Sitting With Determination, Part 2: The Silent Treatment
Getting used to silence is like getting used to anything else. At first it seems shocking that there are forty people roaming around a farm, eyes focused downward and mouths tightly closed, but as time wears on it becomes almost a relief that no words need to be spoken. You don't have to say 'thank you' when someone hands you the big wooden spoon to slop your oatmeal onto your plate every morning. You don't have to say 'excuse me' when you accidentally walk in front of someone on the way out of the meditation hall. In fact you never have to worry about saying anything at all, nor how to react to a joke or when to end a conversation. You can't possibly put your foot in your mouth. Not a chance. You are completely off the hook.
Best of all, you don't get to compare notes on what you are experiencing. Without a doubt, this has to be the biggest benefit.
You see, there were times when I wanted answers but had to find them myself. Like for instance, I wanted to know if anyone else hated the lunch on Day 5 as much as I did. Accidentally over-napping and missing the lunch bell, I arrived fifteen minutes late for my last meal of the day to find a very small helping of mashed potatoes left, and what looked like tofurkey next to it. Vegetarian Thanksgiving?! Seemed alright to me until I tasted this spongy fake turkey thing, only to find it was not tofurkey after all. Just tofu, which I normally don't mind, but marinated in something that I did mind.
Thankfully, I had a very sick stomach that day and only choked down a couple of pieces of the stuff, just to ensure I would not have to eat my hand overnight in a frantic, silent fit of malnourishment.
Immediately after my sparse lunch was polished off, I washed my plates and sat in my usual after-lunch spot on the hill next to the dining area, staring off in the direction of the ocean, which was barely visible far beyond the tall forestry. Not being able to talk, I had to sit with a very upset stomach and a raging mind, with nobody to run to, nobody to save me. Did I have food poisoning? The flu? Was anyone else experiencing the same thing? My inquiring mind wanted to know, but since it could not obtain any of those answers, it settled on just examining the pain that was taking place. That's what the meditation teaches, after all. Just observe.
So I sat, watching. Listening to the grumbling. The pain would fluctuate between mild and severe. There was no telling how long it would last. The only conclusion I could make was an obvious one.
My stomach hurt. Period.
And so it was. Until about a half-hour later, when the nausea disappeared without a trace, never to be heard from again. I went toe to toe with my own stomach in an epic battle of wills, a staredown with no audience and no interference. It was a non-violent match fought only in the present moment. In the end, with no support from the mind regarding its own lifespan, the pain dissolved. The 24-hour flu I had feared was relenting, and wound up being the 30-minute version instead.
Or maybe it was just gas. Who knows.
And speaking of gas, there was definitely alot of that going around on the men's side of the camp. Burping and farting were clearly not considered part of noble silence. They were entirely permissible, and who could argue? Early on, some particularly loud belches would garner a few inappropriate laughs from the crowd. But by the end of the retreat, these normally repugnant sounds were just as easily accepted as the omnipresent croaking of the frogs at night. It was just a bodily function after all. We all do it. And really, sometimes it can't be helped.
Maybe our strict vegetarian diets had something to do with it. Oatmeal, fresh fruit and whole grain toast for breakfast every single day. Lunches were chock full of fresh vegetable stews, beans (aha! a major culprit), brown rice, vegetables, grains, salads, and vegetables. Oh wait. Did I mention there were vegetables? Not that they weren't delicious and well-prepared, but after a few days the sweet carb lover in me was silently pleading, "PLEASE BAKE ME SOMETHING!"
Someone in the kitchen heard that call through the silence, and around Day 4 we had delicious lemon scone thingys for dessert. I relished every last floury crumb of those suckers. Two slathered in butter, please and thank you! In fact, everything on my plate received a shiny yellow coating of the fattening stuff after a few days. Peanut butter, jelly, and butter toast. Butter in my oatmeal, along with lots of brown sugar. Butter on both sides of the corn bread on Day 7. I even thought about buttering my fresh papaya one morning, but then decided that was overkill.
With only two healthy meals a day, I was losing weight fast, my shrinking stomach resembling one of those old gas-guzzling vehicles whose tank always seems to be on "E". Figuring this would be the only time in my life that a diet including a half-stick of butter a day would result in weight loss, I went for the gold.
