Jewish Mindfulness Retreat: The Weekend I Found Myself (and G-d) Through Silence
34 silent Jews in the middle of the woods in Illinois… what could possibly go wrong? Nothing. Because the weekend of October 19–21, 2018 was transformative, meaningful, and one I will never forget.
Months ago, I applied to go on Moishe House’s Jewish Mindfulness Intensive Retreat in the fall. I wanted to become a Moishe House Without Walls host, and doing so requires attending any one of the retreats they offer.
Moishe House is an international Jewish organization that builds communities for Jews in their 20’s and 30’s. Participation in Moishe House could range from being a resident in one of the houses (a subsidized living space where you host events), being a Without Walls host (hosting events without living in a MH), attending a learning retreat, and even attending Jewish adult sleep away camp!
I would like to specify that I am writing this piece of my own free will. Moishe House did not ask me to write this in any way; I just want to give the organization the recognition it deserves. Okay! Now for the juicy stuff.
When I was accepted to go on the retreat, I was excited but assumed it would be similar to what I learned during my time living in the Mindfulness Living Learning Community at George Mason University, a program/course where you study mindfulness and live with your classmates for the school year.
Before the retreat, I’ve always been passive when it came to mindfulness, even during my time in the LLC. I understood and appreciated the concept, but was never active in my practice outside the program. I didn’t think much of it in the years following the program (though I could have used mindfulness in adapting to the post-college world!).
I certainly never had any experience with remaining silent for an extended period of time. 90% of the attendees on the retreat, myself included, weren’t even aware it was mostly a silent retreat until three days before the trip. When I learned of this important piece of information via email, my immediate reaction was to find a way out of it. Cancel. Say a family emergency came up. Or maybe attend, but use my phone when no one was looking. But, being the go-getter and lover of the uncomfortable that I force myself to be, I knew Illinois was calling, a place I never thought would call in my lifetime.
Day 1
The retreat officially started on Friday at around 2pm at the Loyola University Chicago Retreat and Ecology Campus. Bonding over Trader Joe’s granola bars, I instantly connected with my fellow Jews. There were people from all over: New York, Florida, Chicago, even Mexico City. And interesting people, too! One guy knew how to play every instrument except for the harp. One girl made her own herbal remedies and teas. Another guy was midway through rabbinical school. I was looking forward to spending the rest of the weekend getting to know them until I suddenly remembered we would be entering into silence that night. It was nice meeting you, new friends; I’ll see you on the other side!
During dinner, we learned how to eat mindfully, a concept we would utilize for the next four meals on the retreat. I thought I knew this shtick: fondle a raisin, really feel its wrinkles between your thumb and forefinger until you wish it were a glass of wine instead, and spend the next thirty minutes chewing it up and swallowing it.
I was pleasantly surprised to learn we were NOT eating raisins for dinner but a delicious farm-fresh meal, and in a way that was meaningful but didn’t feel like it would take hours to chew. The main point of the exercise was to savor what was on your plate, rather than mindlessly chatting during dinnertime and the next thing you know you’re looking down and wondering, “What happened to my fake meat?!” (Remember it’s a mindfulness retreat, so please bear with the menu options) (side note: the food was delicious, even for my carnivorous palate).
For the first time, I actually enjoyed eating mindfully and didn’t feel like I was suffering through it. The trick, we were taught on this retreat, is to put down your fork in between bites to really experience your food. In this way you incorporate all your senses and think about where your food came from, which wasn’t hard because all of the vegetables were local!
Shabbas began, and so did our silence. When I say silence, this means no talking, not even to bless someone when they sneeze. This also means no making eye contact with anyone else so that you may be in your own “space.” And don’t even think about using non-verbal cues with one another. We were allowed to break the silence on three occasions: if we had to ask the teachers or retreat leaders a question, when participating in group discussions, and to sing chants in unison.
We also weren’t allowed to engage in any activity that might distract us from our thoughts. This includes reading, using our phones, or even journaling, which was going to be difficult for me.
I had one roommate, a lovely law student from Charlottesville, who I could not wish a goodnight to in silence. So at 9:30pm with no one to talk to, or an activity to keep my mind occupied, I went to sleep feeling peaceful but a little apprehensive about the whole day of silence and meditation ahead of me.
Day 2
I knew the whole non-verbal communication rule was going to be an issue for me. Silence? No problem. I don’t need words all the time. But no eye contact, a smile, or even a friendly hug? I love people. The first person I saw on my way to breakfast happened to be the only person I knew prior to the retreat, and without thinking, I excitedly smiled and waved at him. I caught myself mid-wave and looked down at the carpet. I don’t think he noticed me. I carried on to the dining hall in silence, with my hands clasped behind my back.
