Silence Isn't Always Golden
A seven-day personal writer's retreat with lots of unexpected twists and turns
The following post was written many years ago about a writing retreat I gave to myself for my fortieth birthday. It’s the only retreat I’ve ever done in connection with my writing, and as you’ll see, it wasn’t a typical retreat and wasn’t at all what I expected it would be, but it ended up offering me many gifts. I’m sharing it here because, in essence, it ended up being a spiritual journey of sorts and a microcosmic view of the way life often feels when we’re in a new and unfamiliar environment. When I refer to my family, I use their first initials to protect their privacy: D (my husband, and now my ex), J (my older son) and M (my younger son). This post is longer than my usual posts because I decided not to break it up into separate posts. It’s written diary-style briefly highlighting my experiences and reflections of each day of the retreat. I trust the writers here will appreciate it. If it’s not your cup of tea, go ahead and skip it. Don’t forget, I’d also love to feature your stories about your spiritual journey. My guidelines are here.
Day 1
It’s a rainy Friday in early September, and I curse as I struggle to pack my laptop, suitcase, blankets and pillows, along with a bag of spring water and snacks, while balancing an umbrella in the crook of my neck. I’m off for a seven-day self-designed writer’s retreat to work on my memoir, a 40th birthday present to myself.
My husband, D, agrees to meet me for a quick lunch of miso soup and sushi. I arrive late, and slump into my seat, angry at the weather. He is all smiles, a birthday card propped up on the table. I had insisted that I wanted to open my gifts when I returned. The meal revives my spirit—sushi with my husband has a way of doing that—and soon, I am my headed alone for the mountains of New England.
The drive takes three hours, and I arrive well before dark. The rain has stopped and everything has that fresh, just-washed look. The clouds drape the sky with curtains of peach and rose.
The retreat facilities are located on a hill surrounding by farmhouses, woods and meadows. The property consists of a couple of out buildings, two farm houses and a large industrial style three-story brick building built during that period when architecture became bland and institutional.
When I check in, I learn that there are no more rooms in the farmhouse. Instead, I am in room 303 in the brick building. Tears sting my eyes when I see my room. It looks like a cross between a college dorm and a nursing home. There are two metal-framed beds—one single, the other double—dingy pink curtains, cinder block walls, and bare linoleum flooring. Each aspect of the place has an overlay of a hospital/nursing home right down to the plastic flowers, cheap reprints, dusty old books and second-hand furniture. Even the bathroom with its pink tile is too bright and too cold, without charm or warmth. I imagine myself forty years from now, deteriorating in a place such as this, cut off from family and friends, tucked away neatly into an institution. My vision of a cozy New England refuge vanishes out the metal-framed windows.
My first thought is to run back downstairs, ask for my check back, and go find a room somewhere in a bed and breakfast. However, once I calculate the cost of that, I realize that I would only be able to afford a room and meals for a couple of days, cutting my retreat short and forcing me to return home. Instead, I decide to fix up my “cell” by cluttering it with my personal belongings: a stack of books, bottles of spring water, a bag of treats for late-night snacking, my laptop, vitamins and toiletries, a fan, a box of tissues—not home, but it’ll have to do.
I hold out some hope for meeting some other writers and artists. The farmhouse is filled with women participating in a weeklong silent retreat. Later in the evening, I hear a woman in the room next to mine. I wonder if she’s a writer or an artist. Today it sounded as though she broke a lamp. I also hear her talking. I wonder if she’s using a cell phone or if she’s talking to herself. She borrowed one of the tables from the lounge outside our rooms; perhaps she needed more space to spread her computer or her art supplies out.
Day 2
My first night’s sleep is okay, but I have a nightmare about a group of evil people conspiring against me and my family, bugging my house, taping my conversations, in an effort to destroy me. Was that my fears surfacing? Probably. But I quickly decide I’m going to move forward and try write as much as I can. If I’m productive, there’s a bookstore in town where I plan to reward myself with some real coffee.
Breakfast is mostly healthy: an assortment of granola, muffins, yogurt, fresh fruit, whole grain pancakes and bacon. Mealtimes are silent, and I find myself quite self-conscious. I had anticipated my need for reading material and stopped at a convenience store and stocked up on newspapers and magazines. So I read as I eat my granola, reminding myself that I am without television, radio, Internet and regular conversations with family and friends.
