The Gift of Silence–A five-day silent retreat at Spirit Rock

I remember my best friend’s reaction when I told her I was going on a five-day silent meditation retreat. The retreat was called the Insight Meditation Solstice Retreat and finished just a few days before Christmas. It took place at Spirit Rock, a Vipassana meditation center about an hour north of San Francisco. I would finish an intense semester of teaching at a university, then pack my bags and head up for pure quiet for 5 days before the holidays kicked in (really only 3 full days with a few hours on either side). And by pure quiet, I mean absolutely no communication. No smiling, no eye contact, no body gestures, no reading, no writing, period. Complete silence in every way.

“That sounds horrible!” my friend said. “And painful! I had a friend that went on one of those silent retreats and she said that her butt hurt the entire time. Is that seriously what you want to do during your vacation?”

It was.

When I got back from the retreat, a few friends asked what it was like to experience that kind of silence, to not communicate with anyone, and to meditate for almost ten hours a day. The short answer? Super intense and kind of addicting. This was no “peaceful retreat” where we sat around and drank pina coladas and got massages. This was boot camp for our minds.

I arrived around 5pm on the first day, but we didn’t have to take the vow of silence until 8pm, after our first meditation session. It was a pleasant surprise, actually, because it meant I got a chance to talk to my super-sweet roommate before we couldn’t communicate with each other. We established a couple little rules that we could gesture or whisper a quick message if we had to, as long as it only had to do with our living situation. We were both pretty extroverted and chatty, so it was a hard to imagine not being able to talk about our experience at the end of our day. The talking time also meant I had a chance to chat with an unexpected fellow retreatant: a guy  who looked like Uncle Jesse from Full House. We’d dated for a few days, about six months before the retreat. I wasn’t super happy he was there because I knew it would be distracting. It also didn’t help that–out of a hundred other retreatants–we got placed on the same work meditation (our daily chore): washing pots side-by-side after every lunch.

The retreat officially began with our first meditation in the spacious meditation hall after dinner. Since my roommate had told me to pick out my meditation spot when I arrived, I’d already chosen my cushions and we joined our three teachers for a 40 minute meditation and then an explanation of the retreat and practice. We began by taking the Buddhist five precepts:

1. To abstain from taking life (hence the vegetarian meals). 2. To abstain from only taking what is given (for example, I was given my chore, I didn’t choose it), and we had to eat what they served us (which was amazing). 3. To abstain from sexual misconduct (we had to commit to total celibacy–even married couples didn’t sleep in the same room). 4. To abstain from false speech (lying–not hard when you’re not talking). And finally, numero 5: To abstain from drugs and alcohol.

Lastly, we took the vow of silence, which was really powerful. We vowed not to communicate in any way with each other (not even to write a note), and to not read, journal, use the internet, watch TV (impossible anyway), or call people on the phone. We could only communicate with our teachers, or in one of the small group meetings we had twice during the retreat. The purpose of this was to give us the rare opportunity to have our own distinct experience, with no distractions. It also helped us keep our experience sacred by not trying to explain or intellectualize or compare it. As an extrovert, I have only recently begun to realize how much talking about my spiritual life can often diminish it. Which is ironic, I admit, since I’m writing about it here.

After the first evening of the retreat, I had my biggest watershed moment. I walked into the dining hall, grabbed a mug, and sat down with cup of tea. Then someone in the dining hall sneezed.

And no one said “Bless you.”

It’s hard to describe why that was so monumental. Here I was in a room full of what were likely very considerate people, and none of us said our prescribed polite response. I felt like a monster. I struggled to keep my blessing inside.  I was like Roger Rabbit with the “Shave and a Haircut” song, where he gets caught by the villain because he can’t stop from replying with, “TWO BITS!”

