Scenes From a Silent Retreat

 

The artificial silence of a silent retreat is basically a prohibition on verbal communication, though this year it also means all 6 attendees/guests/experimental subjects have agreed to go without internet or phones. But the retreat owner encourages artistic collaboration, which is difficult if no one can communicate. So this year’s innovation consist of three white boards in the dining hall. One upon which I write koans and quotes; two, a board where people can post activities/projects they invite others to, whether a walk, a jam session, dance, camping trip, etc. Since there are no clocks, the times are vague ("after sunset," "before dawn," etc). The third board has the daily menu, which makes it my favorite.

The 18-year-old dancer invited people to a session of ecstatic dance. She wrote “late night.” I passed by and saw her in the main cabin, which has a beautiful wooden sprung dance floor, sitting alone. She had some drum music playing on the speakers. I thought of going in, but then she closed her eyes and started to dance. She’s a gifted dancer and has been accepted to a highly regarded dance program (one I would not have been good enough to attend). She will start in the fall, after she does her stint here to “find herself” (that's what she wrote on the application). 

 

I stay outside watching through the window, candles creating shadows that seem to dance alongside her. After awhile she stops, then curls up on a little pile of throw pillows and rugs, and falls asleep. The candles start going out one by one. I quietly walk in and find a blanket in the back and gently put it over her. She moves a bit but doesn’t wake…as far as I know. I used to pretend to be asleep a lot as a kid when my mother would come in late at night. Outside, some mix of emotions comes over me like a light rain. I have a small electric lantern with me, and instead of heading back to my cabin to sleep I take a little walk. It seems just a few minutes have passed, but all of a sudden the first light of dawn is glowing.

 

One of the two musicians here-- both young men-- plays Native American flute, among other instruments. One day I saw him sitting near the main path, playing his flute. It was so delicate and sounded like the land itself playing, and it seemed the birds were singing in tune with his music. I listened for a while then quietly moved on, unnoticed, leaving the winged and human musicians to their concert. I love the way people find spots to sit and dance or do yoga whenever the mood hits them. No one has a schedule or has to ask permission about where they can do this or that. He posts a request for anyone to join him in all night jam sessions every few days. I went to one, and as everyone attending the retreat plays an instrument, it was quite wonderful and I danced a bit. 

 

But there was one moment that seemed less than the harmonious bliss expected here. The other musician, a guitarist in a band, started playing some riffs I recognized from the band Phish. The Native flute player, who was playing banjo at the time, stopped abruptly at the Phish interlude, and picked up an alto sax and took the music in a very different direction. I noticed his latest post was for “all night jam session, original music only.” Considering that we have no rules, except respect for others and silence, it was as close to an argument as you can get. Can’t wait to see how the other musician responds! 

 

The sculptor, a man who is so far always dressed in black and tends to keep to himself, was kneeling by a stream, and looked like a child playing in the mud. He saw me walking nearby, and waved me over. As I got closer, I saw he had been carving an intricate face into the edge of the bank, and had arranged sticks and grasses into a beautiful frame. Everything he did would be washed away by rain and the flowing water, but shortly after I saw it, he sat for a moment and then gently erased the etchings he had made. He dropped the sticks and grass into the water slowly, watching them float downstream. He looked over at me, smiled and nodded, and walked away. 

 

I always wonder what people assume I realize when they look at me like that, but it’s just my part in their story. I am happy to play any part…no one writes the script, and anyone’s interpretation of the Miranda thingie is as much me as anything else.  

 💓