The 'Silent' Retreat

This weekend just gone, Neil and I did a silent meditation retreat from 7 pm on Friday to 3.30 pm on Sunday.  The silence we did not manage as Joe can not seem to hold the promise of not talking to us and then not actually talk to us simultaneously in his handsome brain.  

On Saturday morning, we did a walking meditation. Neil and I parted at the top of the road, but I took Alan with me: Joe had gone to work and as he is still only a puppy, his bottom explodes if he's not taken outside every hour.  

A sweet hippie girl once said to me on her front porch on Lantau Island in the South China Seas, "If you put your intention out to the universe, the universe will conspire to make it happen for you."  I heard that repeated on Oprah and in the book The Secret by Rhonda Byrne.  It's more like Sod's Law for me; if it can go wrong, it will.  The purpose of the walking meditation is not to go too far and to take a familiar route so that you can expand your awareness to include sounds and objects you would not notice in the frantic routine of your day.  

Just inside the gates of Douglas Park is a little wooden wagon on wheels called The Dough Hut.   Every day as I go through the park with Alan, I see people queuing up for their takeaway coffee, but I never have the time or the money to join them. Being still only 8 am, I noticed the hut was closed, so I took the opportunity to become aware of their menu.  I must have been salivating over the Six Doughnut Holes for Three Euros and did not notice I had allowed Alan's lead to go slack in my hand.  The next thing I noticed is that Alan spotted another dog called Millie across the bark and took off like a bullet.  The lead whipped out of my hand.  I scream helplessly, "Alan, get back here." So much for my vow of silence.  Alan doesn't hear me.  I chase after him as he gallops like the wind, his lead bouncing uselessly in the grass behind him.   He stops abruptly in front of Millie with pure love in his heart and then starts to jump all over Millie's owner leaving muddy paw prints on her bright pink jacket. I am mortified.  

As she bends down to pat him, she says, "Will I grab him for you?" 

"Please do," I said.  

Once I get my breath back, I apologise repeatedly.  Millie's owner is called Clare, and she is completely lovely about Alan.  We introduce ourselves.  Clare tells me that her husband died only last year, none of her neighbours seemed to know that and so did not commiserate, her two daughters live abroad and only for Millie, she'd have no one. I was so glad I talked to her.  I promise her that if our paths cross again, I'll buy her a doughnut hole and coffee.  I then hurry home to assume the seated position for the 9.30 am sitting.  

That afternoon, we had a 2nd walking meditation. This time I left the mutt at home.  But sod's law a woman pushing a man in a wheelchair stopped me.   Can I just stress at this point, I NEVER meet anyone when I'm out walking and definitely never talk but the universe......  The woman asked me a question about footpaths and whether if she continued on this particular one would it get her to the Mangela Woods.  What could I do?  She asked me a direct question, and she's pushing a wheelchair.    

We had a break at 5.30 pm, and Conor called in.  Again I was obliged to speak: you can't reject your children. We were having a quiet cup of tea in the kitchen when Joe, who is watching TV in the sitting room suddenly roars, "Scotland are beating England." The three of us said, "No way," and rushed out of the kitchen to see for ourselves.  Four minutes left of the game. We roared for Scotland until they got it over the line.  Then I remembered, "Neil, we're not supposed to be watching digital entertainment." 

"Too late now," says Neil knocking back the dregs of tea.      

We had to resume our seating positions at 7.30 pm, and so Conor left leaving behind a bag full of stuff he didn't need including his ukulele.  It was an impulse buy with his first paycheck Son of a Bun.  He never mastered the instrument, but it looks cute poking out of the bag.

Sunday was more silence and sitting on our bums, but in the afternoon, we had break-out discussions which I love.  It's great what you pick up from other people and their experiences with meditating.  Most of the teacher's stuff sails over my head, but when I listen to the other participants and how they understand it, then that clicks for me.  For instance, one girl Grace a front-line worker said how much the weekend meant to her.  She broke down crying as she told us the stress and helplessness of working with patients and COVID.   Then, Brian, a fellow participant said to her, "Time is the greatest gift you can give another human being.  Don't get lost in your thoughts about how you could be doing more for your patients. What they want from you is to listen to them, to be with them here and now.  The fact that you are present with them both in body and mind is the greatest gift you can give them.  And by turning up every day for work and making yourself available to them, you are giving them exactly what they want."  

I was moved by his gentleness and his lovely explanation. For the first time ever, I understood what being present meant.  I've heard it a thousand times, I've read countless books about the importance of being present to yourself and others, but the penny only dropped once Brian, in his efforts to console Grace, explained it.  

And it was done by the power of Zoom.