And in that moment, when I sat staring at my mug, biting my tongue, something amazing happened. I realized that I’d been walking around my whole life with a thin cord connected to every person in the room with me, every person that I cared about in some small way. I have always been hyper-aware of the people that surrounded me, as if any disturbance in the force affected my emotional stasis. If they were sad, unhappy, angry, discontent, or whatever, I’d feel it. I’d feel a low level of anxiety. And if I knew the person well enough, I’d feel somehow responsible to get their feelings back to status quo so I’d feel okay again.

“That’s kind of big issue,” my meditation teacher later said, when I told him about it. Yeah, it kind of is. And yet, I’d never really been aware of it. I’d just always felt responsible for everyone and everything in big and small ways. You know, I kinda want to save the world–that’s all. And suddenly, I couldn’t be responsible for anyone. In fact, it wasn’t allowed.

It was as if someone took a pair of giant sewing scissors and cut all the threads. They flopped to the floor. And then I began to reel them back into myself over the next four days, little by little.

The rest of the retreat followed a pretty intense schedule. We woke up at six a.m. and meditated from 6:30 until 7:10, and then had breakfast. Then we had a break until 9:30, when we meditated again until 12:30 for lunch (40 minutes of sitting meditation alternating with 40 minutes of walking meditation). I had my work meditation after lunch with , then we had a break until 2pm. Then we meditated all afternoon (alternating sitting and walking) until 5:30. After dinner we meditated, had a talk from one of our fabulous teachers, Donald Rothberg, Heather Sundberg, and John Travis (all of whom were incredible), and meditated some more. We ended at 9:30pm, and I usually went to sleep by 10. I think we meditated in one form or another for about 10 hours.

So what the heck did we do while we sat on the cushion or did walking meditation? The practice is called Insight Meditation, Vipassana, or Mindfulness Practice. Vipassana is one of the world’s oldest forms of meditation that was apparently re-discovered by the Buddha. My meditation center has this definition: “Vipassana or ‘insight meditation’ means to see things as they really are through the practice of cultivating mindfulness, learning to be aware and present each moment without clinging or aversion. From this state arises clear seeing, wisdom, and compassion.” Basically, mindfulness means paying extreme attention to everything I do. While I meditate, I am aware of my breathing, my body, the sounds around me, the emotions I feel, and the thoughts I have. As I do walking meditation, I feel the ground under my feet and the sensations of the air and environment around me. As I eat, I am aware of the tastes and smells and textures of what I put into my mouth.

The point is to train the mind to focus, to concentrate, and to be fully present, instead of wandering off constantly like an unruly two-year-old and doing whatever it wants. When we are able to observe ourselves and our crazy mind with that kind of detachment, we can also detach (to some extent) from the suffering that our mind brings as well and have that wisdom and clear sight that is at the heart of Insight Meditation.

You can read more about it here.

Let me just say this: It’s not easy. Try being observant of every little thought that blows through your mind. Try being completely present for five minutes without your mind wandering off into the future, the past, or what you want to say or do. That said, it was my only task every day, for ten hours a day (actually, for 16 hours, because I was supposed to be doing that ALWAYS, even while eating and doing my chore, ahem, working meditation). It was no vacation, friends. But it was amazing.

The first day I felt like most people–I shifted in my seat, my butt hurt, my legs hurt, I wanted to cough, move, switch positions, etc. I was uncomfortable. They call this process “arriving.” I called it “annoying.” My thoughts went something like this: Am I really going to do this for three full days? What’s wrong with me? God, my legs hurt. Why does everyone else look so peaceful? How can she sit so still? Am I breathing too loud? Why is Uncle Jesse here anyway? Is there some kind of message in that? Should I ask to switch to a different chore practice? Ugh. Concentrate, dammit! Focus! Did Uncle Jesse just cough? Was that him? And where does that woman get all her cute yoga clothes?