Not being a morning person, I was grateful for a mindful breakfast in silence. I was surprised, however, to see that everyone on our retreat sat at their own table in the large cafeteria. I thought at least we would all be gathered at a few round tables together, mindfully eating side by side. On the contrary, I found myself taking in the spices of tofu scramble, and feeling the softness of a lemon poppyseed muffin on my tongue in solitude. I was too tired to mind.
We kicked off the day with a sitting meditation practice. The longest I ever meditated was for 20 minutes as a teenager while on a yoga retreat, and it was the most grueling 20 minutes of my life. I remember being itchy and fidgety, unable to “empty my mind” as I thought was the aim of the whole game (spoiler alert: it’s not, but more on this in a bit).
But just like discovering a different method of mindful eating that spoke to me on this retreat, meditation became a lot simpler thanks to a nifty acronym called PIA, which stands for:
~Posture
~Intention
~Anchor
Posture is exactly what it sounds like: checking in with your body, making sure you are sitting upright, though your posture doesn’t have to be perfect. I learned a pro-tip from one of the teachers: when sitting cross-legged on a zafu, or a meditation pillow, sit at the top edge so that your hips are above your knees (rather than your hips and knees being aligned). This is just one of the ways to sit on the floor in meditation. The others are Burmese, when both feet are touching the floor. A Burmese style of sitting is with one leg bent back behind you, and your other foot is touching the knee of the bent leg. This is how I mostly sat, switching my legs on and off. The other way is to sit upright and straddle your pillow.
Intention is setting a mental message for yourself before your begin your practice. The weekend’s theme was self love, but personally what I needed most in that moment was relaxation. I had a stressful week before coming on this retreat, so my intention was to leave reality behind and just be present.
Anchor is what helps you remain present during your practice. This could be touch — placing your palms facedown atop your knees and feeling grounded. This could be sound — honing in on the sounds, or lack thereof, around you. This could also be focusing on the breath through a specific body part, such as your nostrils, chest, or stomach. For beginners, it’s easiest to use touch as an anchor because it’s an anchor you can physically feel.
After learning the technique of sitting meditation, it was time for walking meditation. Just like mindful eating and meditation, walking meditation was a practice of mindfulness I had some experience with, but again was heightened for me on this retreat. I was basically taught to walk slowly with as many drawn out steps as I can take. But on this retreat, I learned you must walk to the rhythm of your slowed breath:
A deep inhale. Step with one foot. A strong exhale. Step with the other.
My fellow meditators and I spread out around campus, each claiming an area of about ten yards to continue with the practice in silence for half an hour. I walked back and forth over a patch of dead crunchy autumn leaves, noticing what thoughts arose, then continuing to walk to my breath. Walking meditation was much easier to do this time around, and I was much more engaged than I remembered from my college days.
Another sitting meditation for 40 long minutes followed, then came the real challenge: one of the teachers said we were to repeat the walking meditation exercise, only this time, we were to have a conversation with G-d… for thirty minutes… at the minimum of a whisper.
I am not religious. I can barely claim the label of reform. When I’m in a room full of people reciting the bracha (I had to Google how to spell that, and then later asked my religious friend if I used the word properly), I nervously glance around and try to follow the lip movements of others to make sure I’m saying it correctly. So when I was told to have a conversation with G-d like the two of us were old chums meeting up for coffee, I was full of nerves.
Despite all of that, I believe in G-d. Maybe it was from the little I remember in Hebrew school that stuck with me, or that one time when I was seven and I thought I saw His face in the clouds. But I couldn’t remember the last time I tried to actually communicate with Him.
Before jumping into the exercise, I could sense myself putting off the task at hand. I went to my room for a minute or two. I was debating whether or not I wanted to do this outside, fumbling with my coat and hat. Then before I could waste another minute, I forced myself to an empty hallway, and plunged right in with whatever thoughts came to mind.
“Are you there G-d? It’s me, Miranda.” Hopefully G-d has a sense of humor.
“I’m not sure I really believe in you. I mean, I guess I do. I always have. Or at least I’ve believed in something. But if it’s not you, then what is it I believe in? I guess I believe in you.” It went on like this for a good five minutes. If there really is a G-d, I’m so sorry for the guy.
Then onto the part where you wish for things. That’s what you do when you pray to G-d, right? At least, that’s what they do in the movies. I felt like a child on my knees with my hands clapsed in prayer upon my bed, except I was whispering into a wall like a resident of a mental institution.
However, I was surprised by what came out of me. I found I was wishing not for myself, but for my family. Thoughts and hopes for the sake of my immediate family members, for those who have passed, and for those who are alive today. I had so many specific prayers for their future, I didn’t even get to mine. I was so overwhelmed by my unexpected lack of selfishness, and the love I have for my family, that tears came to my eyes.
