I Didn’t Last 24 Hours at a Silent Retreat

Back in November when the shock of having the Cheeto flea running the country again hit me full force, the world seemed even more loud and chaotic. I thought maybe I should look for a retreat, a silent retreat. Later when I was in said retreat and the facilitator, who we’ll call K, said we should thank that voice that told us we should go on a retreat, I thought, “Oh no. That voice is getting a serious talking to.”

I usually go away to a cabin by myself and walk in the woods. That’s my retreat. Believe me, it’s better for everyone if I’m separated from the herd. Why that voice thought that wasn’t enough will also be part of the discussion.

Anywho, I listened to the voice and signed up for a weekend silent retreat at Kripalu in Stockbridge, MA. First, let me say my experience was not a failing of Kripalu’s. They are who they are, and they do what they do well. I can say I really enjoyed the food, which was spiced with many things I tend to fearfully avoid, being the Cheez Whiz girl that I am. The people who work there are very kind and soft spoken, which for me can go both ways. As I texted to a friend when I first arrived, I couldn’t decide if it was calming or creepy or both. Again, that’s on me, but if you are me, walking down the hall of the dormitory, which was eerily quiet after the hubbub of the main floor, it seemed like a perfect set up for a horror movie.

So that was my first thought upon entering this well-known facility for wellness. My second thought was about how most of the guests were white, straight, older people. Older than me, and I ain’t no spring chicken. There were a handful of Black and Brown guests, and I hope they were getting what they needed. Almost all of the workers who were cleaning and cooking for those of us who were finding our spirituality were people of color. Our privilege is so very stressful, you know. It made me feel weird and uncomfortable. I hoped they are paid well.

Upon seeing how many people were there milling about the main floor, I realized I should have asked more questions and not assumed that the silent retreat meant, to me at least, solitude and silence. Kripalu’s definition apparently is a 50-person class on how to cultivate silence. My heart sank when I saw the program: eat, engage in some unspecified activity for 2 & 1/2 hours, eat, engage in more unspecified activity for another 2 & 1/2 hours, eat, and then presumably collapse. I really don’t want to do anything for 2 & 1/2 hours, except as the first part of a good night’s sleep before I have to get up to pee.

I thought during the retreat I’d be in a quiet place, take some yoga classes, have a guided meditation, and go for long walks in the woods. I realize now that is what they call the “Self-Guided R&R Retreat,” or, really what I would do if I were alone in a cabin in the woods. If being with hundreds of other people didn’t overwhelm me, the R&R option would have been OK.

Despite my misgivings, I felt like I needed to give it a chance. Maybe I was so raw that everything felt like too much. Maybe once I got into it, I would be OK. So on Friday evening after dinner, I dove into the deep end and went to the 1 & 1/2 hour program.

The room was uncomfortably cavernous and church-like, with lights up the walls and inhumanly high ceilings; I felt dwarfed and experienced a little ex-Catholic PTSD. Then facilitator K talked. And talked. I was already feeling overwhelmed, and then she made us meet the people next to us to tell each other why we came. At least my neighbors were cool. One was in mental health and said she was looking for solitude. I thought, good luck, lady, finding it in this room of 50 people sitting in a circle staring at each other. The other woman cracked me up when she said she was pissed off. She elaborated by saying she’s been there 100 times and always arrives pissed off. I can get behind the authenticity, but this wasn’t helping me at all.

The thing about being a highly sensitive person (HSP) is that everything feels more to me than it does for those who are not HSP. That big room felt BIIIIG. When K started talking about how we were making a commitment to hold space for each other, I started to sweat. I have to deal with “holding space“ for the emotions of 50 people?!? Every day I’m awash in other people’s emotions, and if I’m not careful, they can drag me down. That’s what I was trying to get away from.

This was HSP kryptonite.

We finally got to do a long, quiet meditation, although K kept using air quotes when she said meditation. I can’t even remember what she called it instead — she used two words. It was really distracting. All I could think about while I was supposed to be “meditating” was, is “meditation” not a thing anymore? Like how my generation calls it pot, and my son’s generation calls it weed. What’s wrong with the word “meditation”? Couldn’t she just say the various words for the activity without the air quotes?

And this, my friends, is why I should not be with groups of strangers.

K finally released us at 8:30 pm, and I “mindfully” hurried back to my room. Once there though, it dawned on me that I had signed up for the cheapest option, which included a shared bathroom. I get up at least once a night to pee. The bathroom was around the corner, and a bit down the hall. At 2 am would I remember to bring my key? What if I got locked out of my room in my pajamas? Or what if it’s standing room only because there were lots of other women there my age who also presumably have to pee at night? More people! I decided to go into camping mode. No more liquids and no getting up till it’s light.

You can see how I was really starting to relax into this experience.