The second day I started to relax more and I was completely exhausted. I almost fell asleep several times while meditating. I tripped out on cool things like the frozen ice crystals on the wooden bench in the morning, that I would watch melt in the sunshine, or the deer that would walk right by me when I did my walking meditation because I was walking so slow and quiet. I would trip out and think things like: Wow! How did I never notice this? What would my life be like if I actually paid attention to these crystals every day? Basically, I was kind of like a stoner, and everything was amazing. I did yoga for 30 minutes during a break, which helped my aches and pains tremendously. I finally figured out exactly what Uncle Jesse’s cough sounded like (he later confessed he could instantly recognize my laugh). My thoughts were a little calmer, but not much, and I desperately hoped for enlightenment on day 3.

The third day I finally arrived. I was present. I was happy to be there. I got really into my practice and began to go deep, to really have the meditation soak in and become an intimate part of me. I did not, however, become enlightened. I did, however, realize how much my mind obsesses over certain topics, over and over again: Men, mostly, relationships, love, etc. I didn’t like that. My thoughts went something like this: Wow. Would you stop thinking about (insert man here: father, boyfriend, Uncle Jesse, etc.)? You do realize that you give this topic WAY too much mental energy, right? I mean, wow. Oh wait, I’m judging myself. I’m not supposed to judge myself. Darn it! I’m just observing myself thinking a lot about the men in my life. And that just is. But seriously, did Uncle Jesse cough again? Does he need a cough drop, perhaps?

And just like that, the silence was over. On Day 5 we broke the silence after our morning meditation. It was awkward, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone but my roommate, so I steered clear of almost everyone else. I didn’t want to talk about my experience or bond with anyone. I didn’t want to share what I’d thought about or struggled with or been inspired by. So I just told people nice things I’d noticed: Hey, thanks for breathing so softly! That was great! Or: Thanks for sitting next to me–you were great at that!

I mean really, what do you say?

But at the same time, it was so interesting to listen to people process, to hear how your breathing, your stillness, your energy affected someone else in ways you had no idea about. That made me think about the affect we have on each other every day, and how powerful communication really is, both verbal and non-verbal, and how we have the power to transform each other’s lives in very small ways we’re not even aware of.

There are a million other things I’m leaving out here (like the post-retreat conversation with Uncle Jesse, sorry if you were hoping for more), but all I can say is that I encourage everyone to give it a try. I have to say though, the five-day retreat was too short for me. Now I’m signed up for a ten-day retreat in June and I can’t wait. My teachers and godfather have said that you need a ten day retreat to really experience the benefits, that it takes at least three days to really arrive. Ten days on retreat without any communication, spiraling deeper into my neurotic mind? Count me in. Sounds like some serious adventure.

Someone said once that years of therapy cannot unearth the things you discover in ten days of silence. After my experience on my short retreat, I definitely agree. I realized so many things about myself and how I relate to others, to myself, and to my mind, that I’ve only whetted my appetite to go deeper. It’s neat, because most of my life I’ve been obsessed with traveling to the foreign all around the world.

Now I’m traveling to the foreign within.

One-gift Christmas

What is it about the holidays that stresses us so much? While many of my friends get stressed by travel and family obligations, the largest source of frustration I hear about–and feel myself–is the pressure to buy, buy, buy. Unfortunately, most of us don’t spend enough quality time with our loved ones to know what they really need and what they’d really like. So your mother ends up with a sweater she’ll wear that day–and maybe next Christmas if you’re lucky; your brother gets a book he already read, and your dad gets a tie he’ll stuff in its box at the back of his sock drawer. In short, we often end up buying stuff that no one wants or uses.

Let’s be honest: None of us want to give or receive useless things. At the same time, however, many of us may want the opportunity to give gifts and honor that element of the holiday, but in a way that’s more meaningful or authentic. So how do we do it?

My family’s answer to this is what I’ll call “One-Gift Christmas.”

Here’s how it works. Each family member is a Secret Santa for one other family member. So for example, I get my dad, my dad gets my brother, etc. I made it a secret this year (to everyone but me), so there would be an added element of surprise. Then we each email the group a list of items that interest us, often sending links to the actual gift to make it easier. Our Secret Santa can only spend $30 to $40 on us, so the total of our gift ideas have to cost less than this.

