Silent retreat. Day 2. Awoken by a gong at five forty-five a.m. Yay. I crawl out of bed and make my way to the hall for yoga class. Unfortunately my mind is already on autopilot and has decided that it would much prefer to run on a rat-wheel of rumination than enjoy a relaxing yoga practice.

While my body goes through the motions of sun salutations, my mind has left the building to agonise over the same few tedious thoughts – will I leave the retreat tomorrow, or tough it out until the end of the week? If I stay five days, is that enough? Will I still feel like I’ve failed on some level? And if I leave early will the retreat leader hand me a Spiritual Report Card with a big fat zero on it? Although ‘nothing’ is actually something in Zen Buddhism so when I fail then is that some kind of success?

Around and around, over and over, the same thoughts at warp speed, lots of questions but no answers. I realise these perturbations are fruitless but they’re like a runaway train that I can’t stop. I focus on my breath in an attempt to reconnect my mind and body but it’s like trying to lasso the wind. Before I know it, the class is over and I’m lying on the yoga mat in corpse pose with a blanket draped over me. I’m not entirely sure how I got here.

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I’ve always had a love hate relationship with spirituality. When I was seven years old I considered becoming a nun. That was the love phase. I was in the second grade at the local Catholic School, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, and my teacher, Sister Mary Peter Julian, was kind, smart and really pretty. She made every kid in the class feel special but word on the street was that I was her favourite. When she had to go out of the room she would leave me in charge to teach the class. At age seven I hadn’t had any formal training as a teacher but Sister MPJ filled me with so much confidence that I was able to step up, take control and teach maths to thirty kids. I loved it.

I was a straight A student for the first three years of school. I definitely peaked too early. I think my falling grades began with an existential crisis when our deputy principal, Sister Thornhill came into our classroom in the middle of the year to prepare us to take the Sacrament of Reconciliation. She told us that it was important to be good boys and girls, if we weren’t, then we should confess our sins because we never knew when God was going to take us and if our souls were tarnished then we would go to purgatory or worse. Sister Thornhill didn’t use the word ‘hell’ but we all knew what she meant. She pointed to my desk and said that a lovely little girl used to sit right in the spot where I was but one day God decided to take her. The little girl was perfectly healthy but she went to bed one night and never woke up again. For a few months after that I became something of an insomniac. Every night when I went to bed I was terrified that God might decide to take me during the night. Sister Thornhill pretty much killed religion for me but I was still curious about the philosophical aspects underneath all the rituals, dogma and guilt trips.

My problem with religion is the way it takes the great ineffable, mysteries of life, layers it with rules, adds a generous helping of guilt and fear, then places it in the hands of a hierarchical power structure. What could possibly go wrong? The appeal of Meditation and mindfulness for me is that to a large extent it’s untainted by the baggage that comes with theology but still offers a way to navigate the challenges and big questions life throws at us.

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The thoughts swimming around in my head this afternoon are so incredibly loud I’m amazed no one else can hear them. In the fifteen-minute afternoon tea break I take a stroll around the compound to try and shake of my restlessness. It helps a little, even though it’s more of a brisk walk than a meditative kissing the ground with my feet.

Last session before dinner is a Dharma Talk from Buddhist Clint Eastwood. He begins by acknowledging that the first day of retreat can be pretty challenging. A laugh of recognition burbles around the room. I’m relieved that I’m not the only one who has found the first day a bit tough. But honestly, how hard is it? I have food, shelter, a bed to sleep in. Okay, I don’t love sitting cross-legged on a cushion for six hours but that isn’t the hardest part. The big challenge is dealing with the stuff in my head.

When you sit in silence and observe your thoughts you learn a lot about yourself, some of it you’ve been working hard to avoid your whole adult life.

A long period of meditation is like an archaeological dig into the mind, the place where our habitual thought patterns, misconceptions, distorted views and stories are revealed. I wish I was discovering that my mind is concealing beautiful, creative, wise thoughts but on close inspection this doesn’t seem to be the case. After one day of sitting I know that I need to sort through a lot of silt and muck before I find any treasure.