After a fitful night, I woke up the next morning and got breakfast. Trying to get into the mode of being present, I sat with my feeling of dread about the upcoming 2 & 1/2 hour long session. What I really wanted to do was take a long walk outside. In the silent woods, by the silent great pond. If I went to both sessions, I’d be released at 4 pm. Maybe I could get a walk in before it got dark. I took a deep breath and headed towards the cavernous main hall with church vibes. I was greeted by 50 yoga mats placed in many rows and inches away from each other, and most of them were full. I tiptoed, hopscotched, and scootched my way to a spot between two older men.

Here we go.

There was more talking about silence and listening to your silence. K explained a lot about how we’re expected to always be busy and productive. She went on about not being in our bodies. Not to be bitchy, but these are all things I know. Because my body literally cannot tolerate society’s expectations of constant busyness and productivity, I have learned to ignore a lot of it.

I kept wistfully glancing up the solid walls to the big windows perched at the very top. Impossibly high and out of reach: winter blue sky with a few white puffy clouds. After “meditating,” we did several yoga poses. K told us to pause between poses and check in with our body. That was actually a useful tip. But it could’ve been an email.

Before going into another “meditation” (I’m sorry, I just can’t let it go), K talked about how you can hear your true voice better when you’re silent. Five seconds into the silence, my true voice screamed, GET OUT. We took a short bathroom break, and she mentioned we’d journal when we returned. I saw that we had 45 minutes left, and I clung to the promise of journaling to get me through. Journaling is like breathing to me, and it’s how I keep myself fit for civilization. I looked forward to processing all of the panic and frustration from the morning and hoped it would calm me. But there was more talking and a few more poses. At long last she told us to get our journals. I wrote 13 lines and was just warming up, when she said, “OK, finish up your sentence.” What? 2 &1/2 hours and the journaling gets 5 minutes? What kind of mindless bullshit was this?

Then she told us the “arc” of the afternoon activities, and all I could think of was a harmful electrical spark. When she said we’d be going outside, my ears perked up. Maybe this weekend could be salvaged. But in the same breath as “outside” she added, “This will not be a hike,” in a tone that reminded me of yelling at my kid as a child: “We’re going to the store, but we will not buy any candy!” She finished with, “It will be a slow, present walk on the patio.” They have acres of woods and a beautiful pond out there in Stockbridge, and we’d be confined to the patio. My mind immediately went to a vision of prisoners, dressed in orange and chained together with ankle cuffs being shuffle-marched in a slow circle of ”mindfulness.”

That did it, I was done. When we were released I went to lunch, hoping the food and the silent dining room would help calm me, but 3/4 of the people in that dining room were talking in their normal voices. If I’m supposed to be silent, can I even call them out on it? I tried to focus on the beautiful mountains outside to block them out, but I couldn’t. I very unmindfully fled back to my room. I desperately wanted to leave, but my true voice was still clamoring for a walk. I grabbed my coat and headed out.

The day was cold, but the perfectly still air made the most of the sunshine; it felt New England winter balmy. I got a full view of the winter blue sky and white clouds. The snow crunched under my boots. Rather than follow the long, curvy drive, I made a straight path across a large lawn to the main road and found a sign pointing toward the great pond, Lake Mahkeenac. I followed it. The silence of the trees enveloped me, and my breathing slowed. Huge, ancient-looking vines snaked up the leafless hardwoods. Red osier dogwood bushes added a splash of color along the path. When I reached the pond, Adirondack chairs beckoned me. No one else was there. I sat down in the sunshine and exhaled. I watched two ice fishing shacks in the distance and time slowed. When a soft breeze came across the pond, I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation. The sunshine took the chill out of the wind. I felt warmth on my legs where my black pants were channeling the sun’s heat. I sat still and quiet until my body wanted to move again. I started back up the path and found a loop trail with more giant vines. I paused at an old, beautiful river birch, the biggest I’ve ever seen. A while later I greeted a huge, majestic pine. “Thank you,” I whispered.

I wanted to keep walking, but I had to go to the bathroom. Dueling present-in-my-body feelings, but the bathroom won. As I got closer to the main building, my dread increased, confirming the voice that still yelled, GET OUT. When I got back, I threw mindfulness out the window and shoved everything into my backpack. I had a last look around the room to make sure I hadn’t missed anything and checked out.

I’m not one of those people who thinks of my car as an extension of myself — it’s something that gets me from point A to point B, and I don’t even use it a lot in the city. However, I was never so relieved, happy, and thankful as when I got inside and started that baby up.

It was 2:30 pm. I had arrived the day before at 4:30 pm. I hadn’t even lasted 24 hours.

Once I was safely on the highway. I laughed at myself and made a lot of noise playing my favorite music.

If you do go to Kripalu, you can be sure it will be safe from the likes of me. I’ll be in a cabin in the woods, enjoying the silence.