Everyone then pays me $10 for stocking stuffers, and I go to Cost Plus World Market or Trader Joe’s for food or treats to fill our stockings on Christmas morning.

And that’s it. 50 bucks for my family’s Christmas.

I admit, it may sound a bit mechanical. It may seem as if we’re taking the surprise and joy out of the holidays because we’re not trusting that our family member can see us and know us so deeply that they’ll buy the exact gift we want. But when you consider the alternative: Receiving something we don’t want and may throw away, returning the gift with receipt (even more mechanized), or stuffing the gift in the closet and never using it; it’s really a blessing to actually get exactly what you want on Christmas Day, and it’s more environmentally conscious as well. My family member is happy to see me genuinely excited when I open my present, and I am genuinely grateful.

There are many other ways to approach the holidays and reduce the stress: You can donate to a charity instead of gift giving, limit to one gift and hope for the best, or just forgo gifts entirely. But since opening presents Christmas morning is a time-honored ritual in my household, this is our solution to have the best of both worlds.

What about you? Any thoughts on gift-giving for the holidays and how to make it stress-free and meaningful?

Editing Your Life: Less = More

With the holidays in full effect, I find it hard sometimes to fight the flood of commercialism and the incentive to buy, buy, buy. That’s why I appreciate this short, five minute TED talk by Graham Hill  (also posted below) where he shares his thoughts on “Life editing.”

As a writer, I never understood the value of editing until I got my M.F.A. at Saint Mary’s College. Until then, I thought writing largely consisted of channeling a story or a moment I’d experienced into a great narrative. Of course I’d “edit,” but there was nothing overly meticulous about it. The truth is though, good editing is ruthless–and it makes for the best kind of prose. I guarantee you that the best writers out there wrestle constantly with each sentence or word on the page, constantly deciding whether it deserves to stay on the page, to exist. Good writing, in essence, is always on trial for its life.

Graham Hill argues that we should have the same ruthlessness with our stuff–both the things we currently own, and the stuff we want to buy. In a way, this is a familiar concept for me. As a child and teenager, I moved literally every year; naturally this forced my family to whittle down our possessions while packing.

But my twenties took life-editing to a new level. A few short months after my mother passed away,  my then-boyfriend and I embarked on a month-long hike on the Pacific Crest trail in Washington State. He was an advocate  for lightweight hiking (perhaps disciple is a better word), so we had to whittle our possessions down to nearly nothing. Suddenly my possessions all had to justify the weight they would take up in my backpack. Every ounce, he’d argue, impacts your knees, burns needed calories, and slows you down.

Before we left on our trip, we gathered on my little balcony, my backpack contents spread vulnerably before him. I watched, depressed in a way, as he shook his head and vetoed my things. My toothbrush? Saw it in half. Did I really need the bottom half? It would save half an ounce. The sleeping pad? You really only need 3/4 of the length. Cut the rest. That book? You’ll be walking the whole time and won’t have time to read–just bring a journal and write during your free time. That heavy rain jacket? Why not just stash some garbage bags instead and wear those in an emergency? (Note: that one wasn’t the best idea, I learned, while hiking for three days in a trash bag in the rain. Bring a good lightweight rain coat, fellow hikers; it’s worth it.)

But that hike, and the one we did the following year from Mt. Whitney to Tahoe, instilled something in me: Stuff is heavy. Are you sure you want to carry it? I had to consider this constantly as I moved from one place to the next over the following seven years: from Sebastopol to the Bay Area, to Colorado, to the Philippines, to Colorado again, to the Philippines, to Turkey, to Italy, and then back to the Bay Area again. The most essential things in my life got condensed into packages, like little Jennie Durant bouillon cubes. And before I bought anything while living abroad, I’d think: Do I really want to pay to ship that back?

Now that I’ve returned to the Bay Area to put down roots and pursue a career and a family, the real challenge begins. I feel the temptation to acquire burning inside me like the first hints of a fever. That’s why I like this video and its simple tool to help me as I move into the holidays and the more stable stages of my adult life, where a closet, an attic, or a garage full of space tempts me with its storage capacity. Before I choose to buy something I must remember to ask myself an important question: Will this really make me happy? Really? Should I really spend my money on this thing?