There’s a piece of research floating around (from the National Science Foundation) which estimates that the mind thinks between 60,000 – 80,000 thoughts a day. That’s an average of 2500 – 3,300 thoughts per hour or 35 thoughts a minute. This would not be a problem if these habitual and mostly involuntary thoughts were all clever, original, purposeful and nourishing but unfortunately that doesn’t tend to be the case. It’s estimated that about sixty to seventy percent of our spontaneous thoughts tend to be negative, judgmental and harmful. So chances are that at least half of these 35 thoughts a second are telling us we’re not good enough, not smart enough, or too fat. And they’re telling us this every minute of every hour. As I continue on this train of thought I realise I’ve zoned out and completely lost track of our wise teacher at the front of the room.

INNER CRITIC

You have the attention span of a gnat!

ME

That’s because you keep interrupting.

INNER CRITIC

No, it’s because you’re so easily distracted. Perhaps you have A.D.D. You should get tested.

I drag my attention back to our Dharma teacher who is talking about how we may experience strong emotional and physical reactions while exploring the content of our minds. He suggests we allow ourselves the space for these reactions when they arise. To sit with them and observe them even though it may be uncomfortable. We need to get up close and personal with this discomfort rather than push it back down or ignore it which is probably what we do most of the time.

Mr Eastwood introduces us to a guided meditation on gratitude. We’re invited to begin by making ourselves comfortable – as comfortable as you can after four and a half hours of sitting cross-legged on a small cushion. Then we bring our awareness to our heart centre and pay attention to the feelings and sensations around that space. In breath, out breath. A stillness washes over me like a gentle breeze, and my mind begins to quieten. Clint invites us to connect with someone or something that when we think of them, we immediately feel grateful. My first thoughts are my family, my cat, my friends, my home, the beautiful beach where I live. My heart feels full. Warm. Light. And maybe even a little fluffy.

You can sense the collective calm in the room as we drop into our heart space and focus on our positive experiences. After a few moments we’re invited to feel gratitude for someone we don’t know – it could be the person who built the meditation hall, or the plumber who laid the pipes so we can turn on a tap and have hot and cold water at the flick of a faucet, or maybe we can feel grateful to the person who first connected us to the practice of meditation. Thinking of the train that brought me here, the people who built the railroad, the person who makes the announcements at Central Station and pointed me to the right platform, I sense that we are all deeply connected. A smile forms at the edge of my mouth.

And then we’re invited to feel grateful for a challenging person or situation we may have encountered. Wait, what?

Our wise teacher acknowledges that we may have resistance to this part of the practice but to be patient with ourselves and find a way through. He gives us a moment to think of a difficult situation. I don’t need a moment. Something springs to mind immediately. A truly awful experience with two producers I worked for last year. My whole body tenses. The calm disappears. I feel boiling hot, freezing cold and a little bit sick at the same time. My nerves and thoughts jangle. If there’s any gratitude to be had it is buried under a huge mound of frustration, disappointment and resentment.

INNER CRITIC

Resentment is such an unattractive emotion. It’s particularly ugly on you.

ME

But I need to sit with the feelings, even if they’re unpleasant.

INNER CRITIC

You could just push them down. Bury them.

ME

That’s not how it works here.

INNER CRITIC

It could get messy. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

My head throbs. My stomach churns. I’m tempted to check out mentally and escape into a fantasy about being on a beach in Maui, sipping a mai tai, but I resist the urge and focus my attention to stay with the sensations in my body. Throbbing. Churning. Sweating. Anger bubbles up from the base of my spine. The bubbles burst and become huge waves that wash over me. The faces of my ex-employers morph out of the waves. They look like the guy in Edvard Munch’s painting – the scream. I remember at one particularly low point how I fantasised about getting hit by a bus while walking back to the office so I wouldn’t have to face them the next day.

Beads of sweat drip from my forehead. My hips are screaming at me. I tune in to my breathing. I can hear my heart pounding in my chest. Tharump-ump-ump. I place my hand on my belly, notice my tummy expand with the in breath and contract on the out breath. In. Out. Expanding. Contracting.

I hate to admit it but there’s still residual feelings of disappointment, frustration and yes, that ugly little emotion - resentment. I think the thing I’m most upset about is that I didn’t stand up to them.

