The Secret of Silence
I just returned from a 5-day silent meditation retreat. As you likely know, I love to talk, so this was like fasting for this chatty Cathy. We were also encouraged to fast from our phones, written communication, and even reading.
Why did we subject ourselves to this?
It turned out that silence was a surprising treasure, which took some time to unearth.
I didn't speak, but my experience was not at all quiet.
Removing the distraction of all conversation only meant that the internal voices were more obvious.
It was constant chatter, much of the time...
until it things began to settle, like leaves dropping on the crisp, dry grass.
So many folks have told me they can't meditate because their minds just won't quiet down. This just means that the brain-mind is active and healthy, doing its job perfectly, of seeking new things. For balance, we need to awaken other parts of ourselves.
The brain-mind is always hungry, so we give it something to nibble, something that never runs out. They say that an elephant can trod through a village peacefully if you give it a log to hold in its trunk.
We yogis like to offer breath to the mind, as the ever-lasting gobstopper for focus. Brain-mind is easily distracted, so we kindly laugh and reconnect to the breath, again and again.
It's this kindness that's essential, an open-heartness that brought me to tears, again and again. It sounds so simple: when I can be kind to myself, I find the patient tenacity to stick with the practice. Then the mind, like the heart, opens wide, including and allowing everything.
Our teachers kept the steady flow of encouragement, reminding us to rest, to relax. Their steadfastness was so helpful, but what supported me was their vulnerability. Tim told stories of his challenges, his humanness, throughout. This helped me offer grace to my continuous distractedness.
For at least a day, I was replaying my current obsession, which happens mostly with my phone. This is shameful to me, and my first time experiencing the addictive nature of this little device.
The teaching that’s most helpful to me is that of the wide blue sky. As thoughts arise, I try to allow them to drop back down onto the ground, and even burrow into the earth. They emerge again, and I struggle to give them just enough time and space to be met and known, without blocking out the entire view of the sky. Then I try to drop them again.
Laughing kindly at myself was so important, because chastising myself just became another obsession.
Over time, I was able to dig deeper into the stories behind some of these thoughts, and found they had tendrils to early childhood. Beliefs crafted by a very young, inexperienced mind, had laid tracks that led right to the present moment. I began to console that young one, and assure her I would not leave her.
The next teaching was about allowing your heart to actually hold all your fears, and to discover that this heart is boundless. Pema Chodron speaks of this fathomless heart, and I believe I am starting to experience this depth and breadth. It is a new touchstone.
Of course the distressing thoughts still come, along with the body’s sensations, but I’m learning a new way to hold myself. This work is not just for myself, but it opens a capacity to make room for the messy world, this broken world, as Mary Oliver says.
Practicing with the group meant accepting that every one of us has troubles, pain, loss. When I begin to attend to my own sorrow and fear, I have the capacity to face this truth: we all suffer. This is otherwise too overwhelming for my empathetic soul to bear. As my heart opens to my own difficulties, I experience its strength and capability in an embodied way. Then I remember its infinite potential to meet this life, open and strong.