Retreating into Silence

Happy 2024 everyone. I’m not sure what your end of year looked like, but whatever was on your calendar, I’m betting it was probably as busy as mine: wrapping up work deadlines, planning recipes, buying gifts, holiday get togethers with friends, Christmas services, extended family coming for Christmas dinner followed by a Christmas brunch the next morning, overnight company, New Year’s Eve festivities, New Year’s Day run. All of this interspersed with daily online interactions with friends from far and near, and I had my first New Year’s resolution: a self-imposed silent retreat.

To avoid the awkwardness of unanswered calls and chat messages, I announced my planned retreat to my friends and clients via the image pictured here.
“Does that mean a break from all technology?” My friend Cami asked. She dropped a definition of a silent retreat into our WhatsApp chat, and I realized I hadn’t fully defined my own parameters. What I did know was, barring an emergency, I would not be speaking to anyone, not even to my family. 

Regarding technology, this would not be a cold turkey retreat. I still planned to write and read online, listen to my meditation and chanting app, and maybe even listen to an insightful podcast while walking. I had signed up for Yoga with Adriene’s 30 Day Yoga Challenge (free on YouTube), and for the 30 Day Vegan challenge, which meant following YouTube videos and reading the vegan challenge tips via email and following their recipes online. That’s a lot of challenges converging together in just a few days, but it didn’t seem daunting; if anything, it seemed like a symbiotic trio of kindness to my mind, body, and spirit (and to the animals I would not be eating!). Movies were definitely off the list, unless they were silent films. This was a time to break my Netflix addiction as well. 
“This is going to be challenging for me, I think.” I wrote to my friend Annemarie when she wished me a good retreat.
“Ha! I think that’s an understatement” she wrote back. I could have taken offense by her comment, but she was right; I’m a social butterfly with a screen addiction.
“Extremely challenging!” I replied. 
Only time and silence would tell if I could pull this off.

And I mustn’t forget to mention the book. For close to two decades, the book You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay has been recommended to me over and over again, but for some reason, I had never gotten around to buying it, let alone reading it. The title hadn’t come up in years, but when my Belgian friend Neelke started voice messaging me about a book that had transformed her life (you guessed it! You Can Heal Your Life), I knew it was time to finally order it. It had long since arrived, and has been sitting patiently on my living room bookshelf, occasionally winking in my direction.  So when I planned my four-day journey into silence, I picked up the book and decided it would be part of my retreat.

I started my retreat on the afternoon of January 4th after returning from an overnight trip. When I arrived home, our house, which I’d made the effort to clean before I left, greeted me with warmth and stillness, and I walked into the silence with instant gratitude.

With no one to talk to, and with my phone on silent, my focus shifted to my surroundings. Afternoon sunshine shone through the windows as I sat on my couch and looked around our living room. At first, I saw the dust on the coffee table, a few cobwebs in the corners, a stack of books on the ground that had toppled over, and a wadded up ball of Christmas wrapping paper that had escaped my attention earlier. But instead of jumping up to clean, straighten, and recycle, I let it go. I continued to sit quietly and observe. Slowly, I saw the abundance all around me: the hot cup of tea in my hands, our bookshelves full of interesting books, the cozy blankets folded up on the couch, the furniture we had been collecting and arranging to create our idea of home, the bright and happy colors we had chosen for our walls, the dark green plants lining the windowsills. I was filled with gratefulness.

I followed a Yoga with Adriene session online and then topped it off with an Art of Living meditation. I read the introduction to You Can Heal Your Life, which is basically Louise Hay providing a summary of her outlook on life, and what she would be presenting in the book. I think I would be breaking some copyright law if I shared all the insightful things I read and underlined, but I’ll share this one to start: “Most of us have foolish ideas about who we are and many, many rigid rules about how life out to be lived.” -Louise Hay.
I was only on page two, and this book was already acting like a personal diary of my life, which was proving insightful, but also hellishly confrontational.

By the time Richard the dog whisperer brought Jamie back home, I was in full, contemplative, quiet mode. When I opened the door, instead of speaking, I greeted him with a smile. When I responded to his words with a nod, he seemed slightly confused. Clearly, he hadn’t yet seen the silent retreat message I’d sent earlier in the day. I silently waved goodbye, brought Jamie inside, and shut the door.