INNER CRITIC

They had the power, so you had the problem.

ME

So true.

I handed over my power without fighting for what I needed and once I did that I never had a chance of doing the job to the best of my ability. I’m pissed of at them but honestly I’m more annoyed with myself for being a push over. I’ve always avoided conflict at any cost but maybe it’s time I learned to look the barking dog in the eye, to stand my ground and have the difficult conversation when it’s needed. I’ll put that on my to do list. I take a deep breath and dig a little deeper. Gratitude. How can I feel gratitude for that situation? Stomach still churning. In breath, out breath.

Okay. I guess I can feel grateful for the lessons the job taught me.

INNER CRITIC

Never work with indecisive micro-managers.

ME

Among other things, yes. I’m grateful I was given the chance to work on the show.

INNER CRITIC

But those guys undermined your authority at every turn, so you didn’t actually give you a chance at all. In fact the odds were stacked against you.

ME

I’m not focusing on that right now. I’m focusing on the good stuff.

INNER CRITIC

Fine. Let me get you those rose coloured glasses.

ME

Hey, I’m not pretending the bad stuff didn’t happen, I’m just recognising that there’s good and bad in everything.

INNER CRITIC

Ah Pollyanna, you still have so much to learn.

ME

No doubt.

Ergh, I’ve been so absorbed on this mental rat-wheel I missed the last instructions from our teacher.

In breath. Out breath.

I wonder what other little monsters are lurking in my mind waiting to surface in the coming days.

Stay tuned.

Is it still only day one? It feels like I’ve been here for a month already. The 5.45am start this morning might have something to do with it. It’s not even lunch time and I’ve already done a yoga class, 2 x 45 minute meditation sessions, consumed a healthy breakfast (mindfully), and sleuthed out some instant coffee.

The Walking Meditation is a blessed relief after forty-five minutes of sitting. It’s not just mental discomfort I’m experiencing. My shoulders and back are tight as a drum. I love walking. It’s one of my favourite forms of exercise. I’m like a beagle. I need a brisk walk for at least an hour every day. It’s a great way to burn off mental and physical energy.

Walking Meditation is a different kettle of fish. Each step you take is slow and deliberate. You pay attention as one heel lands on the ground, then the middle of your foot, the ball and finally the toes. You pay attention as the other leg lifts off the ground, then gently swings forward, the heel of the other foot lands… and so on. Buddhist Clint Eastwood instructs us to walk a short distance, about the length of a yoga mat  The purpose of the short path is to free you from the idea that you are trying to get somewhere. Thirty of us gather outside the hall. We walk mindfully.

                     INNER CRITIC

               You look like a bunch of zombies.

We do. I think if someone arrived right now and saw us all moving in slow-mo they might think we’d all had a lobotomy or joined a cult.

It takes a lot of effort for me to slow down. This slow zombie walk makes me acutely aware of the thoughts swimming through my mind and I have a strong desire to escape them by walking faster. Zen Buddhist Monk, Thich Nhat Hanh says, ‘The miracle is not to walk on water. It is to walk on the earth with awareness.’ He teaches us to walk as if we are kissing the earth with our feet. I decide to give this a go. With each step, my feet kiss the earth. After a few paces my mind is calm. I feel lighter. Like I’m walking on air.

At morning tea I write a note to our retreat leader, Frances McDormand, requesting an interview. I want to talk to her about my desire to go home. I hope I don’t seem needy or high maintenance. 

INNER CRITIC

You do. Nobody else has asked for an interview.

ME

How do you know?

INNER CRITIC

I know everything. And I’m always right.

I leave the note for Frances and make myself a cup of ginger and lemon tea, then head back into the hall for the next session of sitting.