I then heard the instructor ring a near-distant bell signaling the end of the exercise and to reassemble in the meditation room. That was when I noticed a faint snow flurry just outside a window at the end of the wall. Although the instructor’s bell was ringing more frequently, I hurried downstairs in the opposite direction of the meditation room, and opened a door to the outside so I could immerse myself in what I took as a sign from the Man Upstairs. Feeling a sharp blast of cold air against my hot tears that were now streaming down my cheeks faster than the snowflakes, I was overwhelmed all over again, but this time for good. I felt comforted.
When everybody gathered back into the meditation room, all I wanted to do was share my meaningful experience with the group. I felt giddy and still so full of emotion, but I had to keep it to myself. I then understood the instructor’s rule of no journaling this weekend: when we experience something, we often share it in any way we can, whether that be on social media, texting or calling up our friends, or journaling about it. This rule forced me to be with my emotions completely, and to keep them with me in my thoughts and in my heart. Though I wanted to journal about my experience, that would have been letting them go on paper, and I would move onto the next thought or experience. Here I carried them through sitting meditation, and until lunch.
If you thought my tête-à-tête with G-d was emotional, just wait for lunchtime. It was my toughest moment on the retreat, as sitting alone in a crowded cafeteria gave me instant flashbacks to high school, a time when I was extremely shy and afraid of my peers.
There were other retreat groups dining at tables in the cafeteria, so some people in our program doubled up at tables, but no one sat at mine. This felt like a personal attack. Why doesn’t anyone want to sit with me? Insecurity and doubt grew within me, deeply rooted from a place I haven’t visited in years. To an outside observer, I was a girl mindfully eating her vegan macaroni and cheese, but inside was emptiness and loneliness. The tears came back, and there was nothing I could do but eat and watch the snow fall, this time more heavily, and notice the excited reactions from other retreat groups who were allowed to talk. I later found out this experience of loneliness is normal on a silent retreat, and you get over the slump after the first couple of days on a longer retreat.
That afternoon’s schedule consisted of sitting and walking meditations: just my body, the ground beneath me, and my mind. I was starting to dislike being solely in my mind. That’s when I had the realization that I am always doing something: reading, watching television, listening to music, talking with others, working, sleeping. Am I so constantly distracted that I’m never alone with my thoughts? I decided to drop the PTSD from high school and be here now with my 25-year-old self. I would welcome any thoughts that would arise to my brain with open arms, for better or for worse.
There is a misconception in meditation that one must empty the mind completely. That is not the case at all; you’re supposed to let thoughts arise and simply notice them, and then let them go. During this meditation session, when I wasn’t thinking of my lower-back pain, I was surprised by the seemingly random thoughts that arose. A common theme was people who hurt me this past year, even those who hadn’t come to mind in a while. One minute I’d see the dark of my eyelids, and the next their faces would appear. Something I had learned this weekend was that I wasn’t completely over how these people made me feel, but since I’m so caught up in my day-to-day distractions, I never had time to fully process these feelings.
A similar experience occurred that afternoon during a session of walking meditation. I switched up my usual location from the empty hallway, instead pacing my zombie-like steps in the meditation room by the altar. We each had to bring something that was a reminder of someone who inspires us. Most people placed objects of nature on the altar: sticks, stones, leaves. Other people brought various items like books and jewelry. I brought a book that was given to me by one of my best friends which I happened to be reading at the time.
While I was walking, my meditative state was disturbed when a piece of paper on the altar caught my eye. The writing on the outside of the folded note said something like, “One year together” with a heart. It must have been a love letter. I instantly recalled my only serious relationship from a few years ago, when we would write long love letters back and forth. These letters reflected gratitude for one another, and recounted the little things we liked about each other. I suddenly missed not my ex exactly, but those sincere expressions of love I had shared with him. Back to the ol’ flashbacks, huh, brain? This was another glimpse into how being silent reveals the needs of your soul.
Eventually — one could say finally — we had a 45-minute break. Most people napped during this time. I, not being a napper, craved some human interaction, but during silence the only human “interaction” involved sitting in a room across from one other person whose eyes were closed. After about 20 minutes of sitting, I paced the halls and heard someone playing the piano behind closed doors. The musician must have been from another retreat. I stood outside the door, listening to the melody. Was this allowed on my retreat since I was technically listening to music? I didn’t care.
After the break, and an interesting Q&A session on the connections between Judaism and Buddhism, it was time for dinner. This meal was easier than lunchtime for some reason. Perhaps the wave of sadness from the afternoon was fleeting, and had passed already. Or maybe I was excited for that night’s surprise activity.
One of my favorite activities is dancing, though I am extremely ungraceful. But I don’t take lessons; I just like to feel the music and let my feet lead, making it up as I go along. That is why I was pleased to discover that Saturday night’s activity was a kind of dance called 5Rhythms.