“Hey Jamie girl, did you have a good–“ Oops! Silence is silence. I hadn’t thought about what this would mean for the dog. Would she find my silence strange? She’d spent many a night nestled on my lap as I read or watched television, but usually I would talk to her a bit, or talk to another family member who came into the room, video chat with my mom or brother in the US, or dictate a message into my phone. Yet the dog’s response would be the least of my concerns.

This retreat would be running in parallel with normal family life, with all of my regular duties and responsibilities in full swing, minus talking. I’d soon see how that played out, as my family would be returning from their father-son getaway that evening. I started reading through the vegan challenge recipes and settled on one. Usually, I put on the radio or listen to a podcast as I cook, but that evening I prepped in silence. It wasn’t like I hadn’t cooked in silence before, but conscious silence is quite another thing. My senses seemed to be on hyper alert. I noticed the structure of the vegetables I was slicing, the sharpness of the blade, the sizzle and aroma of the onion and garlic as they landed in the hot olive oil. Once dinner was prepped, I returned to the couch, pet the dog, and read a bit further in You Can Heal Your Life.

The book presented an exercise which instructed me, the reader, to write down all the things I should do in my life. The words “I should” were followed by a few blank lines to indicate it was time to make a list. My list of “shoulds” pulled me out of my happy place. I should try to generate more clients. I should exercise more. I should get a full time job instead of being a freelancer. The list rattled on. Finally, I wrote, I should just chill. And damn if that didn’t feel right! But as I read further, I realized that Hay had presented her audience with a trick list to get at the areas in our lives where we’re stuck. She then instructed her readers to reframe that same question and say “I could.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard of the power of “could,” but in my present state of mind, it rang true.
I could get a full-time job, but I don’t want to. I enjoy freelancing, so why would I trade it in for something I don’t really want to do? And I could work on getting more clients. That rang true as well. Yes, I could do that. Talk about a breath of fresh air! Just by reframing a statement, I had room to breathe and room to explore. I closed the book and allowed myself to follow the statement that most honored the present moment. I should just chill. I could just chill. Let’s chill, girlfriend. You’re on a retreat!

The silence was soon shattered by a bustle of sound: a muffled conversation outside the front door followed by the scrape of a key entering the lock, then a boisterous conversation amplified as it spilled into the front entry. Following were the sounds of shoes being kicked off, suitcases being dropped on the floor, coats being hung up, while the conversation, loud and animated, continued.

My son entered the living room first.
“Hello!” he greeted.
I nodded in response.
“Oh. Yeah. You started your silent thing.”
Nod.
“But do you want to hear about our trip?”
Enthusiastic nod. I pointed at him while rubbing my tummy.
“Am I hungry?”
Nod.
“Yes! We’re starving!”

The three of us ate dinner together while they told me about their trip: visiting a luxury spa, going to afternoon tea in a stylish restaurant, walking through the city of Nijmegen, crossing the river twice over huge bridges while it was raining, visiting our friend Matthieu the following day. I nodded and made gestures as a means of asking questions, most of which they understood, some of which they didn’t. Occasionally, if something seemed important, I wrote it on a piece of paper, but overall, silence and gesturing worked just fine.
The interesting part about being silent while others are talking is that your role is simply to listen and to acknowledge that you are listening through body language and the occasional thumbs up. That is your sole part of the conversation. There is no need to formulate a long response or weigh in with your opinion. You are simply paying attention and bearing witness, which feels very good.

Another interesting part of being in silence is that it’s quite hard to get into a disagreement. Sure, you can shake your head no if you don’t agree with someone, but there’s no real debate. So, you let it go. This happened several times throughout my retreat, which was frustrating at first. But by the end of my retreat, I couldn’t remember what had upset me, and better yet, it felt good to let it go.

Table cleared, dishes washed, they retreated to their rooms, Ezra to game with friends, Arie Jan to unwind in his office, perhaps playing chess or watching a movie. When I’m curled up on the couch with the dog nestled on my lap, I’ve been known to ask someone to bring me a cup of tea so as “not to disturb the dog.” But in silence, you can’t call out to someone to serve you. So I asked less of others and did more for myself.