I am restless. I believe this is part of the process. It takes a while to settle. As Lorelie Gilmore said, my mind is a wild jungle full of scary jiberish. It throws up all sorts of things to keep itself busy. This morning it’s the theme song from the Brady Bunch mashed up with the first two stanza’s of Lewis Carroll’s poem, Jaberwocky. ‘Twas Brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe’ – here’s the story of a lovely lady – all mimsy were the borogroves – who was bringing up three very lovely girls. I drag my attention back to my breath and begin to count backwards from ten, nine, eight – all of them had hair of gold like their mother – seven, six – the youngest one in curls – five, four, three, two one. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Tightness in my back, shoulders and neck absorbs my full attention. A twinge lingers in my right hip. A yoga teacher once told me that the hips are the emotional junk drawers of the body. When we experience strong emotions, we often push the feelings down instead of acknowledging them. Where do these uncomfortable feelings go? Straight to the hips, like chocolate cake. Our emotional junk drawers are jam-packed with unresolved material and we’re using the muscles around that area to stop the drawers from bursting open. Apparently, that’s why so many people are tight in the hip flexors. I take a few deep breaths in and on each exhale I try to relax the muscles around my hip joints.

Someone is snoring. It’s a medium to large bear kind of snore. I open one eye and glance over to see Ultra-Spiritual Ron Burgundy.

                     INNER CRITIC

He can’t be that spiritual if he’s fallen asleep during the meditation.

               ME

To be fair, I don’t think he’s feeling well.

I wonder how long we have been sitting. How long we have to go. It feels like more than forty-five minutes already. Here’s the story, of a man named Brady.

I still have a dull headache. That instant coffee I scrounged this morning barely touched the sides. I contemplate leaving the retreat early. I give myself permission to do whatever I want. This is not an endurance test or a contest.

               INNER CRITIC

That’s lucky, because if it was a contest, you’d come dead last.

ME

I’m not here to prove something to myself or anyone else.

This is an opportunity to take the time and space to become familiar with the contents of my mind, to observe the habitual thought patterns and consider which ones are useful, which are not, and to attend to them accordingly.

                     INNER CRITIC

I don’t like the sound of that. It seems dangerous. You might get hurt.

                     ME

Thoughts can’t actually hurt you. They’re not real.

                    INNER CRITIC

How do you explain me then? I’m as real as it gets.

                     ME

               Are you?

                     INNER CRITIC

If I wasn’t around to stop you making mistakes, do you have any idea what would happen?

          ME

No. But maybe I should find out.

          INNER CRITIC

You can’t mean that. You need me.

     ME

Yeah… Do I?

     INNER CRITIC

Yes.

Out of the blue a large tennis ball sized bubble of sadness rises from the pit of my stomach and before I know it tears are streaming down my cheeks. I’m not sure what that’s about but I have a deep sense of loss. I suspect it’s residual grief over the loss of my parents. My mother died ten years ago, my dad three years before that. I still miss them. I let the tears flow. When the bell rings, I’m not ready to move. I want to sit with this a little longer. Empty out the emotional junk drawer. It takes a while for the wave of sadness to pass.

As I walk down the path towards the dining room for lunch, I’m glad I don’t have to speak to anyone. For the first time since I got here, I appreciate the silence. I can hear the crunch of the pebbles under foot, the sound of the wind in the trees, the smell of the eucalyptus. I pause for a moment and drink it all in. I hear a voice from deep inside, ‘everything’s going to be all right’.

A Tibetan gong wakes me at five-forty five a.m. I slept remarkably well on my biscuit thin mattress. Although sleeping is one of my special talents – if it was an Olympic event, I’d be a shoe in for a gold medal. I’m also gifted at getting the rock star parking space. I’m trying to work out how to combine these two special skills into a highly paid job but so far, no luck. I roll over and come face to face with my room-mate, Myrtle, who is only three feet away in the bunk opposite, thankfully still fast asleep. I jump up, quickly but silently, change into my yoga clothes and make my way out to the meditation hall.

The teacher, with a regal presence like Viola Davis, and a few other participants are setting up yoga mats and warming up with various asanas. I choose Sukhasana - easy pose with blanket option. I close my eyes and tune in to my breathing, listening to the sounds of footsteps pattering across the floor as more people arrive for the class. An overwhelming scent of patchouli drenches the room. I open my eyes and sit up. Directly in front of me, is a tall man all dressed white. He has layers of Indian mala beads on his wrists, ankles and around his neck.

                     INNER CRITIC

That Ultra Spiritual guy looks like Ron Burgundy.

