A Quiet Weekend

Giving me a conspiratorial smirk, Emma says, “If you are dating Jasmine, there’s something you need to know—”.

 “ — Shhh!” A Buddhist monk hushes her, a finger at his lips. Emma’s now strained smile hints at her want to have told me something of consequence. Under the watchful gaze of the monk, she drifts off toward breakfast. 

**

Upon our arrival the prior morning, our devices and laptops were taken away by orange robed monks. Honestly, it felt as if we were in a Buddhist led mass kidnapping, rather than attending an expensive retreat for healthcare workers.

“This is your last opportunity to leave if you are not 100% committed to three days of silence,” a monk’s voice pierced the air. I studied out new captor, a thin, almost frail, but determined looking middle age man.

Jasmine’s hand squeezed mine. “See you on the other side,” she said. It was our last exchange before the code of silence began.

After the day’s first meditation session, Jasmine whispered, “Sorry, but I need to go. I’ll be back to pick you up Monday morning.” She gave me a peck on the cheek and quickly departed before I could even ask for an explanation.

In my room that night, I thought about her disappearance. Why did she need to leave? What was so important?

While lost in thought, I noticed the corners of the room were filled with spider webs. A twitch in the cobwebs caught my eye. Buddhists don’t kill insects.

**

After our interrupted conversation, I follow Emma’s footsteps to the breakfast buffet.

A lavish spread awaits: muesli, cereal, milk, all you eat yogurt, warm oatmeal, thick toast with butter. It’s to he the highlight of my days here.

Dinner the previous night was fruit and water. I went to sleep hungry, having eaten an apple. Everything at this silent retreat seems designed to jolt us yelling and screaming out of our comfort zone.

Over breakfast, I study Jasmine’s colleagues. This was organised by her company, and I was the plus one. I read disdain in their distant looks and frowns. Or, perhaps they don’t want to be here either.

I hate parties and small talk, but now, in a silent roomful of strangers’ stares, I yearn for awkward exchanges about the weather and real estate prices.

I scrutinize a Stonyfield yogurt label. They let cows do what cows do best: produce high-priced organic yogurt in plastic tubs.

With breakfast over, we file into the main hall for a two-hour morning meditation.

“Nirvana is the absence of desires, of likes and dislikes. It is a perfect state of peace,” echoes the monk’s voice.

Why is he able to talk while we sit silently?

Buddhist monks. A new scheme for middle-aged men to wear robes, think they are better than everyone else, and strong arm their followers for donations. Wasn’t the Dalai Lama on Jeffrey Epstein’s island? I never trust a man in a robe.

It feels as if hours pass after the monk gives us his sermon on Nirvana. The bell next to him remains unrung, and the monk belies no signs of things drawing to a close.

The back of my robe begins to scrape against my neck. We attendees wear robes at this silent retreat too.

I recall what Jasmine taught me about mindfulness. “If you feel a discomfort, just observe it for a while, and it will pass.”

The itch of my robe fades into the back of my mind, to be replaced with a vision of a violent computer game. A game set in a Buddhist mediation retreat. My first-person character ducks under kicks thrown by martial arts performing monks, while spraying them with green exploding goo. I think I’ve seen this somewhere before. I count exploding monks while I wait for this endless meditation session to be over.

A bell chimes. We are granted 30 minutes to escape from our prison sentence of endless meditation. I go to my room and perform sets of pushups, exhaling very loudly in between them.

And then it’s back to another 2 hours of doing nothing.

In the next session, my mind wearies of visualizing ways to detonate Buddhist monks, and I resign myself to a state of boredom until the bell chimes again. It’s one thing to read about the benefits of a silent retreat, and another to endure hours of existential boredom.

Lunch presents itself as a flavorless vegetable soup. My thoughts drift back longingly to breakfast and tubs of sweetened yogurt.

After lunch, another two-hour meditation session ensues. The monk urges us to show kindness to ourselves. I grant my belly fat absolution for its existence. Outside of this silent meditation retreat, I nourish it with cinnamon rolls at regular intervals—a form of kindness.

After the first meditation of the afternoon, a 30-minute walk in the garden is our reward.

Fellow participants tread the path at a deliberate pace, maintaining a constant distance between each other, evading awkward interactions necessitated by passing in silence.

As I walk, I rustle leaves and kick branches, revelling in the act of generating sound. The basic human joy of creating an impact on the vast universe we live in.