The whole afternoon and evening, I had found the stillness of my phone to be a relief, a much needed break from all of the notifications that usually stream in. I had also enjoyed the discipline it takes to remain silent, even when you want to say something to those you love. Yet now that the silence was settling over me anew, I realized that I had been putting a fair amount of effort into the act of being silent, and I wanted a break. I did not desire conversation. I just felt tired of all the grace, insight, and presence that accompanies silence. I had no desire to meditate or silently observe, or even read about healing my life. I wanted my fix, the fix I get hundreds of times a day. My hand twitched, wanting to slide open my phone and scroll through the notifications, to hop from one platform to another, to see images and texts and messages, and video shorts. I resisted the temptation of my phone by putting it out of reach.

I’d like to say I resisted the pull of Netflix as well, but that would be a lie. I turned on the television and settled on a Netflix series called My Life with the Walter Boys. I didn’t need to speak or think or feel, because all of that was being done or orchestrated for me. It definitely felt like cheating, but I gave myself a get-out-of-guilt-free card. After all, I was the one in charge of this silence retreat, and part of a retreat is to embrace what you have learned: I could chill! And tomorrow was another day.

The silence got easier as the weekend progressed. Though more than once, my husband or son asked me a question, and out of habit, I answered out loud, then quickly inhaled while clamping my hand over my mouth, as if I could suck or push the words back inside. They both found this highly amusing. But luckily, I had plenty of other things to focus on, like silence in combination with vegan recipes, yoga, reading, and meditation. Early Saturday morning, Ezra left for another end-of-vacation trip, and his absence expanded the silence.

I sat behind my computer and worked on a short story for the Furious Fiction competition that I had started on Friday morning. There was no phone to distract me, no interruptions from family members or distracting thoughts from my own mind. I simply focused all of my attention into the story. I watched a video on writing flash fiction to help hone my craft. I wrote and then gave my creative mind a little breathing space while I took the dog for a walk, seeing if the fresh air and a silence could help me with the plot. I was actually pleased with what I sent off to the competition on Sunday morning, and even more pleased that I had returned to writing.

Due to some issues with the trains, I had to drive to Alkmaar quite late at night on Sunday evening to pick up Ezra.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Arie Jan asked.
I nodded.
“Please be careful.”
I nodded again. That was usually my line, and I found it strange to hear it mirrored back to me.
It was strange to step into the car and zoom along in the dark. I was on a one-way, two-lane highway when a strange thing happened: a car was driving in the opposite direction in the lane next to me.
“You effing idiot! You’re driving the wrong way down the street!” I yelled inside my car. It was strange to hear my voice, so present and full of rage, yelling pointlessly in the sound vacuum of my car. Remember when I said the only way I’d come out of silence was in case of an emergency? When I reached the station, and my son hopped in the car, he greeted me and I greeted him back.

“Oh. Silence thing over?” he asked.
“Temporarily. I’ve got to call the police.”

I reported the driver, but luckily, several other people had beaten me to it. I don’t know if that driver caused an accident. I have no idea if they were blitzed out of their mind, or if they’d made an honest mistake in the dark and turned onto the wrong side of the freeway. But one thing was for sure, my silent retreat, which was supposed to run through Monday afternoon, had hit a major obstacle. My son was relieved that I’d broken the silence, because he wanted to tell me all about his adventures in Belgium, and my silent nod in the car at night was not deemed a sufficient response.

Even though my silent nods or thumbs ups had been replaced by “uh huh,” and “oh, that sounds cool,” and other short responses to indicate I was listening, something had changed. The silence, however long it had lasted, had taught me to simply listen, rather than half-listen, or think about my own thoughts, or feel a need to break into the conversation with my own similar experiences or anecdotes. Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with sharing your experiences, but fully listening to the other and allowing them space to speak is also wonderful.

When I got ready for bed that night, I merged back into the comfort of silence, holding onto it like a precious friend. But the next morning, slated as the last day of my retreat, life got in the way again; my son had turned off his alarm and was late for school, which elicited some rather unpleasant and loud reactions to pour out of my once-silent mouth, “What the heck! Get out of bed right now! You’re late!”

Not the best way to wake up your son; not the best way to end your silence retreat. But hey, as the wise Dr. Blake Brown always says, “Learn the lesson, see the good, and move forward.”

What are my takeaways after three-and-a-half days of silence?

• Set the phone to focus mode whenever you can.
• Listen to others. It’s an essential part of conversation.
• Integrate moments of silence to recharge.
• Read a book instead of scrolling through social media.
• Chill and love yourself.
• Silence takes time and practice. It’s not something that can be grasped in just a couple of days, but this was a good start.