                     ME

               Who?

                     INNER CRITIC

You know, the Will Ferrell character from Anchor Man.

          ME

I don’t think I’ve seen that movie.

          INNER CRITIC

Trust me, you have. If I’ve seen it, you’ve seen it.

          ME

Okay.

The yoga practice is gentle but effective. It helps work out the tightness in my back and neck. Viola encourages us to find our edge in each pose, to go to the place where we feel something, then stay there and breathe into it.

Like every other activity at the retreat, the yoga class begins and ends with a bell. We roll up our mats and set up our cushions for our first forty-five minute meditation of the day. AKA sitting.

Suddenly I’m profoundly sleepy. Like I’ve swallowed a very strong sedative.  Given that we have permission to ease into the process and do whatever feels comfortable I lay back on the floor, pull the blanket over my head and allow myself to fall asleep. I have a strange dream about Mark Ruffalo. Not the first time he’s showed up. In the dream his eyes are huge. Unblinking. Like the eyes of the universe - enormous pools of clear azure blue. I fall into them. Falling, falling, falling. (*and yes, for the record, I realise his eyes are brown in real life.)

Startled out of my free-fall, I open my eyes and sit up. The hall is empty. Wow, I must have been out for a while. I hurry down to the dining hall where most of the group are waiting in line outside. I wonder what they’ll serve for breakfast? I’m hoping scrambled eggs. I love to start the day with a good serve of protein.

Steam rises from a vat of porridge with cinnamon, nutmeg and dates. Smells delicious. I sprinkle brown sugar on top, cover it with a milk-like substance, and find myself a place at one of the long tables. Ultra-Spiritual Ron Burgundy comes and sits right next to me. Super close. An odd move given that there’s plenty of space and we won’t be speaking but I don’t let it bother me. Not until he starts sniffing. And sneezing. And coughing.

I don’t know if it’s really a phobia or plain common sense but I don’t like being in a room with someone if they have an infectious disease I could catch. I could never be a doctor or a nurse or a kindergarten teacher. I detest being sick. I’m the worst patient ever. I’ve always found the term ‘man-flu’ not only sexist but also wildly inaccurate. When I have the flu or even a mild cold, I’ll give any guy a run for their money. I want to feel better immediately. I want food to taste good again and I want to be entertained. I’m like a demanding child with none of the charm. It’s a good thing I don’t get sick often. Probably because I avoid contact with anyone who has even the slightest hint of an ailment. I wolf down my porridge and join the queue at the sink to wash my bowl and spoon. I’m starting to get a headache. Need coffee now.

Going a week without talking is something I can get my head around, but a week with no coffee is a whole other story. I have two cups every morning. Religiously. Some studies say coffee is really good for you and can help prevent Alzheimer’s. Others argue that it’s toxic and causes liver damage. I choose to believe the studies that come down in favour of continuing my caffeine habit.

I’ve given up coffee before. Twice. It’s doable but for two days I have a cracking headache and end up in the foetal position. The silent retreat is already enough of a challenge, adding the pressure of a coffee detox seems unnecessary. I scoop three teaspoons of instant ground beans into a mug and half fill it with boiling water. Hopefully that will stave off the withdrawal headache.

The phone beeps in my pocket.  I pull it out and glance at the screen. A text from my son. He’s coming to stay with us in Sydney for ten days. Arriving tomorrow. I want to go home now.

                     INNER CRITIC

               Knew it. You have no stamina.

The bell rings to signal the next meditation session is about to begin. I end the call and hurry back. Maybe sitting will give me some clarity about what to do.

Leonard Cohen called sitting in stillness ‘the most luxurious and sumptuous response to the emptiness of my own existence.’ Some days sitting can be like that for me but today it feels like hard work. My mind is busy. Cluttered. My thoughts jumbled. I want to go home. I start negotiating with myself – I’ll stay until tomorrow morning. That would mean that I lasted two whole nights so that’s something.

INNER CRITIC

It’s pathetic. Two nights. It’s supposed to be seven.

In between focusing my attention on the breath, I contemplate various options. Maybe I’ll stay two more days. Maybe three. Maybe I’ll stay until the end. Maybe not.