Not a monk in sight. I search for a spider to step on.

Before I had anticipated that we could communicate in writing. I brought pens and paper, but those were also taken away. I silently journal my hatred of this place in the inner pages of my mind.

As I search for opportunities to speak to Emma, over and over, I am confronted by monks' faces bidding me to remain quiet. Now, in this moment, there are no monks, but Emma is nowhere to be found, either.

My mind races with worry about Jasmine, and what Emma was to tell me. Is Jasmine sick? Or in trouble at work? Or is there’s another man she’s seeing? A secret life I don’t know about? My thoughts will spin out of control if I continue to think about it, so I return to focusing on finding things to stomp on with my feet.

We return for the afternoon’s second meditation session.

“Focus on the breath,” the monk instructs.

I do as I’m told and hold myself upright, with good posture, and focus on my breath. 

5 seconds in, 5 seconds hold, 5 seconds out—I am getting better at this.

A disturbance interrupts my concentration, a creaking sound from the man next to be who is constantly shifting his position.

A distant pipe gurgles.

My heartbeat thumps louder and louder in my ears.

A panic attack threatens to surface.

I lift my eyes to gaze at the monk sitting at the front. His face is complete peace, not giving anything away. The afternoon sunlight beams in, lighting every wrinkle. Isn’t meditation supposed to bestow youth?

Questions about Jasmine’s departure come up in my mind again.

Thinking about Jasmine, and the floor creaking, and the pipe gurgling, and my heart thumping, the monk not moving, I’m about to scream when a sudden thud echoes through the room.

A young man from our group slumps to the floor. The sound of his snoring fills the room.

We share a moment of amusement, then begin to wonder if we should wake him up. The monk remains motionless. Completely still. The lesson again being that we must accept a man snoring noisily on the floor.

When the mediation is over, someone jostles him awake. He looks embarrassed and glances sheepishly toward Emma. In fact, his many attempts to connect with Emma over the last day must have been obvious to everyone at this silent retreat. 

On the second walk of the day, an opportune moment arises to talk to Emma.

“Who was the man who dozed off?” I inquire in a hushed tone.

“He doesn’t work for Healthspace,” she replies. “Jasmine thought we might hit it off and invited him.”

“Really?” 

“I’m on a blind date at a silent retreat.” Emma chuckles.

Across the lawn, the young man eyes us chatting with obvious concern.

“And the thing you were going to say about Jasmine?” I press.

“Jasmine? Oh that, never mind.”

Her response stirs a flicker of irritation in me, but she’s the only friend I have here. “No problem,” I say, hoping she tells me later.

That evening, I have my nightly five-minute meeting with the monk.

“What exactly are the benefits of silent meditation?” I inquire.

“I can’t say it,” he says. “You must experience it yourself. Like everything else in life.”

“I see,” I reply to this distinctly unhelpful answer.

“Anything else?” he asks.

There is one other thing I’m curious about. “What did you do before this?” 

A glimpse of exasperation furrows his brow. He’s been asked that often, I surmise.

“It’s not important,” he says, smiling serenely, signaling the end to our interaction.

The following day unfolds with endless meditation sessions, like unwelcome encores from an opening act, as I count down the time to 9pm.

Directives are given to focus on: Awareness. Body scanning, Breath Work, Loving-kindness. And then we do it all again.

“Perfection isn’t needed. Practice on your practice,” the monk guides us.

I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, and at the greater ridiculousness of life. Us humans scurrying around trying to find meaning in a meaningless world. The absurdity of it all makes me feel lighter.

I realize I’m happier when I don’t take everything so seriously.

The meditation sessions over, I fall into a deep slumber–I’ve stopped worrying about the spiders–and dream of things I can’t remember later.

The next morning, I arise at 4:30am to confront the task of packing—an unfamiliar duty after three days of not having to organize anything. Embracing idleness has proven unexpectedly refreshing.

Outside the window I see a hint of orange on the tree leaves, a reminder of the eternal cycle of the seasons. The trees surrender unknowingly to winter, to be reborn the next spring. Nature exists in a state of nirvana.

Farewells are exchanged with Emma and our fellow participants. It feels strange to speak aloud, after all this time, as if we’re committing some sort of offense against the universe.

It dawns on me after Emma departs—we didn't discuss Jasmine. I realize it’s ok not to know. In the distance, I see her familiar car approaching.