her stay. She remarks to several sta mem-
bershowmuch shemissedcheeseandwas
hopingthatthatday’slunchcontainedsome
seriouscheddar.
Metoo!Metoo!
Iwanttosay,
nearly bursting like a
grade-schooler with
a raised hand. Then
theystarttalkingabout
movies.“Youknowthatmovieaboutdreams
withLeonardoDiCaprio?”oneofthemsays.
“What’s itcalled?”
Noonecanremember.
“
Inception
!” Iwant to scream. “The title
is
Inception
!”
Thefinishedretreater,whosenameIlater
learn isMai, revealsthatshehandlespublic
relationsforanonprofitinSanFranciscoand
thatthisisherthirdsilentretreat.Thistime,
she camebecause shehadbeen struggling
overwhether toenda relationshipwithan
oldermanbecausehedidn’twant children
and, at age35, shedid.After fourdays in si-
lence,shereceivedheranswer:“Idecidedour
lovewasmore important thanbringingan
extensionofmyself intotheworld.”
AsIgo tobed thatevening, Ican feel the
rhythmsofmybody slowand the carnival
inmyminddim. Thenextmorning, Ihave
apowerful experienceduringmeditation.
Though thedark sky is
still cloaked in twin-
kling stars when I ar-
rive at the chapel, I’m
late.When I open the chapel door, Chait-
anya is sittingon theflooralone singing “O
HolyNight.”His voice is sopureand clear
thatIstarttocry.Iquicklygrabapillowand
blanketandbeginmeditating.Thepractice
seemseasier thismorning, andbefore long,
two hours have passed and it’s time for
breakfast.OnlynowI’mnottemptedto join
thetalkingtable,havingrealizedthedaybe-
forethatsomuchofwhatIsay isego-driven.
Thoughitseemscounterintuitive,asItravel
inward,mythoughtsbegintocenter lesson
meandmoreon“we.”Foronce, I just listen,
allowingthesludge inmyconscioustoclear.
Andinthatmoment,IrememberwhereIhad
leftmywatch thedaybefore (ona table in
mycabin’smeditationroom)andfigureout
thebestwaytohandleapersonality issueat
workthathadplaguedme formonths.
WhenIleavethenextday,Ifeellikeanew
person—orat leastakinder,calmerversion
ofmyself. Ihavenooverwhelmingdesireto
talk.Silencehasbecomemy friend.
AsIpullmyrentalcarfromthegravel lot,
Inoticeaherdof bucks standing like senti-
nels on anearby ridge. Their antlers seem
to sparkle in themilky dawn, and I can’t
helpbut think theyhadbeensummoned to
issue a sacred goodbye. I acknowledge the
gesturewithanodanddriveaway, leaving
theradioo .
Iarrivehomeafter20hoursof traveling
andwakeup fourhours later togo towork.
Despite the trek,my colleagues keep com-
mentingonhowrestedIappear.
“You look great,” my co-worker says.
“Whatdidyoudo?”
“Nothing,”Isay,smiling.Absolutelynoth-
ing.
KATHLEENPARRISH
isa freelancemagazinewriterwho
teaches journalismatLafayetteCollege inEaston,Pa.She
strivesdaily to interrupt her lifewith silence.
Formore information, go to:
56
MAY 01, 2013
AA.COM/AMERICANWAY