I guess I just found my edge.

Maybe it was a mistake to watch Mad Men the night before I left for the retreat. In the final episode of the series, Don Draper, seeking meaning, purpose and inner peace, attends a meditation retreat at Esalen Institute in Big Sur, California. Featuring spectacular ocean views, hot springs, a pool, and a restaurant, accomodation options include a Premium Plus King room for $US3180 for four nights, or for the full Don Draper experience, there’s the Fritz Point House, a sublime private suite for two. I’d like to go to that. But for now I will make the best of my single bunk bed in the windowless room at the end of the hallway.

Wandering up the path to the meditation hall, the final scene from Mad Men plays inside my head. Don Draper, joins a group meditation on the clifftop overlooking Big Sur, and as he Om’s quietly, he has an epiphany; an idea for a soft drink commercial.

Cut to: A flower-power clad choir, singing on a hilltop, sharing soda laced with high-fructose corn syrup. An ear-worm warbles inside my head, “I’d like the teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony. . .

Finding a cushion and taking a seat in the meditation hall, I don’t realise I’m humming along with the worm until a voice from behind shushes me.

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On a small raised platform at the front of the hall, two teachers, emanating calm and serenity, sit cross-legged, their backs straight as rods. The teacher on the right, bright eyed, mid-50’s, is a dead ringer for Frances McDormand. On her left, a fine featured older gentleman in Buddhist robes, reminds me of Clint Eastwood.

June, the statuesque retreat co-ordinator, rings the bell, welcomes us to the retreat and makes a few housekeeping announcements. Number one, no food allowed in the hall. Two, no hot drinks. I’m nursing a cup of peppermint tea. I try to conceal it under my shawl and manage to simultaneously scald my hand and spill it all over my lap, so it now looks like I have lost control of my bladder.

Buddhist Clint Eastwood outlines the five precepts/rules for the retreat.

1.  To refrain from destroying living creatures. (easy-peasy)

2.  To refrain from taking that which is not given. (I feel much better about the fact that my room doesn’t have a door that locks.)

3.  To refrain from sexual activity. (that one’s for you Old Money Steve Martin)

4.  To refrain from false speech or gossip. (should be easy considering the no talking thing)     

5.  To refrain from intoxicating drinks and drugs.

There will be small group sessions during the retreat where you meet with one of the teachers to check in and ask questions that may arise. You can also request a one-to-one interview if you’re struggling.

INNER CRITIC

You should probably book one right away.

ME

I’m not struggling.

INNER CRITIC

You’re kidding, right. You want to quit and go home. And you probably should. You really don’t belong here.

Frances McDormand tells us that tomorrow, our first full day, is a settling in period and to be kind and gentle with ourselves and in our practice. If sitting for each meditation is too much then we are free to lie down, and if we doze off during the meditation that’s okay too.

Before turning in for the night we will sit for forty-five minutes and use whatever meditation technique we’re comfortable with – watching the breath, listening to sounds in the room, or any other method that helps quiet our monkey minds.

Frances rings a bell, from this moment on we are to keep noble silence. Seven days. No speaking. And no humming apparently. Yoiks. Here goes.

I drop in to my body and observe my breath. I can feel the air at the top of my lip, the rise and fall of my chest. In breath, out breath. . .

INNER CRITIC

Tell me, what is the point of this?

ME

Please, not now. I’m focusing on my breath. In breath, out breath. . .

INNER CRITIC

Shouldn’t you be doing something more productive?

ME

In breath. Out breath.

INNER CRITIC

Those job applications aren’t going to write themselves.

ME

I know. I’m planning to do them as soon as I get home.

INNER CRITIC

I hope you haven’t missed any important deadlines.

ME

In breath. Out breath.

Within ten minutes there are at least half a dozen people snoring their heads off around the room. Some are quiet little buzz saws, a few growling grizzly bears, and one that sounds like a click beetle.

After the meditation session, I hurry down the long hall past the shared bathroom where there’s already three people in line. I charge back to my room to grab my toiletries bag and a towel. Toiletries is a weird word, isn’t it? Toilet trees. I’m picturing trees that look like toilets and toilets that look like trees. The good thing about noble silence is I won’t feel compelled to share all these random observations that run through my mind.

