The power of silence

Back in 2018 I separated from my ex, and in the process of healing I felt ‘called’ to visit India. I like to call it my ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ moment. I had never been to that country before but had visited Sri Lanka and the Maldives a few years previous, and fallen in love with the culture in that part of the world. Through healing I was exploring notions of happiness - what is it, how to find it, how to sustain it. I read The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama, and began exploring Buddhism. I wanted to deepen my meditation practice that I began two years before, and made a decision to visit India and undertake a silent retreat on the course Introduction to Buddhism and Meditation. This post documents my reflections on that experience.

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I miss not talking.

It’s been nearly two weeks since leaving Tushita, and breaking a ten day silence I upheld whilst on the retreat. It feels as if I’ve been rudely thrown back into the noisiness of every day life, particularly since returning to work, and I’m grasping for the simplicity of silence.

I recall during the first day the question asked of us by the nun Kunpen who was leading the registration process: “If there is anybody here who thinks that they cannot be silent, or live without their phone for this long, please give up your space to someone on the waiting list.”

My internal chatter started doubting whether I could do it — perhaps it would be too difficult? What if someone needed to get hold of me urgently and couldn’t? What messages would I miss from friends and family back home? Would I find it too mentally challenging to be quiet? What if I started talking to myself? (ok, that last one wasn’t really a concern as I do that all the time anyway..!)

I pushed through these fears and continued on through registration. Our silence started after supper as we began our first meditation session, and lasted through to the morning of the 10th day.

It was hard to start with: my inner dialogue was strong, a running commentary on all I was experiencing and thinking. I wanted to reach out to my fellow students to say “hello” as we passed, or “thank you” for handing the soup ladle to me at lunch, or to invite them to exit in front as I held the door open on the Gompa.

At first I wanted to ask the teachers questions during class, but held back for fear of my own voice being so naked in the vast open space of the Gompa. As the retreat progressed, this fear turned into a desire not to break my silence to ask questions, instead quietly contemplating them, noting down thoughts in my journal and meditating on them whilst alone.

Our teachers continuously conveyed the value of maintaining silence on the retreat: “This may be the only time in your life when you get to experience silence for this period of time — even a day is hard to do in normal every day life, so think what a luxury it is to have ten days. Make the most of it.”

So I kept quiet the whole time. After the shock from the initial first day was over it was easy, and it became second nature not to talk.

When you’re not talking you observe more, you become less focussed on self and therefore more considerate and compassionate. I started noticing what I labelled “micro acts of kindness” — people waiting patiently for others to pick up their shoes before reaching for their own on the rack outside the Gompa, or handing the ladle to others instead of letting it fall back into the serving bowls and get covered in food, or sharing knives to cut bread when others forgot to pick their own up. We relied instead on eye contact and smiles of acknowledgement to communicate with each other.

After the third day the internal chatter started to quieten down. There was space emerging between thoughts and analytical commentary on those thoughts. In that space there was peace. I enjoyed it sitting on the steps of the terraced garden with closed eyes, feeling the warm October sun on my face, hearing the insects chorusing in the scrub, feeling the presence of Yeshe, one of the retreat’s resident dogs, wandering the paths and sniffing the plant beds.

That space was “now”, the present moment. How much of what we talk about is what we’re going to do, or what we’ve done? (I realise the irony here as this entire post has been written in past tense!) We never talk about the present moment: it is fleeting, indivisible, intangible — try to capture it and it’s gone already. Embracing silence, quietening the mind and simply “being” is, I believe, a powerful antidote to modern chaos.

At the end of the retreat I begrudged starting to talk again. I wanted to extend the simple peace I’d found for as long as possible, so decided against further travel in India, opting to stay in McLeod Ganj for the remaining week. Returning home via the craziness of Delhi was hell, although eight hours on the plane provided some solace as I could be alone with my mind again. I wondered how I could integrate silence into my life so I could re-find and sustain this peaceful space?

Almost a week later and I don’t have a definitive answer. But I do have ideas I’m putting into practice.

Since returning to work colleagues have asked me how my trip was, and I’ve been happily sharing my stories. But I’ve been mindful of over-talking whilst in meetings, something I would not have been so self aware of before.

I’ve been meditating in the early morning before everybody else wakes up, enjoying the peace of a sleeping household.

I’m getting my own place in the next two weeks, which means I can practice silence at home — maybe even have one day a weekend where I replicate the environment of the retreat with no digital distractions and no verbal communication.

I’m going to work towards undertaking a Vipassana retreat, where you maintain silence and meditate for ten hours a day for a full ten days. I know it is within me to do this, but I am not yet ready as I’m still processing what I’ve learnt from the last one.

I would encourage all to find time within our busy schedules where we can just enjoy quiet (including free of distractions!), even for as little as ten minutes a day. Give it a go — it’s powerful stuff.

This post first appeared on 7 November 2018, on a personal blog that has since been closed.