“We keep the doors unlocked here,” she said in a hushed voice. “It shows we have trust among the residents. Will this be a problem for you, dear?” Her mouth breaks into a soft smile, searching my face for an answer.
“Uh, no,” I sputter. “No problem here.” I tighten the grip on my suitcase handle.
She nods in agreement. I scan the room, searching for a makeshift weapon I can use in case one of the residents decides to take a midnight detour into my room.
My eyes settle on a plastic trash can and a bar of soap the size of a pack of gum. Great.
Welcome to my experience at a silent retreat in the foothills of Tucson, Arizona. Some of you had questions about this from a previous post.
A silent retreat is exactly what you think it is. No. Talking. They are designed this way to enhance your contemplation and inner guidance.
Let me say right now that a silent retreat may not be right for you. Maybe you’d rather go somewhere exotic where you can lounge around a pool and drink adult beverages. Some place like Hawaii or El Paso.
But for me, the idea of spending two days ON MY OWN with no cell phone to charge, tiny tushies to wipe or crust-less peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to make sounded like my kind of vacation.
If you’re in the market for a silent retreat, you’ve came to the right place. Allow me to share some of my nuggets of wisdom with you.
NUGGET NUMBER ONE: I was okay with the silence and not talking.
When I was by myself, that is. Otherwise, when a fellow resident crossed my path on the way to the dining hall or the library, my natural reaction was to twitch my mouth into a pitiful half-smile (no teeth).
But not here.
Talking is only allowed at dinner…and apparently Chapel, where the minister conducts a holy service and attendees sing hymns. I was a little disappointed about that. This being a silent retreat, I thought I could get away with just humming the tunes in my head.
NUGGET NUMBER TWO: I chew too much. (Say that fast ten times.)
Each morning, we filed into the dining hall. The smell of bacon, eggs and pancakes wafted through the air. The only thing I remember hearing is the gentle scrape of a fork over a plate, and wood crackling in the fireplace.
And my chewing.
To the casual observer, it probably looked like I was simply taking a bite of my toasted bagel and contemplating my life’s purpose…listening to my inner guidance.
But this is what’s really going on in my head.
Wow. Chomp.
This bagel sure is crunchy. Chomp chomp. I wonder what brand it is.
Maybe. Chomp. I should’ve slopped some more of that cactus jelly on it. Chomp, chomp.
How do they make cactus jelly, anyway? Chomp.
Oh, look. Chomp. A spare hymnal from Chapel. Chompy chomp chomp.
Good Lord, I should’ve had the oatmeal instead.
NUGGET NUMBER THREE: It’s next to impossible to get any sleep when your door is unlocked.
I know it’s a trust issue, but the fact that an unlocked sliding glass door is the only thing standing between me and another resident is a bit unnerving.
Then, I got to thinking, “If I scream at a silent retreat and no one is supposed to hear me, will I really make a sound?”
I sat up in bed all night, staring at the door. Finally, at three in the morning, I convinced myself I was overreacting and decided to go to sleep.
That’s when I heard it.
Footsteps crunching across the gravel. Stopping just outside my sliding glass door.
In the darkness, I clutched my mini soap and trash receptacle for protection. My heart pounding, I waited. And waited. I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I mustered up the courage to peek through the curtain of the sliding glass door.
The moonlight reflected a silhouette no more than five feet from my window. It wasn’t a person. But I saw something moving. I flipped the light switch, and there it was.
A wild javelina. Just standing there.
Chomping.
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