5Rhythms is a movement meditation practice where a bunch of people get together and dance like nobody is watching! But to better explain it, Wikipedia describes it beautifully:
Fundamental to the practice is the idea that everything is energy, and moves in waves, patterns and rhythms.
Roth describes the practice as a soul journey, and says that by moving the body, releasing the heart, and freeing the mind, one can connect to the essence of the soul, the source of inspiration in which an individual has unlimited possibility and potential.
Dancers move freely for at least an hour to tribal music in five styles that match the rhythm:
- Flowing — “Let it Flow” Fluid and continuous movements
- Staccato — “Let it Show” Movements have sharp edges, creating structure
- Chaos — “Let it Go” Using your full body, surrendering to the music
- Lyrical — “Let Go of Letting Go” Softer, lightness of being
- Stillness — “Let it Be” Slowness and eventually stillness
The dancing took place in an old chapel, with high ceilings that allowed for the music to bounce and vibrate against the walls and into our bodies. Once we started we didn’t stop. Some closed their eyes. Some danced on the floor. Some dripped sweat. One girl took off her glasses and danced in a world of blur. Another hurt her ankle, but continued to dance in her chair.
I gave in completely, dancing like a madwoman, feeling alive especially after a long day of seated meditation. It was a similar experience to something I did at hippie teen camp called a Trance Dance, except back then we were blindfolded and hesitant to dance freely, being the insecure teenagers we were. I was proud of myself, and of my fellow participants for willingly taking a risk to dance like nobody was watching. Plus, it felt damn good.
Day 3
The last day of the retreat began with a silent breakfast, when somebody sat at my table this time! We maintained the silence, but eating next to a person made for an easier transition into what was about to happen next: breaking the silence.
Back in the meditation room, we were instructed to hold up the number of fingers that corresponds to how ready we were to start talking again: 1 meant not ready at all, 2 meant partially ready, and 3 was definitely ready. We all walked around the room, noticing everyone’s fingers. There were a couple of 1’s, and a majority were 2’s. I was a strong 3, or at least I thought I was.
We then coupled up and were told to speak to the other person whenever we felt ready. My partner was a girl I wanted to talk to ever since she told the group she led Rosh Chodesh women’s circles (I do that too!). But when it came time to finally speak, all I could muster was a “Hi” in between awkward, shy giggles. I said I was a 3, but suddenly felt more like a 2. Thankfully, she felt the same way. It turns out a lot of people did. After 36 hours of silence, what do you say to someone, especially someone you hardly know?
We reconvened and shared our own experiences from the weekend with the rest of the group. We bonded over moments that stood out to us but could not speak to anyone about at the time, like admiring the snowfall during yesterday’s lunch, and how wrong it felt not saying “bless you” to a sneeze or “goodnight” to our roommates. I was relieved to know other people cried during the silence as well. Though I felt alone, I truly was not.
We also volunteered as to why we came on this retreat. That was when I really got to know my fellow participants and what they were struggling with: depression, anxiety, self loathing, trauma, grief. The list goes on. It was eye opening to realize you could be sitting, or walking, or eating next to somebody and not know what they are going through, but everyone is trying to cope with something. Thankfully we each now have 33 additions to our support system.
We also exchanged ways in which we can continue our practice after the retreat, such as using apps like Insight Timer and Headspace; have an “accountability buddy” to make sure we are meditating often if not daily; reading books like Jewish Meditation by Aryeh Kaplan, and 10% Happier by Dan Harris (which I am currently reading and highly recommend!); joining or starting a local mindfulness group; where to find 5Rhythms classes in your area; etc.
After a talkative, cheerful lunch, it was time for a difficult goodbye. I had just met these beautiful, free-spirited people (“woo-woo” is a term I learned this weekend), a breath of fresh air coming from our nation’s capital full of politics and competitiveness and snobbery. To bond with such like-minded Jews in such a short amount of time is something uniquely beautiful and should not be taken for granted. We made promises to each other to stay in touch, to post in the retreat Facebook group often, and to continue meditating.
It is exactly three weeks since the retreat that I am writing this, and I have already felt a shift in my behavior, having taken away tips on how to live a mindful life. I automatically focus on my breath while waiting in line at the grocery store or at the bus stop. If I am eating a meal alone, I put down my phone for a few minutes and take in the senses of the food I am eating in between forkfuls (this time with real meat). I find myself using my phone less in general. I am back to using the app Insight Timer to try to meditate at least five minutes everyday, adding my new retreat friends on there so we can hold each other accountable and ask, “Did you meditate today?”
I still have a long way to go. There’s a lot of books to read, various styles of meditation to learn, and moments in which to be mindful and perfect my practice. But I’ve already begun this new way of life, and it’s all thanks to that one silent weekend in the woods I will never forget.