Shhhhh! Don't Speak!
I didn't. For one whole week.
The little things? The little moments? They aren’t little.
— Jon Kabat-Zinn
After my mom died in 2015, two things happened:
The First Thing That Happened:
I became an artist. Something clicked in me and pushed me into creating… or attempting to create… beauty. Maybe to replace the beauty I had lost. My mom was my best soul friend. I miss her like mad, but I always talk to her in my head, and she’s in everything I ever make. So in a way, she’s not really gone.
The Second Thing That Happened:
I got silent. But only for a week. I drove to Joshua Tree for a one-week silent Vipassana retreat and here are the lessons learned.
LESSON ONE:
You can’t rule the rain but you can rule your reaction to the rain.
Buckets of water thrash upon my car’s windshield as I cautiously make my way on the Pomona freeway from L.A. to Joshua Tree for a week-long silent meditation retreat.
I’ve dipped my toe in many forms of spirituality since I can remember. I’ve swum in the zen pool. I felt awakened as a teenager (I’ve taken many naps since then.) But I’ve never spent one day in complete silence, let alone an entire week!
And silence means no internet, no phone, no texting, no TV, no movies, no wine, no reading, no writing! That last sentence has more “nos” in it than is usually to my liking. Still, for some reason, I’m looking forward to this disconnection/reconnection.
But right now… my heart beats quickly, my chest tightens, and I feel like crying as I drive blindly in the torrential downpour.
I. Can’t. See. Anything. If I pull over, a car might be coming quickly behind me, can’t see me because of the rain and the fog, and slam into me! If I drive super slowly, the very same thing may happen! I should have left earlier! No, I should have left later! Is this a sign? Should I go home?
I can feel myself getting swept away with my thoughts, which I know will inevitably only create more anxiety. So, I begin to focus on my breath. I breathe deeply, slowly, feeling the breath fill up my body. I focus on my breath and what I can see and tell myself this will pass. It finally did.
I couldn’t stop the storm, but I could tame the panic. At least a little bit.
LESSON TWO:
The more you obsess about a thing, the bigger the thing becomes.
The first night, we had a power outage, and the following day, during our first sitting meditation, we had an earthquake! Then the winds blew so hard I started having Wizard of Oz worries during our sitting mediation. Does Joshua Tree get tornados?
Also, it’s cold. I hate the cold. My nose feels like an icicle stuck in a slushy. Why isn’t the heater working? Can my nose get frostbite while I’m indoors? Why don’t they make coats for noses? I think I’ve seen nose cozies on Etsy. I should get one of those.
Then, the guy next to me started coughing up a lung. This phlegm-filled cough would become my new obsession. He’s going to get us all sick! Why is he out in public? Eww! Now he’s spitting! Does he even have a Kleenex? This is so gross. Doesn’t anyone else think this is incredibly gross?
I look around and see no other faces scrunched up in disgust. It’s just me. I’m overly sensitive. I’m too quick to be annoyed. The poor man is sick. I should have compassion for him.
Cough cough. Hack hack. Spit spit.
As soon as the bell rings, we bow our heads, and I swoop up my yoga mat and cushion and find another space across the room. I’m not in germs way anymore, but I can still hear Coughing Man.
Cough cough. Hack hack. Spit spit.
Somebody stop him before we all get infected!
Later that day I avoid Coughing Man at lunch. I’m pissed at him. Parading around with all of those germs, thrusting them about willy-nilly for all to potentially catch!
He comes towards me. Oh no! He sits at my table! Oh my! Right near me! I get up and move. Then I immediately had another thought…
What if he’s sick with something that’s not contagious, and if that’s the case, then… I’m such a jerk. Here I am, being pissed off at a sick man! Bad, Annie, bad!
In my interview with Zen Master Tenshin Roshi (we can speak during the interviews), I told him about my disdain for Coughing Man. He asks me, “Are you worried you’ll get sick?” I tell him that I am. He says, “Well, that’s always a possibility.” Then I tell him I feel like a jerk because I should have more compassion and less disgust. I tell him about my guilt over moving away from him at lunch.
“Well, I wouldn’t sit next to him either! I’m not stupid!” Roshi laughs. He goes on to say that no one wants to get sick. It’s normal. I think maybe, eventually, I’ll be able not to be so irked by a cough and still practice self-compassion by not putting myself in the line of germ fire. By day five, I no longer react to Coughing Man’s cough. I still didn’t sit next to him at lunch, though.
I did not get sick.
LESSON THREE:
There is no freakin’ rush!
I’ve always been a Speedy Gonzales, rushing about to and fro. Eating quickly, talking quickly, walking quickly. I chalked it up to having a lot of energy. But lately, it’s been bothering me. I’d often drop a dish, bang a toe, talk over people, and get hiccups from eating too fast.
On retreat, we practiced mindful eating. Before eating, I’d pause to think about the work it took to get the food to my plate. The farmer who grew the blueberry, the sun and rain that nourished it. The packers, the shippers, the truckers who got it to the grocery store. It was a beautiful thing to take time to feel grateful for all that went into this food on my plate. And when I would eat, I’d chew slowly and appreciate the flavors, savoring it. It made me wonder how many times I’ve rushed through a meal. How many times have I thought about dinner while still eating lunch? How often did I get up to wash a dish before I’ve even finished chewing?
Taking the time to appreciate the moment showed up everywhere on retreat. At six o’clock each morning, many of us would go into the dining area for coffee. One wall was made up of a large window with a view of the mountains. Several people would move their chairs to face the window, and some of us would stand behind them — all of us facing the window with our cups of coffee… all in silence… watching the sunrise as if we were watching a movie on a flat-screen TV.
Quietly watching those sunrises with a group of strangers each morning felt like the world wrapped me up in a big bear hug and whispered in my ear,
“Can you feel this? This is what it’s all about.”
When the week was over, and we powered on our devices and packed up to our respective homes, I felt lighter. I didn’t have an urgency to check Instagram, send a text, or look down at my phone at all. I felt like I was in my body and the space I was in. I looked around me. I breathed. I walked. I felt… present.
And now, with the silence broken, the only words my mouth chose to form, to no one in particular, was thank you.
And my next thought was God, I hope this lasts.
A guided meditation with Jon Kabat-Zinn
Thank you to my teachers,Tenshin Roshi, Beth Mulligan and Hugh O’Neill