What I Learned in 10 Days of Silence
The beauty of the world. Photo by Danielle D’Ambrosio
My wise 80-something-year-young friend, Walter, once suggested that I was a mirage—something that appears real or possible but isn't once you get close. It was neither a compliment nor an insult. It was truth. I could feel my ego snarl back. Down girl. It was incomprehensible that I wasn't who I thought I was—better yet, that someone could see through the masquerade.
"Like a doughnut, I'm around," Walter said, shuffling away. He and I bumped into each other often on the street where we met. I'd tell him how it was—no mask, no judgment. I was in the thick of the forest while Walter had a bird's eye view. Right there, on the corner of a busy thoroughfare, with the utterance of that one word—mirage—my life would never be the same.
I was a masterpiece but a forgery. Fooled 'em again, I would whisper to myself as the door closed behind me and there was nothing more to be. The mirage dissipating—a collection of stories and labels, hopes and dreams, failures and successes. An image I created to fit into a world that asked me to make something of myself and handed me a slab of clay.
By cosmic design, a chance encounter on the way home led me to learn about Vipassana meditation and a silent retreat center. Intrigued by the synchronicity of events, I couldn't help but wonder what happens to a mirage when she goes into silence for 10 days. To my surprise, I was accepted for a course starting in two days—on Thanksgiving. The universe had aligned; my family had already celebrated early. Despite having just traded my car for a bicycle, I booked a one-way train ticket to the countryside. The journey took 5.5 hours instead of a 2-hour drive, but mirages can't be choosers.
Digging Out, Clearing the Path
Entering a 10-day silent meditation retreat feels like a mix of summer camp and self-surrendering to a prison sentence. You hand over your contraband—cell phone, laptop, pen, paper, books—and embrace noble silence, a quiet surrender into the self. "Quiet the mind and the soul will speak," they said. We'll see about that.
On day four, I woke to an unexpected snowdrift against my window. Compelled to explore, I squeezed into forgotten rain boots and waded through knee-deep snow. If not now, then when? I reasoned.
On the blistering cold hike up the mountain, the soul spoke (they were right), delivering in the form of a sherbet sunrise. I’ve been sleeping on the beauty of the world, I later wrote by headlamp light on contraband napkins from the dining hall. Tears welled as I faced what had been hiding under the heavy pile of misery. I was suffocating under a mask. I WAS A MIRAGE. Striving to be something I was not all these years, in a hurry to become something beyond myself, as if that's why we're here.
Enraptured by the beauty, my subconscious mind reached for my nonexistent phone. I laughed—suddenly grasping what it means to be mindful, fully present. Instead, I framed the scene with my hands, mimicking a camera's click. I stood in awe as sherbet tones gave way to blue skies and the relentless noise of my mind gave way to birdsong.
And, just like that, as Mary Oliver would say, I got saved by the beauty of the world.
What is this incessant need to give away our moments of joy? I wrote, contemplating the beauty of this memory forever living only within me, not in a pocket robot or some redundant social media post waiting for strangers to determine its worth with opinions and likes. Who is it for? It better be ourselves because, in reality, nobody else cares.
As life pulses on around us, we are asleep to the beauty of the world. We have become the walking dead, missing the time of our lives while worshipping the best fed God of them all—the iPhone.
When you stop to pay attention to the present moment unfolding in front of you, life comes into focus. The beauty is in the simplicity of just being here to witness, for yourself. You're the observer. And suddenly, you realize that this is it. We're here to bear witness to the magic going on around us. To see what it's all about. The wonder of it all.
Perfection is an Illusion
I walked through the silence of the hall wondering when I would get better at it. My back was breaking from sitting on the floor for hours. I had trouble sitting in complete stillness. I felt like I was failing. If I were a good meditator, I would be able to just sit here.
Mid-rumination, I noticed a monk in a private meditation area. The curtain was slightly curled, allowing me to peek in. I watched him in his burnt orange garb, shaved head, legs perfectly crossed. My legs didn't even bend that way.
Then, before my eyes, he did something unthinkable. He scratched his nose.
In that moment, I realized: perfection is an illusion.
The Unexpected Love of Silence
It has been unexpected, the love of silence. I’ve always been a talker. When I was a kid, my dad offered me $20 to not talk for ten minutes. I lost in minute two.
These days, you pretty much have to pay me to talk. I’m content sitting home in the quiet of my own aloneness.
As soon as I wake up, I sit for my daily meditation—anchoring into my breath and simply noticing what is floating in and out. Following the unraveling thread.
I scan my body, moving attention through it, observing sensations without judgment. Observing experiences without grasping or aversion, cultivating a balanced, nonreactive state of mind.
I open my eyes with a beginner’s mind—an awakening to things as they really are, as if experiencing them for the very first time. The swirling stories evaporate into the ether. Any remnant of a swirl is a feeling I welcome in, curiously inspecting what it is here to show me.
If There Is One Truth That Silence Activated in Me
Everything we need is inside of us.
We find what we're looking for when we surrender to stillness. I dove into all that lay dormant within me, and the simplicity I longed for began to naturally bubble up to the surface.
There are no accidents, only orchestrations. Like my run-in with Walter and the serendipitous encounter on the way home.
We see things as we are, not as they are. The words that Walter said to me on the sidewalk that day were like the jolt of a defibrillator bringing me back to life. They shattered my ego, calling me back into my life and filling me with aliveness.
Only when we give it all up can we have it all.
If you are distracted by the mirages in life—those you create and the creation of others—you will never be able to see what is real in front of you.
If you’re distracted by the things that aren’t working out—maybe they aren’t supposed to. You can choose again. Stumble into the flow of life.
As David Whyte reminds us in his poem "Stumble":
"A stumble is often seen as a mistake or an accident, but a stumble is, in effect, something that has always been waiting for us all along... To stumble is to return to the ground on which we were walking and which has brought us to the involuntary point in our lives where we need to return to it."
The next time I stumbled upon my friend Walter, he said, "You look G-O-O-D good, kid! If you looked any better, I'd be jealous! I can tell you feel good."
And, just like that, I transformed from a distant apparition into flesh and blood, from illusory to real. I had found my way back to solid ground, to the beauty of the present moment, to the truth within me all along.