Of course, all of these meals were eaten in total silence. Even surrounded by others, elbow to elbow at the tables, you can't believe how quickly one can eat when there is no talking involved. If I ever questioned what a social centerpiece food has become in our lives, this proved it to me beyond a shadow of a doubt. Eating and socializing are inextricably linked.
Our lunch breaks were two hours long, starting at 11am. Yet for several days, I would find myself standing in line waiting to wash my dishes at 11:10, sometimes 11:15 if the lunch was especially delicious. It wasn't until about Day 3 that I realized I could actually just sit there when I was done and wait for the others to wash their wares instead of becoming part of the stampede.
It was almost comical. What were we all in such a hurry for? We still had over 100 minutes left on a break to do nothing! I guess when there is nothing to talk about over your meal, eating becomes a ritual of a different kind. Rather than being a social one, it is quite simply a perfunctory one. You eat just because you need the nourishment to keep on keepin' on, not because it is a vehicle for communication.
I think this partially explained my lack of enthusiasm for meals on most days. After awhile, I just didn't care anymore what lied behind door #2 on the buffet line. In fact, if meal time were actually "Let's Make a Deal" time, I would have held on to my $5 instead of trading it in for what was behind that curtain. Even a perfectly cooked prime rib would have felt like a zonk on most days. I could hear my stomach growling, but my mind was never really craving anything. I got used to taking what I could get, and learned to be balanced about it.
Well, with the possible exception of Day 6.
On Day 6, the day after my upset stomach episode, I was flat-out ravenous at lunch time. I even sat by the dining area on the grass, waiting....waiting....waiting for anyone to ring the bell for lunch. Not only was I not going to miss anything this time, but I was gonna be first in line damnit!
The server walked over to ring the lunch bell. My mouth commenced watering. Then he broke my heart, and walked away before striking the gong. What the?!!!! My empty stomach fell to the ground in disappointment. Either he forgot something, or picked up on my impending gluttony and got scared.
A few minutes later he reappeared and this time, he rang the cowbell. I ran to the line. I don't think I was first, but it didn't matter. I was going to get my fill. And I did. I don't even recall what was served that day, but that's ok. I barely tasted it anyway. I inhaled my lunch like a human vacuum, and even went back for seconds.
Take that, tofurkey!
I emerged from the table, proud of my successful hunting and gathering. That is, until I spent the next few hours nursing a bloated stomach while trying to sit in meditation without nodding off. Turns out, there's a reason why we were told initially that it is ideal to be no more than 75% full when meditating. I was at least 125% full, and my concentration was shot.
From that point on, I never ran for the buffet line again.
So besides eating, what else does one do in silence? Let's see. I most enjoyed sitting. There is no exercise to be had, which turns out to be fine once you see how few calories you take in every day. But my favorite activity, even when all we were doing was sitting, was still just sitting. Or maybe sitting and resting. What's more, I didn't have to sit cross-legged while on breaks, so this type of sitting was far more enjoyable (and pain-free to boot).
In addition to that aforementioned spot on the hill, I also found a favorite spot on the other side of the property to do some relaxing. It was flat, half-shaded (my favorite conditions for laying down and watching the day go by), the grass just dry enough not to saturate my pants, the whole area perfectly situated to catch the tradewind breeze. Most days, after a stroll or two around our small allotted walking area, I would settle there for a nice midday respite from all the meditative work. Laying flat on my back, hands cradling my head, legs stretched out and crossed at the feet, I would drift off into a light sleep from time to time. This is when the silence became really golden.
My second favorite activity was watching. Sure, I loved watching the birds, the butterflies, the trees, the clouds, and the rest of nature performing its daily matinee. But what I enjoyed nearly as much was watching the cast of characters assembled here, the other students, as they attempted to pass the time in between meditation sessions. This was always entertaining.
One student walked around the grounds pumping his hands furiously up and down in what looked like an attempt to get the blood rushing back to all of his extremities. Another student, my next-door neighbor in our makeshift tent city, got creative one day by literally whittling away the time carving himself a flute with his pocketknife. I even heard him try to use it once, but the result sounded more like muffled breath blowing through a piece of wood than any musical instrument. Can't fault him for trying though.
