Silence On The Lam

By Annie Glass

The author escapes to a place where the only acceptable noise is no noise

My first mistake was arriving at the eastern point retreat house--a Massachusetts monastery--in a dripping bathing suit and flip-flops. There to firm up plans for an upcoming silent retreat, I was walking the grounds and enjoying the spectacular ocean view when a rather alarmed-looking fellow approached. I introduced myself and my plans with my most unsnarky smile, punctuated with a pious little bow. The flustered gentleman gestured wildly toward the parking lot with one arm while cocking his other hand toward his head, thumb to ear and pinky to mouth, soundlessly invoking the universal "I'll call you" sign.

Back at home, a garbled, frantic message reported that there was in fact no room at the monastery this week, followed by a fast and final click. It seems the Jesuits were unimpressed, and I would have to retreat silently somewhere else.

Of late, my somewhat organized life seemed to be screaming off the track. I work full time, have three incipient teenagers, and have been gladly playing night nurse to my precious preemie niece and nephew twins. Having already raised three hungry babies with lungs that could rival Pavarotti's, I abhor loud noises. I also have zero tolerance for chitchat and have a deep-seated avoidance of all modern communication gizmos, including telephones, cell phones, BlackBerrys, and messages (instant or regular). My favorite pastimes, reading and running, are activities best pursued silently solo, so I was thinking this gig--a few days of silence--is exactly what I needed.

While there are any number of durations and flavors of silent retreats--from Zen meditation centers with 1-day events to monthlong excursions in Benedictine monasteries--I decided to check out one that was close by. I arrived at Adelynrood, another Massachusetts retreat center, at the same time as the summer's most brutal heat wave. The hostess, a tall, attractive woman with white fluffy hair, a melodious voice, and welcoming demeanor, told me that although there was no formal silent retreat scheduled that week, there were very few fellow guests to trip me up. I should simply smile and nod if spoken to, and to sit off by myself at meals and no one would bother with me (i.e., talk to me). How lovely and simple it sounded. A DIY silent retreat was music to my frazzled psyche.

Before I went silent, Lovely Kind Hostess showed me around. We strolled through spacious, dark rooms decorated with ancient yet comfortable furnishings. I could picture M. Night Shyamalan setting up shop here. There wasn't a soul in sight, save one inmate we stumbled upon lying prone on the floor. I was assured she was performing a back exercise and was not a corpse.

My last spoken words were a query about the flies. Due to the abundance of salt marshes that provide a fertile breeding ground, this area of the country is notorious during July for flying miniature chainsaws called greenheads, greenies, or Green Death to some. They feast indiscriminately on fellow flies, man, or any blood-pumping flesh during their annual campaign of carnage. "Oh no," said the somewhat officious lady, who had just joined us. "They only bother those beachgoers."

On that note, we ascended to the second floor, walked down a long dark, hallway of tiny rooms, each with an open doorway, and arrived at what soon became my own little suffocating cell. The rooms were uniformly Spartan and rustic, albeit serviceable. The lighting consisted of a bare light bulb over head, and a small reading lamp clipped to a board above the single bed. Next to it was the world's tiniest electric fan. The uninsulated dark brown wooden interior walls and ceiling magnified the sweltering conditions. The far end of the narrow space opened to a floor-length communal screened porch with a few rocking chairs scattered about.

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