My guess? The answer will almost always be no.

Recent Pics of Flowers

I recently took a trip to the Berkeley Botanical Garden to take some photos of bees for a bumblebee identification book that’s getting published by UC Berkeley. I mostly just went to take some sample shots for composition, to see what the publishing company is looking for. Anyway, it was a lovely day for hiking around, but way too bright for any good shots of the flowers. That said, I had fun playing with my camera and appreciating the sensuality of the flowers. You can see some of my shots below.

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The Roma Problem in Italy–What’s the Solution?

My first introduction to Italy’s Roma community–
known by many as gypsies–happened late at night on the train, traveling from Lake Como back to our home. Guido and I had just settled into our seats, when a drunken man shoved a woman and child onto the train. The woman held a small violin and wore a long green skirt that swished over her feet as she walked. The dark-haired boy held an accordion that stuck out awkwardly from his skinny arms.

The man began yelling at the conductor, then crying, as the woman hurriedly ushered her son into a seat. The train conductor remained calm–I would have hated to see the result if this had happened in the fiery south of Italy–and finally let the man on the train, I’m assuming the family hadn’t paid at all. The man staggered between the rows of chairs, the scent of alcohol on his breath assaulting us as he walked past. I asked my boyfriend what was happening.

“They’re gypsies,” he said. “Roma. It’s quite common for the man to force his wife and child to perform and beg while he does nothing but get drunk–like this guy.”

I felt nervous the whole way home, but since the conductor sat a few seats in front of us, I didn’t say anything. I just listened to the man grumble and shout as his wife and child intermittently and breathed a sigh of relief when they got off the train a few stops later.

Cooking Lessons in Varenna–Best Deal in Italy

My love affair with Chef Moreno’s cooking classes began in April of this year, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I had barely squeezed into Italy after a canceled flight due to the Iceland volcano, and so the whole trip had a slightly “I am one of the chosen ones” miraculous feel anyway.

A Year in Review

I was looking for the photo I wanted to use to change my header for this blog, and I suddenly found myself perusing all my photographs from the last year. It stuns me to think about where I’ve been since August 2009: I visited Costa Rica for two weeks, moved to Turkey and lived there for ten months, visited Egypt for ten days, moved to Italy in June 2010, then went back home to visit the United States in August. What a ride!

I feel so enormously blessed for all the incredible things I’ve had a chance to see, and find myself wishing that I’d been even more grateful for and curious about the places I stayed while I was there, instead of in retrospect. Yesterday I had a great conversation with my godfather, Bert. When I told him about my life in Italy and my thoughts on relocating here, he said I sounded like I was in a pretty good space with my life, that I had a healthy perspective on the situation. I answered: “Right this minute I do, anyway,” remembering my near-breakdown earlier this week. And he replied, “Well, that’s all we ever have anyway, right? This minute!”

The Marocchino–An Orgasm in a Cup

There are two kinds of people in the world, coffee drinkers and tea drinkers. I am definitely in the tea drinking camp. If you asked me to describe one of my favorite pleasures, I would say: Drinking a cup of tea–black with milk and honey in the morning and mint or rooibos in the afternoon and evening. Add a rainy day, a fantastic novel, snuggling on the couch, or chatting with friends, and I’m as happy as a Milanese woman with a new Furla purse.

The problem is, no one really drinks tea in Italy. This is the land of espresso. But it’s not like I pictured it would be: people sitting around in cafes, chatting as they savored their cappuccinos and lattes. Oh no. That’s France. In Italy, people drink coffee like they drive–friggin’ fast. A typical Italian walks into a bar during her morning break, orders an espresso, then stands at the counter and kicks the coffee back like a shot of whiskey. She’ll chat with her work friends for a few moments, finish off her brioche (croissant) then head back to work. There is no lingering.