Still others did laundry. Endless laundry, all by hand. Clothing was strung all around our camp like decorative garland at holiday time. I was impressed. I loathe doing my laundry even with the help of machines, so I limited my washing to a few necessary articles and let the others have at it.
It's amazing the things we do to pass the time. Even in silence, I could understand what everyone was going through. Maybe the silence helped me understand even better. We all had nothing but time. Just time to think, to process, to sift through the rubble of our minds.
At a silent retreat, it becomes clear very early on that being forced to sit with yourself is not easy. In fact, it may be one of the hardest things there is to do. To just be still, not perpetuate your own story, and have nothing to do but observe your own thoughts is a frightening prospect for the ego, almost as frightening as that tofu dish from Day 5.
If nothing else, giving yourself the silent treatment for this long demands that you pay very close attention. To what, you ask? To everything inside, and I mean everything. For me this included watching as my initial judgements about everyone began to shift, more rapidly as the days wore on, until by Day 9 I was seeing how all of us were pretty much exactly alike.
Forget the dreadlocks, bald heads, unchanged clothes, strange quirks, stinky bodies, and different faces that appeared to be floating around the farm in a meditative haze throughout the ten days. All of that took a backseat to the mere fact that each of us was doing what he could to cope. And that is life in a nutshell, isn't it? We are all trying to cope with both our suffering and our happiness, in our own individual ways.
What we all really need is our own space to sort this craziness out. Perhaps that is why I have said that keeping my mouth shut is always the easiest part of a silent retreat. I relish the time to find my space, my own sacred space, to get to know myself and my own funky ways a little more intimately.
In silence, it is so much easier to see the impact of words, and the sphere of influence that we generate with our mouths. During everyday life, it is saturating and often overwhelming to take heed of everyone else's opinions and stories. Hitting the mute button on all of it can be liberating, but only if one is ready to look inside for all of the answers and resist being spoon-fed by the outside world.
On Day 10 we resumed talking again, and believe me, I did my fair share for a few hours. But my ecstatic response to being allowed to speak again didn't last long. Eventually, I ran out of gas and happily retreated to my tent. I truly had nothing else to say.
Turned out that after all that time in silence, I needed some more. Others kept right on going, gabbing throughout the afternoon and evening. Perfect. Let them do what they must.
In the silence, I had learned my own limits. Whatever I wanted to do was absolutely, unequivocally ok. This was my experience, after all. My life. No apologies necessary.
What can I say? Sometimes the silent treatment is the only way to go.
Best of all, you don't get to compare notes on what you are experiencing. Without a doubt, this has to be the biggest benefit.
You see, there were times when I wanted answers but had to find them myself. Like for instance, I wanted to know if anyone else hated the lunch on Day 5 as much as I did. Accidentally over-napping and missing the lunch bell, I arrived fifteen minutes late for my last meal of the day to find a very small helping of mashed potatoes left, and what looked like tofurkey next to it. Vegetarian Thanksgiving?! Seemed alright to me until I tasted this spongy fake turkey thing, only to find it was not tofurkey after all. Just tofu, which I normally don't mind, but marinated in something that I did mind.
Thankfully, I had a very sick stomach that day and only choked down a couple of pieces of the stuff, just to ensure I would not have to eat my hand overnight in a frantic, silent fit of malnourishment.
Immediately after my sparse lunch was polished off, I washed my plates and sat in my usual after-lunch spot on the hill next to the dining area, staring off in the direction of the ocean, which was barely visible far beyond the tall forestry. Not being able to talk, I had to sit with a very upset stomach and a raging mind, with nobody to run to, nobody to save me. Did I have food poisoning? The flu? Was anyone else experiencing the same thing? My inquiring mind wanted to know, but since it could not obtain any of those answers, it settled on just examining the pain that was taking place. That's what the meditation teaches, after all. Just observe.
So I sat, watching. Listening to the grumbling. The pain would fluctuate between mild and severe. There was no telling how long it would last. The only conclusion I could make was an obvious one.
My stomach hurt. Period.
And so it was. Until about a half-hour later, when the nausea disappeared without a trace, never to be heard from again. I went toe to toe with my own stomach in an epic battle of wills, a staredown with no audience and no interference. It was a non-violent match fought only in the present moment. In the end, with no support from the mind regarding its own lifespan, the pain dissolved. The 24-hour flu I had feared was relenting, and wound up being the 30-minute version instead.
