready to take the next step toward deepening my eight-year meditation practice — a silent retreat. When an internet search guided me to one called “Path to Awakening,” led by Joseph Goldstein, a co-founder of the meditation society and a renowned teacher of vipassana meditation, also known as mindfulness or insight meditation, I signed up. After I told my friend and fellow meditator, Jo Brody, about my plans, she opted in, too.
Silent retreats have been attracting meditators for thousands of years, and with recent research confirming the benefits of mindfulness and meditation — reduced stress levels, lower blood pressure and improved sleep, for example — a growing number of travelers are going on them.
“The meditation retreat is one of the fastest-growing trends within the fastest-growing sector in tourism: wellness travel,” said Beth McGroarty, vice president of research, at the Global Wellness Institute, a nonprofit that promotes wellness. Meditation is seeing the kind of growth that yoga did a few years ago, she said and is now a billion dollar business with a rapidly risingnumber of participants — the number of adults meditating in the U.S. more than tripled to 14.2 percent in 2017 from 4.1 percent in 2012.
Leading up to my week of silence, I read the FAQs on the website, glanced at the schedule, and deliberated whether to bring snowshoes (I didn’t) and a stash of dark chocolate (I did). I worried about feeling disconnected and lonely, and even concocted an exit strategy that involved borrowing Jo’s car and returning to pick her up a week later. As a life coach, I frequently encourage my clients to push themselves out of their comfort zone: “That’s where the growth happens,” I tell them. Now that I was entering a new phase of life — no children at home for the first time in 25 years — it felt like an opportunity for me to walk the talk.
Prelude to silence
In the parking lot on arrival day, Jo and I met Josh Senders from Port Washington, N.Y., a second-time participant. I was relieved to learn that silence would not begin until the following morning, and not, as I’d feared, the second we crossed the center’s threshold. Entering the building, a former monastery with towering Georgian pillars displaying the word Metta (or loving-kindness in Pali, an ancient Indian language), I felt a bit less daunted, knowing I had a few more hours to call my children and remind my husband to feed and walk the dog.
Once inside, we entered the meditation hall to choose a zabaton, a large square cushion that would be home to our meditation sits for the week. We each placed a shawl on a cushion at opposite ends of the same row to avoid eye contact. Initially hesitant about having a friend on retreat, I felt comforted having Jo there, and we agreed to keep a physical distance.
After getting our room assignments — a single, dormlike space — we were guided to a table to receive a “yogi job,” a traditional element on retreats where guests are assigned a daily task to bring mindfulness to everyday activities, such as washing dishes. Waiting for the woman who would assign mine, I overheard Jo’s conversation with the guy in charge of hers. “Would you like to be a pot scrubber or a vegetable chopper?” he asked. Jo chose the chopping job.
Then it was my turn. “Your yogi job will be to clean Main Hall bathrooms I and II each day after lunch,” said the volunteer.
“Do I have a choice?” I asked. “No, not unless you have a physical disability preventing you from doing the job,” she answered.
In that instant, I thought back to the mindfulness lessons and podcasts I’d listened to over the years, reminding myself to take a breath, and just be with whatever I was feeling. (Jealousy? Disappointment? Irritation?)
Sitting and standing
The first evening meal was filled with chatter. The people at my table had traveled from Maine and Seattle, Brooklyn and Dallas. Some were first timers, who like me, were happy to get the lowdown from the veterans. Do you have to attend every meditation session? (Some do, others take breaks and meditate elsewhere, some take a nap.) Are there any long walks or trails on the property? (There’s a three-mile loop on neighboring roads and a map posted outside the office.)
Following dinner, all 100 of us yogis went to the meditation hall where we were introduced to the retreat’s three teachers, and two teacher-trainees. In preparation for the week ahead, Mr. Goldstein offered a few suggestions. “Relax and be alert; maintain a continuous practice of being mindful even when you aren’t in the meditation hall; and slow down,” he said.
Each day followed the same pattern — sitting meditations alternating with walking meditations, each lasting 45 or 60 minutes at a time, for a total of somewhere between six and seven hours of meditation a day. On a few occasions there was a mindful movement, or gentle yoga class.
