What would happen if you surrendered your computer, phone, tablet, journal, books, and pens and went silent–no contact with anyone–for 10 full days? I wanted to find out the answer to this question for myself.

I spend a lot of time at a keyboard in front of a screen, so I live in my head. It’s comfortable there. I rely on facts and logic to form my understanding of the world. My body doesn’t get involved, at least consciously. And that served me just fine–until it didn’t.

About a year ago, I left my job with a serious case of burnout. All my enthusiasm for making software had dried up. I was numb, an unfeeling robot, going through the motions, checking obligations off a list, and living to collapse on the couch after work. I had lost touch with my interests, motivation, and joy, and I didn’t know how to find them again.

When a friend told me about the 10-day silent retreat she did, my ears perked up. What better way to return to myself than almost two weeks of introspection without distraction? I didn’t know what my problem was, but I knew I could debug it if I looked inside. I researched, applied, and got accepted to a 10-day silent meditation course for leaders. I hadn’t done much meditation, but I enjoy time alone. How hard could it be?

The day I arrived at the meditation center, I found myself sitting in a room of leaders and executives unlike any I’d been in before. There was a nervous buzz in the air. We’d surrendered our laptops, phones, watches, books, and pens. We’d taken a vow of silence, which was about to begin. For the next 10 days, we would live, eat, and meditate together without even making eye contact. 

Before silence began, I got to know a bit about my fellow students. We asked each other where we were from and what made us attend the course. We wondered aloud how the food would be. The woman sitting on my right clutched a bag of coffee grinds to her chest as if she were cradling a newborn. Behind me, an Emmy-winning actor and TV writer you’ve heard of was seated. On my left, I chatted with a scientist-turned-life-coach, who told me she meditates 2 hours a day. It felt like I had the least experience of anyone there with things I’d call “woo woo.” Someone asked what school of meditation I usually practice. There are different schools?

 “I’ve used the Headspace app a few times,” I said. She raised her eyebrows. Uh-oh. I might be in trouble.

Observe your desperation

The next day began with a 4:00 am gong ringing outside our dorm rooms. Our schedule was the same every day: meditation sessions most of the day and evening, alternating between mandatory group sits, and individual sits in our rooms, with two meals, a tea, and a few breaks in between. 

When our instructor called it “work” for the first time, I wasn’t sure what he meant. I had a hard time thinking about sitting still with my eyes closed as anything other than doing nothing. By the end of the first day, I understood. Directing and redirecting my attention for hours on end was the hardest mental work I’ve done. 

At first, we focused on breathing. On my cushion, eyes closed, legs crossed, I tried to keep my attention on my breath coming in and out of my nose. We were not supposed to change the natural rhythm of our breathing. We were supposed to “observe reality as it is,” not as we wanted it to be, or tried to make it. This was pretty easy the first 20 minutes. By the fourth hour, I was questioning every choice that led me there. Ten days stretched before me, feeling like it would be ten years.

Over and over, our instructor said, “Observe your respiration.” At one point what I was sure I heard him say was, “Observe your desperation.” Yes, my desperation. I am desperate. I am so, so desperate.

Beside the physical discomfort, the hardest part of meditation is the constant, intrusive, distracting thoughts. My monkey mind found every sit the best time to do things like sing Bohemian Rhapsody, put together a marketing plan for a new SaaS product, play back Joey and Pacey’s courtship, and rehearse all the stories I’d tell my family and friends about this bizarre experience. I marveled at how distracted I was without my devices, and thought about how much more I usually am with them. My mind’s chatter was incessant, and it frustrated me. I tried to just watch it, and settle back into my breath when I could.

Keep going

Being surrounded by others but speaking to no one for 10 days was strange. Mealtimes were in a dining hall filled with people who did not make eye contact. The only sounds were cutlery clinking on plates and bowls. Everyone wore comfortable clothing like sweatsuits and bathrobes, and wrapped themselves in shawls. We wore slip-on shoes to take them off before each sit. We walked slowly in our slippers and clogs to and from the meditation hall out of respect for one another: no sudden moves to break anyone’s reverie. A casual observer might have guessed we were patients at a mental institution. In some ways, we were.