This forced silence could be good, I think. I had wanted to free myself of distractions from the world and pare down the stimulation. Perhaps, I will be more inclined to focus on my writing.
We’ll see.
The shower situation isn’t great. I find it difficult to share a tiny shower stall with other people’s germs. I tried a shower at the other end of the hall, and it was a disaster. The water pressure was too low, and I was continually sprayed in the face. There was no where to put my clothes or get dressed. I will continue to explore other showers until I find one that works and is less frequented by others.
At lunch, I keep my attention focused on my food—vegetable pizza and a green salad. I don’t make much eye contact. The music they play on the tape player at each meal is somber—it makes the silence worse instead of better. Dinner—chicken, potato pancakes, steamed squash and more salad—is easier still, but I find myself eating quickly. I have no incentive to stay put.
By the way, did I mention that everyone here is at least twenty years older than me? I think this age difference makes some of the women want to talk with me. I sense from a couple of shy smiles across the room, that I remind many of them of a daughter, a niece or even a granddaughter. I know if I saw a teenaged boy my son J’s age sitting alone, my heart would go out to him. I would want to mother him, so I’m sure some of those emotions are stirring in some of these gals.
I surprise myself and get a lot of writing done on my first full day. Writing allows me to talk with someone—myself. Interesting how that works. I write more when I have no one to talk to. I even wrote a poem today. Not a very good one, but it’s the first I’ve attempted in years.
Day 3
After breakfast, I spend a couple of hours writing, and then treat myself to a walk around a labyrinth on the property. I bask in the warm glow of the sun. The light and colors are so clean and clear, the mountains and green meadows so picture-perfect, my eyes hurt.
As I walk with slow steps around the labyrinth, I think of how it is a beautiful symbol of life: sometimes it feels as though we’re going around in circles, yet we always wind our way back to Spirit. Sometimes we’re closer than others. In the center of the labyrinth, I feel safe and close to God. Afterwards, I make an offering of a pinecone to a statue of Christ on the Cross. I say some prayers and continue my walk.
In the afternoon, I spend a couple more hours writing. It’s more of a struggle (mornings are my best time). Then I head into town and go for a jog. The houses in this historic town are mostly white with black or green shutters—very New Englandly—with well-maintained lawns. The streets are smooth, without the potholes I’m used to. As I run down the postcard-perfect streets, I feel as though I’m on a movie set. After a leisurely three miles or so, I treat myself to an iced latte and a mouthwatering slice of orange pineapple coffeecake.
I consider going to a movie—the thought of staying in my room alone depresses me—but I end up in town again, where I purchase a large box of art postcards. Being alone has made me appreciate my family and friends, so I decide that the next day (which is my birthday) I’ll write them each a postcard telling them how important they are in my life.
Later on, I spread the cards out on my bed and spend an hour or more looking through the cards and imagining which person I’ll send them to. I no longer feel so lonely.
Being alone—really alone—as I am on this retreat, shines an intense light on the importance of family, friends and community. How much bigger and more frightening the world is when you’re alone! Writing is a comfort, but it’s a poor substitute for human companionship. It is our human presence that keeps us connected and grounded. True, being alone connects us with ourselves and with God, but doing so reminds us of the importance of showing our love to other people. Without that love, life is an empty, barren place. It often takes a vision quest or a pilgrimage to fully understand that, because everyday life crowds out the importance of love and appreciation.
Day 4
Today is my fortieth birthday! I celebrate by doing whatever I feel like. In the morning I write for a couple of hours. After lunch, I go into town to check out an event called the Borough Days Festival. Several tents are set up, each representing life as it was in the 19th century. There is an old-fashioned puppet show, a blacksmith, a metal smith, chair caning, woodworking, lacing, candy apples, women dressed in picnic dresses carrying parasols and soldiers dressed in uniform displaying guns and supplies. The day is warm, without clouds, a perfect day for walking around town.
After about and hour and a half, I come back to my room, read and nap. Napping feels so luxurious! No phones, no worry about how long I might sleep. Upon awakening, I make some coffee and read the Sunday paper.
Dinner is awful. Cod on top of steamed spinach with mandarin oranges on top. Yuck! I can’t finish it, and I don’t care. I miss D’s cooking. I call him and speak with M, my five-year-old son. He says he misses me. D tells me he’s been saying that quite often since I left. It’s good to hear his voice, to check in and know that everything’s all right.
I take a walk in town again after dinner to enjoy the night air. When I return, I write out a few postcards.