We woke at 5:30 a.m. to the clang of a brass bell for the day’s first sit at 6 a.m. All meals were eaten in silence, save for the clanking of silverware and unavoidable sneezes and coughs.
Talking was permitted only in a few instances: during small-group meetings scheduled with each teacher; after each evening’s dharma talk — delivered by a teacher on a specific Buddhist teaching or practice — when time was allotted for asking questions; and during one hour of “mindful open time” on the retreat’s final afternoon.
The intention of the retreat was to be mindful of each bite, each step, each sound and each breath. That was good advice for the mind, but what about the body? Mine ached. I tried adding cushions and sitting on a chair, but after hours of sitting in the same position, neither helped. During my first group meeting, nearly all of us complained of body aches. The antidote: Ibuprofen.
Walking meditation was also helpful for the aches and pains. Some yogis practiced in the hallways, dining hall, or anywhere they could find space, while others braved the cold outside. On one below-freezing afternoon, about a dozen of us walked in slow motion on the front lawn, floating one foot thoughtfully into the air before placing it down and lifting the next. Had you been driving past, you might have thought you’d stumbled onto the set of a zombie film.
Back on my cushion, I struggled with distraction. Wrapped inside my shawl during a post-dinner sit, my body heat suddenly rose, interrupting the focus on my breath. I shed a layer. Temperature moderated, my attention then wandered to the sounds of a heavy breather two rows in front of me, and later to the squeaks emanating from the heating pipes. I used strategies, such as counting breaths to stay focused, and mentally noting each distraction — Thinking. Hearing. Tingling. — but it didn’t always work. “Thoughts are like little dictators telling us what to do and we often listen to them,” said Mr. Goldstein.
Keeping a noble silence
Not speaking to the other yogis was easier than I’d expected. We were asked to keep “noble silence,” which in addition to verbal quiet, meant not reading (I cheated on this one), not journaling, and averting our eyes when passing others to give them a sense of spiritual refuge. Exceptions were made, for people whose kitchen jobs involved interaction with others.
Being together but silent forms a “tremendous community,” said Sharon Salzberg, a meditation teacher and co-founder of the retreat center. “There’s an intensification with silence, where you don’t have to present yourself as interesting or funny, and there’s a lot of freedom or joy in that.”
My yogi job was a different story. Alone and armed with a pair of disposable blue gloves, I tried to bring a mindful approach to my task. Following laminated instructions, I focused on the sounds as I scrubbed the toilets, sinks and showers. I mopped the floors, noticing the motion of my arms and being mindful not to bang the mop into the sink legs.
Every chance I got, I went outdoors. During my walks, I had an eye-to-eye exchange with an owl, watched a large beaver leave a frozen pond to cross a road, and marveled at iced-over berries that hung like marbles. I wished I could capture these encounters with my camera-ready phone but captured them in my mind instead.
Sitting at meals — not speaking, reading, scrolling or watching a screen — was a true exercise in being in the present moment. Moving through the buffet line, I piled my plate high with the flavorful vegetarian food, expressed my gratitude (silently!), and counted how many colors were on my plate. My best entertainment: an exquisitely placed bird feeder outside the dining hall windows. Every meal provided an all-out war between squirrels and birds.
With all the stillness, many of us yearned for distraction. A large white board sat outside the office, displaying the group meeting schedules, locations for daily affinity sits and folded up notes from a yogi to a teacher. We had been told to provide a family member with the front office number, and in case of emergency, a message would be posted on the white board. As though breaking news might come in hourly, a crowd built in front of the board very time we exited the meditation hall
By the end of the week, while the days had taken on a tranquil, rhythmic pace, I was ready to go home. I missed my family, and knowing what was happening in the world. The daily routine was growing monotonous. On my final day scrubbing toilets, I gleefully tossed those blue gloves into the garbage bin.
Did a week of silence change my life? I hadn’t come on retreat in search of that kind of epiphany (I have a therapist for that). I came rather seeking an adventure, and a deeper knowledge of the power of meditation that only extended time can give. The week had given me a sort of spalike experience for my mind, protected from the distractions and stressors of daily life.
For Jo, the retreat brought a deeper insight about meditation’s purpose. “On retreat, I learned that the point is not to lose yourself, which is more relaxing, but to find yourself, and that was harder work in good way.”
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