I didn’t feel lonely, but I did feel alone, climbing my own personal mental mountain. Time slowed down. Without distractions, I noticed things I would not have otherwise, especially on breaks walking on a forest trail outside. My daily news consisted of how high or low the creek ran, or how loud the trees rustled given the breeze. One day I stood still in the forest for so long some wildlife forgot I was there. Drama unfolded as a pair of chipmunks wrestled and raced right by my feet. Late one night, a tree fell across the walking path. Coming across it the next day was a profound discovery. Everything changes. Even that giant tree.

Beside seeing my family, I missed writing in my journal and notebooks the most. I was desperate to tell my story, to try to make sense of how weird the whole thing was. During breaks, I sat on a bench outside, befriended a tree, and talked things over with it in my mind. On the way back indoors, I’d touch its trunk. Telepathically, that tree had the same advice for me every day: Keep going. See what happens.

Mid-course, we graduated from our focus on breath to a full body scan. The work was to start at the top of our head, and move our attention from one part of the body to the next, and observe how each part felt. Our instructor insisted we were to just observe–not characterize, force, or judge. I was thrilled to finally do anything other than listen to myself breathe. But I’d done body scan meditations before, and always felt… nothing.

After days of sitting in that dark hall, trying my best and mostly failing, I started to notice sensations in my body I’d never felt before. Not just my heart beating, or clothing against my skin, but subtle tingles, prickles, and pulses. I felt my inner organs working to regulate my digestion and body temperature. I felt my muscles engaging and relaxing to keep me sitting upright, the crack of my neck when I moved my head. This new awareness felt like an elementary school science experiment, when you take what looks like a clear drop of pond water, put it under a microscope, and discover that it is teeming with life.

It felt great to be able to do something new, even if I wasn’t sure how useful the skill was. My instructor told us that the sensations in our body were the root of our emotions, thoughts, words, and eventually actions. I was skeptical.

Boom

Sometimes I’d walk out of a group sit proud of my new body awareness, wanting to announce to the world that I’d mastered X-ray vision. Other times, I’d slouch out a broken person, my head hung, my legs and back stiff and in pain, an hour of failing to wrangle my chatty mind behind me. 

At one point during a group sit, someone dropped something with a loud bang. My entire body tensed as an unpleasant shock went through me. Instantly, I was annoyed. That person should be more careful, I thought. We all travelled here to be in silence. What were they doing anyway? I vented in my head, and my irritation grew. Then, I had a flash of recognition. My agitation was a direct reaction to a physical sensation.

Maybe my instructor was onto something.

This will pass

Once in a while, I’d notice a seat in the dining hall go empty. A student had left. I fantasized about walking out and never looking back. There must be a motel in town. I could go there, order a pizza and fire up Netflix. No one would know the difference.

During those low moments, I returned to the instruction. Nothing is permanent. Whatever is happening right now, whether it’s pleasant or unpleasant, wanted or unwanted, it will pass. I’d give myself an hour, and check again. Then, I’d shelve the motel idea and go back in to do my next hour of work. 

Eventually, 10 days were behind me.

When I returned home, the volume and busyness of life back in the world was overwhelming, and it took me a couple days to reacclimate. I can’t say I was able to maintain the calm sense of quiet I developed at the meditation center, a place perfectly designed for that work. I can’t even say that I have been able to do an hour on the cushion a day at home consistently.

What I can say is that I live in both my head and my body now. When I take physical sensations into account, I have much more data to inform my story about what’s going on and what to do next. I’ve resolved to never let myself numb out and become an unfeeling robot again. I will go toward things that feel warm and acknowledge the rest–and know that all of it will pass.

My biggest insight from this singular experience was this: everything over time becomes something else, including ourselves. When we internalize the fact of constant change, when we raise our self-awareness, we open the door to a new level of calmness, even through the storms of work and life.

If you’re interested to learn more about the specific meditation course I took, send me a note to gina(at)notetoself.studio. I’m happy to share details.