As I fall asleep, I think about the day. It’s been a good birthday. The first one I’ve ever spent alone. Solitude was my gift to myself. It is a gift that means something because I usually have so little of it. Married at twenty-three, and having my first child at twenty-four, and another one ten years later, hasn’t left me much time or space to self-reflect. I stretch and relax into the spaciousness of that.
Day 5
In the morning, everything looks different. The glow of the night before has faded significantly as I look down the barrel of another long day of forced silence.
I decide to add some structure to my day. A list of errands in hand, I head for my car. My first stop is the post office to mail the art postcards to family and friends. My second stop is the library to do some research for my book. It’s quite obvious to me that I would go crazy from restlessness if I didn’t have a car and couldn’t leave the grounds. My need to be active and busy, to have a purpose and a plan is strong.
The progress on my book lifts my spirits. Though I occasionally find myself resisting the process of writing, once I get into it, it seems to flow. Ideas that never occurred to me seem to be emerging from the depths of my creative psyche. I truly believe that given the way my life is, I may need to plan frequent trips away, even for long weekends, in order to keep my writing going. What I’ve learned since I’ve been here is that the process is up to me, and that I can sit down at different times of the day and write if—and only if—I learn to shut the world out while doing so. Perhaps the laptop is the answer, and the private rooms at the library. A mini-retreat, so to speak.
After lunch, I come back to my room to read and rest. But for some reason, I can’t sleep. I feel panicky, and I want to pack up and leave. I feel pulled back to my home and my life. It is overwhelming, at times. However, if I bear with it and allow it to surface, eventually it goes away, and my mind will latch onto the next thing.
I get up; make a cup of coffee, then go outside in the sun. While sitting at a brick red picnic table, I see what looks to be a flock of adolescent wild turkeys. They’re exploring a grassy area near the driveway, looking for food. I watch them for a time, my mind drifting. I start wrestling with how I want my book to unfold, and an insight comes out of nowhere. I feel chills and a sense of relief. It has taken me years to see it, but only a moment for it to emerge. I must have needed the space for it to appear. My faith in the creative process has been restored!
I speak with the registrar here about arranging for a retreat for women writers. She tells me that she looked for me a couple of days before to tell me that a room had opened up in the farmhouse. I tell her that I’m fine now. I’m almost afraid that if I move, I’ll lose my way with the book.
Day 6
The magic of being here is wearing thin. The novelty has worn off. Now the silence is beginning to bother me. I think I could handle being away from my family and my life if I could at least speak to people and perhaps get to know a few. It’s my computer and me. I feel as though I am surrounding by living, breathing ghosts. We pass each other in the hallways, on the pathways and in the dining room. Some nod and smile, others drift past making no contact. This is my sixth day here, and I’m curious about who these women are, why they’re here, where they’ve come from.
Humans are social animals, and we’re not designed to ignore each other. Not speaking to others goes against all my social training. When you see someone, you’re supposed to greet them and inquire about how they’re doing or something. Here, nothing. But alas, that is the nature of a silent retreat—to make you aware of things you take for granted, to put you in touch with yourself, apart from others. I imagine this must be what it’s like in a nursing home or in prison. Of course, they talk in those places, but the environment is controlled, unnatural.
I don’t feel sad really, just restless and frustrated. It’s so tempting to leave today. I have to think to reasons to stay. It’s difficult. I chose this; therefore, I can choose not to do this. But is it time to return to my life?
I miss M terribly, like an ache. It feels wrong to be away. It would all make more sense if I was having a wonderful time, but in this moment, I’m not. I also miss J and D, too, but in a different way. They don’t need me like M does. I’ve never been away from him for this long. I don’t know if it’s worth it. Yes, I appreciate my life more. Maybe that’s what this was for, to show me that I don’t need to run away or strip my life of everything familiar in order to write. I guess I needed to see that I can write in the midst of the fullness around me.
I find it interesting that how much I miss my routines: reading the paper at my kitchen table, drinking coffee out of my favorite cup, running in my neighborhood, puttering around my house, reading a book in my favorite chair, working on freelance projects, playing with M, chatting with D while he cooks dinner, driving J to his guitar lesson and more. I miss it all. Every little thing.
I went to the movies last night. I just couldn’t stay in this room any longer. I saw “Sixth Sense”. J recommended it. It had a dark, mysterious quality about it, about a boy who could see the dead after they died. Due to the enforced silence, the emotions evoked by the film seemed extra intense. All of my senses are more heightened, my awareness stretched tight around each experience.