Or maybe it was just gas. Who knows.
And speaking of gas, there was definitely alot of that going around on the men's side of the camp. Burping and farting were clearly not considered part of noble silence. They were entirely permissible, and who could argue? Early on, some particularly loud belches would garner a few inappropriate laughs from the crowd. But by the end of the retreat, these normally repugnant sounds were just as easily accepted as the omnipresent croaking of the frogs at night. It was just a bodily function after all. We all do it. And really, sometimes it can't be helped.
Maybe our strict vegetarian diets had something to do with it. Oatmeal, fresh fruit and whole grain toast for breakfast every single day. Lunches were chock full of fresh vegetable stews, beans (aha! a major culprit), brown rice, vegetables, grains, salads, and vegetables. Oh wait. Did I mention there were vegetables? Not that they weren't delicious and well-prepared, but after a few days the sweet carb lover in me was silently pleading, "PLEASE BAKE ME SOMETHING!"
Someone in the kitchen heard that call through the silence, and around Day 4 we had delicious lemon scone thingys for dessert. I relished every last floury crumb of those suckers. Two slathered in butter, please and thank you! In fact, everything on my plate received a shiny yellow coating of the fattening stuff after a few days. Peanut butter, jelly, and butter toast. Butter in my oatmeal, along with lots of brown sugar. Butter on both sides of the corn bread on Day 7. I even thought about buttering my fresh papaya one morning, but then decided that was overkill.
With only two healthy meals a day, I was losing weight fast, my shrinking stomach resembling one of those old gas-guzzling vehicles whose tank always seems to be on "E". Figuring this would be the only time in my life that a diet including a half-stick of butter a day would result in weight loss, I went for the gold.
Of course, all of these meals were eaten in total silence. Even surrounded by others, elbow to elbow at the tables, you can't believe how quickly one can eat when there is no talking involved. If I ever questioned what a social centerpiece food has become in our lives, this proved it to me beyond a shadow of a doubt. Eating and socializing are inextricably linked.
Our lunch breaks were two hours long, starting at 11am. Yet for several days, I would find myself standing in line waiting to wash my dishes at 11:10, sometimes 11:15 if the lunch was especially delicious. It wasn't until about Day 3 that I realized I could actually just sit there when I was done and wait for the others to wash their wares instead of becoming part of the stampede.
It was almost comical. What were we all in such a hurry for? We still had over 100 minutes left on a break to do nothing! I guess when there is nothing to talk about over your meal, eating becomes a ritual of a different kind. Rather than being a social one, it is quite simply a perfunctory one. You eat just because you need the nourishment to keep on keepin' on, not because it is a vehicle for communication.
I think this partially explained my lack of enthusiasm for meals on most days. After awhile, I just didn't care anymore what lied behind door #2 on the buffet line. In fact, if meal time were actually "Let's Make a Deal" time, I would have held on to my $5 instead of trading it in for what was behind that curtain. Even a perfectly cooked prime rib would have felt like a zonk on most days. I could hear my stomach growling, but my mind was never really craving anything. I got used to taking what I could get, and learned to be balanced about it.
Well, with the possible exception of Day 6.
On Day 6, the day after my upset stomach episode, I was flat-out ravenous at lunch time. I even sat by the dining area on the grass, waiting....waiting....waiting for anyone to ring the bell for lunch. Not only was I not going to miss anything this time, but I was gonna be first in line damnit!
The server walked over to ring the lunch bell. My mouth commenced watering. Then he broke my heart, and walked away before striking the gong. What the?!!!! My empty stomach fell to the ground in disappointment. Either he forgot something, or picked up on my impending gluttony and got scared.
A few minutes later he reappeared and this time, he rang the cowbell. I ran to the line. I don't think I was first, but it didn't matter. I was going to get my fill. And I did. I don't even recall what was served that day, but that's ok. I barely tasted it anyway. I inhaled my lunch like a human vacuum, and even went back for seconds.
Take that, tofurkey!
I emerged from the table, proud of my successful hunting and gathering. That is, until I spent the next few hours nursing a bloated stomach while trying to sit in meditation without nodding off. Turns out, there's a reason why we were told initially that it is ideal to be no more than 75% full when meditating. I was at least 125% full, and my concentration was shot.
