andfollowawalkingpathtoagrovecontain-
ingsomeoftheoldestandlargestmanzanita
trees in the country. The trees’ limbs are
twistedandwild, likethearmsofamonster
inanightmare,buttheredbarkisglossyand
smooth, impossiblenot to stroke. After a
while, Imovetoabenchoverlookingaridge
where IcanseeTahoe’ssnowcappedmoun-
tains.Therearea lotofbencheshere, and it
seemsthey’vebeenpositionedstrategically
formaximum contemplation. I’m content,
but the sunmoves behind a cloud and the
airgrowschilly,revealingauniversaltruth:
It’shardtoachieve innerpeacewhenyou’ve
gotgoosepimples.
Iheadback tomy cabin and attempt to
meditate again, except this timemy inner
voicewon’tbesilenced.
Whydoesn’t so-and-
solikeme?Iwonderwhatmyboysaredoingat
home.What ifI’mmissingareally important
emailor text?HaveImade therightdecision
aboutgradschool?
Thissoundtrackcontinuesona loop,but
noepiphanies spring forth. Then I remem-
ber theadvice retreat generalmanagerPat-
rickMahoneygavemeuponarrival.“Silence
has its own intelligence,”Mahoney, who
goesby theSanskritnameChaitanya, said.
“The process takes time.” In otherwords:
Theanswerswill come, but onlywhen I’m
readytohearthem.
When it’s time for lunch, Iwalk at ade-
liberate pace to the dininghall, honoring
another guidelineof silence,which is todo
everything inslowmotion.“Thiswayevery-
thingyoudobecomesa typeofmeditation,”
Nischalahadexplained.
I begin listening to the crunchof pine
needlesbeneathmyboots,takeintheheavy
smell of wood smoke andmarvel at win-
ter’sbareelegance.Mysensesbecomemore
acute,andIbeginnoticingflashesofvibrant
coloramidnature’s repose: plump, redber-
ries; a fewyellowblooms; the caramel hue
ofapinecone.
Lunch isa frittataand roastedpotatoes.
(Allmealsarevegetarian.) I sitbymyself at
the“silenttable”and,withoutanyonetotalk
to,absorbthewarmthoftheteamugbetween
myhands. For the first time ina long time,
I feel truly grateful for the foodbeforeme
andtheeortsofthepersonwhopreparedit.
Athome, Irarelyallowmyself togethungry,
running to the refrigerator or vendingma-
chineatthefirstrumbleofmyemptytank.
I can overhear the conversation at a
nearbytableofawomanwhohascompleted
imagethatpopsintomyheadisofagauntold
manwithamattedbeardonamountaintop.
Ivaguelyrememberthemantrasounding
likeaChinesetakeoutdish,sowhenIfailto
recalltheassignedphrase(
Hong-Sau
),Isub-
stitute
lomein
, honoring the lowlynoodle
with focused intention. I inhale—
lo
—and
exhale—
mein
—untilmybreathingbecomes
slowandsteadyandIcanfeelthetension in
mybodyebb. Ido this forwhatseems likea
longtime,butwhenIpeekattheclock,only
10minuteshavepassed. This isgoing tobe
tougherthanIthought.
When I enter the breakfast room two
hours later,Supriyasayshello. Ibegin tore-
spond,thenrememberthesignpinnedtomy
jacket:silence. Ismileandnodmyhead.We
grinateachother likekidssharingasecret.
There’s somuch Iwant to tell her, like
how yummy the oatmeal is and aboutmy
experiencewithmorningmeditation(Iwas
fidgetyandmy foot fell asleepand I forgot
theSanskritwordIwassupposedtorepeat),
butIcan’t.Sowe just lookateachotherand
smile.Asmilecanconveyalot.Supriyaholds
me inthatsmile;notalkingnecessary.
Lateron,Idecidetoexploretheproperty
SILENCEAND
MEDITATIONHELP
CLEARTHEMIND
OFDISTRACTIONSSO
WECANOBSERVE
OURTHOUGHTSAND
GAINPERSPECTIVE.
“SOMETIMES
YOUGETANSWERS
INSILENCE.”
AA.COM/AMERICANWAY
MAY 01, 2013
55