Day 7
I have set myself up with three errands today: getting gas, getting money from an ATM, and doing some laundry. All are very basic tasks. Yet, I need these distractions now to help me move through the day. I have a new book to read as well. Plus, I’m going to call D tonight and tell him that I’m leaving tomorrow after breakfast. To stay longer than that would be torture.
On my way out I meet the woman in the room next to mine. Her name is Ellie. She’s in her sixties and she’s full bodied with short brown hair, and dark eyes. She sees that I have a load of laundry in my arms and asks me if I’m leaving. No, I say, just going to town to wash some clothes.
She seems genuinely relieved, though we don’t really know each other. She tells me that she lives nearby and is married with two grown daughters who are thirty-six and thirty-three. She works part-time and is in school to finish her master’s degree. She also volunteers at the church and baby-sits her seven-year-old grandson.
I explain my need to do laundry: I need a break from writing—my eyes hurt—and I need to get out of my room and do something. She nods as if she understands. She reveals that those on the silent retreat are nuns and aren’t supposed to leave the grounds. They’ve left “the world” behind; it was time for them to just be. Though she’s not a nun, she tells me that she decided to follow the rules of the silent retreat anyway, but confesses to me that she also felt pulled to do some errands in town the day before, but she realized she was avoiding being here and turned around when halfway there.
I tell Ellie how difficult the silence is for me, slowing down and being away from my five year-old. Ellie says that her daughters probably would never want to do anything like this. I tell her that many of my friends wouldn’t either. The whole idea seems a little extreme to me.
“The woman on the retreat don’t seem very happy. They’re too serious,” I say. “They need to smile more, celebrate the gritty side of life, have more sex, watch some stand-up comedy and play Frisbee with a couple of ten-year-old boys. Something to shake ‘em up, get them having fun again.”
The conversation shifts to my book and inevitably, my father’s death. I briefly explain that I am writing a memoir about the year I spent settling his estate. Sudden death is difficult. She tells me that her son-in-law died suddenly when her grandson was only four.
We both seem to need this conversation, as if we’ve been craving it since first hearing our chairs scraping and doors closing in our adjacent rooms. I tell her that I admire her for being able to do what she’s doing. She says she thinks I’m disciplined. Probably both misperceptions, but we enjoy hearing it just the same.
Later, I meet a young woman working at the laundromat. She has long black hair pulled back tightly in a ponytail, olive skin, and a line of white eyeliner on each eye, accenting her very dark brown eyes. We sit outside on some brown plastic chairs that line the front of the building. She lights a cigarette and we start talking.
She tells me she’s from the ghetto section of Hartford, and that she has recently moved to Litchfield to make a new start. Later, she reveals that she lives in a halfway house and that she’s been sober for a year, and intends to move out soon to live with her boss from the laundromat. Pregnant at fourteen, her daughter, Destiny, now six, lives with her paternal grandmother in a better part of Hartford. She says her life is difficult, but that she likes living in a new place. Most of the people she meets are nice, which makes her feel optimistic about her life.
I mostly listen, except to share my experience with family members in AA, and living in new places. I tell her that most people are afraid, which is why they’re sometimes mean. I also say that just because someone drives a nice car or lives in a big, white house doesn’t mean they’re happy or haven’t got their share of secrets. She smiles at that, relieved that I’m willing to speak to the squeaky clean mythology that surrounds suburban life, and acknowledge the dirt and soap scum that exists when examined up close.
I fetch us both coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, and wish her luck on her journey.
Two conversations in one day! I’m elated, though I notice that my throat tightened up a couple of time because I haven’t been talking much. Plus, my voice is a little hoarse. Ha ha! I guess it needs a warm up first. I forgot to stretch it out before I launched into a conversation. It’s like eating too fast and too much when you’ve been hungry for awhile. Your stomach’s capacity has diminished, and you feel overly full and almost sick when you’ve finished.
As I pack up my room, I realize that in spite of the many challenges, there are some things I know I will cherish about this trip: the amount of reading I’ve been able to do, the break from household chores, the lack of interruptions, the appreciation I have for my family and my home, the rediscovery of the joy of writing, the importance of good friends, and the smells of the country. All in all, a memorable and soul-stirring way to celebrate my entrance into my fifth decade.
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