The time had come. I had reached my saturation point. Four homeschooled daughters, one family owned business, a multitude of pets and I knew the time had come. I was ready to venture out for a retreat. Actually, truth be told, I knew if I didn’t venture out to something, there would be nothing left of me. I no longer had a sense of self.
In a perfect world, we’re able to book those posh retreats that celebrities enjoy. The retreatant shows up, a suitcase filled with brand new luxury “retreat” clothing. I always pictured a lot of soft yoga-style clothing in varying shades of muted grays and blues, maybe even a beige sweater added in for variety. Regardless, I’m sure the material is soft and forgiving. I’m sure it looks fabulous on the thin, toned body I will also have acquired for my retreat. I’ll arrive, as all good stars do, with my entourage, who will also stay here in their own yoga clothing in a dwelling far from my own. My room will be quiet and serene with candles that stay lit all the time, with no concern for fire hazards. There are no fire hazards because this, of course, is the perfect retreat when I will become immediately enlightened. Fire hazards weigh too heavy on those who want to become enlightened quickly.
I’ll check in, sign my name on the dotted line and bliss will follow. Immediately, no questions asked, no work required. Bliss will become apparent as soon as I sign my name. I really won’t even have to do the work to find peace. I’ll just wear those cool yoga pants, and tank top, sign my name and presto-chango, I’m blissful.
The reality is I’m escaping to a quiet monastery located not far from my home. Retreatants are asked to check in at the gift shop. So, I’m to arrive between 1 and 4 pm on a Friday. I’m assigned a room, basic with a bed, perhaps a desk. I may get my own bath, but I may also have to share. Since I’ve shared a bath with five other people for quite a number of years, in addition to numerous bath toys, and pet shampoos, sharing a bath seemed like the least of my concerns. Regardless, the basic comforts will be met.
My real and main concern was that I would actually have to be alone with myself. All alone. Just me, myself and I, with no one to break the silence, ask silly questions like what did I like on my French fries, what time I went to bed, or what picture book would I look to read prior to bed. You gather for the meals at a precise time, in silence, and one of the monks reads. Everyone else is quiet. This took me back for a moment. I’m not sure I know what silence is. I haven’t been silent in almost forty-six years. But it’s mandatory. So, I would be silent – whether it killed me or not. I had already started to plan my demise caused merely by being silent. I took a deep breath, and plunged right in. I emailed, and made the reservation. There was no turning back.
I knew that the only way to find myself was to truly be with myself. The thought of it scared me far more than I thought it would. For years, I thought I craved being alone. But maybe what I really wanted was two hours during nap time to read, or a few hours in the evening to have control of the television remote. Three days and nights in silence was terrifying. I questioned the monk in charge of the retreat more often than he ever heard from his own mother, I’m sure. I asked questions ranging from the obvious and ridiculous – “Could I bring my fan because I can’t sleep without it?” And then “May I bring my diet Coke 12 pack?” Patiently. every question was answered with no obvious discord. Yes, I may bring my fan as long as it didn't bother other retreatants, and of course, I could bring my diet Coke. Phew, I thought. I’ll survive.
But eventually, after a few days, I worked myself up into a frenzy. An all-night, come-to-Jesus kind of frenzy. What was I doing? I didn't even like myself for the afternoon, how was I going to be alone with myself for three days? But slowly, really slowly, like a slug, a sense of peace came over me.
Then suddenly, before the retreat, I decided maybe it was time to create a small space in my home for just me. Without “stuff”. No television. No iPod. No papers, bills, dirty dishes, or picture books. Just a chair, a lamp, maybe a table to hold the infamous diet Coke. I found a s mall spot, in the corner of my laundry room, which I cleaned in a whirlwind. Now, I thought, now, I was ready for the silence. I had practiced in my little corner of the house. It was humbling, but it was okay. Mostly the washing machine noise drowned out the other distractions in the house.
I’m still a bit nervous, perhaps scared. When I sit in this small spot with only the hum of the washing machine, I’m not quite as fearful of the sense of peace I might actually find during that retreat. If it’s not there during that weekend, I’m sure I’ll come home with a bit more sense of self than I’ve had in a very long time. I’m hoping I’ll come back with an entirely new appreciation for silence. Perhaps I can pass that appreciation on to my girls. Or maybe I’ll just be able to mimic the hum of the washing machine, which will then, over time, teach them that it’s okay to be silent, even if we don’t know what we’re listening for.
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