Opening the door, I crash into a wiry woman in her late twenties. I’m guessing it’s my roommate but as we’re in silence I can’t introduce myself or ask if she’s a burglar. I decide I’ll call her Moaning Myrtle. I figure a character from Harry Potter is apt given we were sharing the cupboard under the stairs. I don’t think she’s a Hermione Granger and I can’t think of any other names on the spot so Myrtle it is.

Myrtle and I awkwardly navigate our way around each other in the tiny space and I quickly head off for the shower. By the time I return she is fast asleep in her bunk. Not snoring or moaning. I count my blessings and as I drift off to sleep. . .

EAR WORM

I’d like to buy the world a coke, and furnish it with love. . .

INNER CRITIC

That’s not how it goes.

EAR WORM

It’s the real thing… that’s the way it should be. I’d like to buy the world a coke and keep it company.

Sweet dreams. See you in the morning.

The Blue Mountains are only an hour and a half west of Sydney by train, but when I step off the carriage onto the empty platform, I feel like I’m a million miles away.

I lug my suitcase and another bag stuffed with a blanket, sheets, and two pillows - (one medium, one soft), up the ramp to the deserted main road. There’s not so much as a tumbleweed in sight.

                     INNER CRITIC

               It’s not too late to turn back.

                     ME

               No. I’m doing this.

                     INNER CRITIC

Sure you are. Bah-ha-ha!

You wouldn’t think someone who has been married for nineteen years has a problem with commitment. I do. It’s not relationships that are the issue. It’s other obligations. If I have an appointment with my accountant, dentist, or hairdresser the chances of me showing up are slim. My long hair is less by design and more a product of cancelling the day before I’m scheduled for a cut. I’m aware it’s a problem. Not the long hair thing, the not showing up bit. I’ve worked hard at overcoming whatever weird unconscious pattern it is that makes me this way. A friend kindly suggested it’s A.D.D. I’m not sure that label fits. Plus I’m not a label person. Although not being a label person is a kind of label. You can see why I need a meditation retreat. Anyway, I’m much better at showing up lately. I’ve had the same hairdresser for six months.

                     INNER CRITIC

               That’s not an achievement.

                     ME

               It is for me.

                     INNER CRITIC

Yes but now you have that other issue.

I do. Even though I mostly show up these days, I already have one foot out the door before I even get there. It’s like I’m preparing to jump before I get pushed. If I’m in a situation where I feel like I don’t belong or won’t measure up, I’m ready to exit before I am judged or rejected.

                          INNER CRITIC

You’ve never been good at taking criticism.

                          ME

Which is weird when you think about it, because I’ve had plenty of practice.

          INNER CRITIC

You’re welcome.

June, a statuesque woman with a face as still as stone, sits at a desk reading a fat paperback. She partially closes her book, hands me a retreat schedule, then points me towards a large white board where I can sign up for mindful work duties.

The first guests to arrive volunteer for all the cool jobs, like ringing the giant gong, or lighting incense and candles in the mediation hall. Those tasks seem more ‘spiritual’ somehow. If you’re the last to arrive the only job left will be mindful toilet cleaning. Unless you have an obsessive compulsive on the retreat, in which case they’d sign up for that right away. According to the job board we have no obsessive compulsives in the group. Maybe one will arrive later but probably not. I imagine if you’re obsessive compulsive you’re most likely very punctual.

Scanning the list for jobs I can do mindfully, shopping jumps out at me. Surprisingly, nobody else has signed up. Brilliant! I like to shop. Can I do it mindfully? Worth a shot. Mindful shopping – that could be a growth moment.

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Hauling my luggage behind me, I follow June down a steep set of concrete stairs. Institutional grey carpet leads us along a dark hallway. I kick myself. Not literally, although at this moment it is tempting. Why didn’t I request a single room in one of the little cabins?

INNER CRITIC

Yeah, why didn’t you?

ME

I didn’t want to seem unenlightened.

INNER CRITIC

Idiot!

ME

Also, I’m on a budget.