From that point on, I never ran for the buffet line again.
So besides eating, what else does one do in silence? Let's see. I most enjoyed sitting. There is no exercise to be had, which turns out to be fine once you see how few calories you take in every day. But my favorite activity, even when all we were doing was sitting, was still just sitting. Or maybe sitting and resting. What's more, I didn't have to sit cross-legged while on breaks, so this type of sitting was far more enjoyable (and pain-free to boot).
In addition to that aforementioned spot on the hill, I also found a favorite spot on the other side of the property to do some relaxing. It was flat, half-shaded (my favorite conditions for laying down and watching the day go by), the grass just dry enough not to saturate my pants, the whole area perfectly situated to catch the tradewind breeze. Most days, after a stroll or two around our small allotted walking area, I would settle there for a nice midday respite from all the meditative work. Laying flat on my back, hands cradling my head, legs stretched out and crossed at the feet, I would drift off into a light sleep from time to time. This is when the silence became really golden.
My second favorite activity was watching. Sure, I loved watching the birds, the butterflies, the trees, the clouds, and the rest of nature performing its daily matinee. But what I enjoyed nearly as much was watching the cast of characters assembled here, the other students, as they attempted to pass the time in between meditation sessions. This was always entertaining.
One student walked around the grounds pumping his hands furiously up and down in what looked like an attempt to get the blood rushing back to all of his extremities. Another student, my next-door neighbor in our makeshift tent city, got creative one day by literally whittling away the time carving himself a flute with his pocketknife. I even heard him try to use it once, but the result sounded more like muffled breath blowing through a piece of wood than any musical instrument. Can't fault him for trying though.
Still others did laundry. Endless laundry, all by hand. Clothing was strung all around our camp like decorative garland at holiday time. I was impressed. I loathe doing my laundry even with the help of machines, so I limited my washing to a few necessary articles and let the others have at it.
It's amazing the things we do to pass the time. Even in silence, I could understand what everyone was going through. Maybe the silence helped me understand even better. We all had nothing but time. Just time to think, to process, to sift through the rubble of our minds.
At a silent retreat, it becomes clear very early on that being forced to sit with yourself is not easy. In fact, it may be one of the hardest things there is to do. To just be still, not perpetuate your own story, and have nothing to do but observe your own thoughts is a frightening prospect for the ego, almost as frightening as that tofu dish from Day 5.
If nothing else, giving yourself the silent treatment for this long demands that you pay very close attention. To what, you ask? To everything inside, and I mean everything. For me this included watching as my initial judgements about everyone began to shift, more rapidly as the days wore on, until by Day 9 I was seeing how all of us were pretty much exactly alike.
Forget the dreadlocks, bald heads, unchanged clothes, strange quirks, stinky bodies, and different faces that appeared to be floating around the farm in a meditative haze throughout the ten days. All of that took a backseat to the mere fact that each of us was doing what he could to cope. And that is life in a nutshell, isn't it? We are all trying to cope with both our suffering and our happiness, in our own individual ways.
What we all really need is our own space to sort this craziness out. Perhaps that is why I have said that keeping my mouth shut is always the easiest part of a silent retreat. I relish the time to find my space, my own sacred space, to get to know myself and my own funky ways a little more intimately.
In silence, it is so much easier to see the impact of words, and the sphere of influence that we generate with our mouths. During everyday life, it is saturating and often overwhelming to take heed of everyone else's opinions and stories. Hitting the mute button on all of it can be liberating, but only if one is ready to look inside for all of the answers and resist being spoon-fed by the outside world.
On Day 10 we resumed talking again, and believe me, I did my fair share for a few hours. But my ecstatic response to being allowed to speak again didn't last long. Eventually, I ran out of gas and happily retreated to my tent. I truly had nothing else to say.
Turned out that after all that time in silence, I needed some more. Others kept right on going, gabbing throughout the afternoon and evening. Perfect. Let them do what they must.
In the silence, I had learned my own limits. Whatever I wanted to do was absolutely, unequivocally ok. This was my experience, after all. My life. No apologies necessary.
What can I say? Sometimes the silent treatment is the only way to go.
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