INNER CRITIC

You should be. After what you paid for those sneakers.

June slides opens the narrow wood veneer door. No key required. On either side of the doorway is a set of single bunk beds. The room puts me in mind of Harry Potter’s cupboard under the stairs. Although to be fair, Harry had the cupboard all to himself. I force a smile to cover my disappointment and mumble, ‘Thank you for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever.’

June doesn’t respond. Maybe she’s already practicing noble silence.

My roommate hasn’t arrived yet which is lucky because when I open my suitcase to unpack, it takes up the whole of the floor space.

                     INNER CRITIC

You’re already planning your escape, aren’t you?

     ME

No.

But truthfully, I am. I suppress the overwhelming desire to grab my bags, head straight back to the station and jump on the first train home. Instead, I pull out my sheets to make the bed, a desperate attempt to convince myself I’m staying. The mattress, about three centimetres deep and covered in vinyl is not ideal for hot summer nights. I look around for a fan. Nope. And no window. The room is literally a large cupboard.

I lay down on the bed to test it out. It’s actually quite comfortable, until I sit up and bang my head on the top bunk. I wish I could say it’s because I’m tall. I am, but only on the inside. Sticking the schedule to the slats above my mattress, feels like a commitment.

                     RETREAT DAILY SCHEDULE

5.45      Wake up bell. (Yoiks!)

6.00      Yoga

6.45      Sit. (Meditation practice)

7.30      Breakfast

8.30      Mindful work duties. (Shopping!)

9.30      Sit

10.30     Walking Meditation

11.15     Sitting Meditation

12.30     Lunch

2.30      Sit

3.15      Walking Meditation.

4.00      Dharma talk

5.00      Walking Meditation

5.30      Dinner

7.00      Sit

8.00      Dharma talk

8.45      Sitting Meditation

9.30      Rest

Double Yoiks!

Strolling down to the dining hall, past rustic timber cabins overlooking the mountains, I wonder if its too late to change my accomodation.

INNER CRITIC

Of course it is. Those rooms are for people who have their shit together.

ME

I --

INNER CRITIC

Do you really think you deserve a queen sized bed with a proper mattress?

ME

And a private bathroom.

INNER CRITIC

You should just leave now.

About thirty retreatants mill around the dining hall, a large cavernous space with long wooden refectory tables and handmade leather chairs. Overhearing snippets of conversations, it sounds like some of them have been here before. That has to be a good sign. You wouldn’t come back if it was terrible, would you?

               INNER CRITIC

          Maybe you would. People are weird.

Amongst the crowd, I recognise a girl from my alma mater, a Convent School run by Jesuit nuns. It has an outstanding academic record. I’m not one of their success stories. It seems like everywhere I go there’s alumni from The Sisters of Perpetual Melancholy. Usually, there’s more than one. They’re connected and they’re influential. Kind of like the mafia.

June rings a bell to signal that the meal is ready. She instructs us to each take a bowl, plate, cutlery, drinking glass for water and a mug for tea or coffee. We are to keep these for the whole week. After each meal we wash our crockery and cutlery and then place them on the shelves at the back of the room.

The period of silence will begin after this evening’s meal. In the meantime we are free to introduce ourselves and talk over dinner. Awesome. Talking with random strangers is one of my super powers.

INNER CRITIC

More likely a symptom of A.D.D.

ME

Could it be both?

INNER CRITIC

No.

An easy way to keep track of my silent cohabitants over the week is to imagine who would play them in the movie of their life. I sit down at a table with a sparky lady in her late 70’s – Candace Bergen, and her nephew who looks like Steve Martin but with a New England Old Money vibe. Old Money Steve Martin is indeed from New England and is very chatty. In the short space of the meal, I learn that he has been married and divorced twice and loves being in a committed relationship. Okay! I sense interest beyond friendly conversation so make it clear I’m happily married and have been that way for almost twenty years, but I have a few great single friends if he wants to meet them in Sydney. He does. It takes a special talent to pimp out your friends on a silent retreat.

INNER CRITIC

The sooner you quit this place the better.

ME
I’m not going to quit.

INNER CRITIC

We’ll see.

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