Silence On The Lam

By Annie Glass

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

At dinner, I tucked into my healthy plate of brown rice and veggies while eavesdropping on my fellow diners. They were a homogeneous group--women of a certain age, who all sounded positively delighted to be with each other at Adelynrood. I would find out upon further study that these women are known as Companions, and comprise the Society of the Companions of the Holy Cross, an unordained Episcopal sect that was an early proponent of silent retreats in the U.S. Feeling karma's light kiss on my neck, I realized my good fortune in discovering these kind ladies.

After supper I walked toward a nearby prep school to work off the filling meal. Attracted through the dusk to the loud, staccato-bleat of air horns, I happened on a lacrosse camp, and watched the boys run drills on a field below. Just a few hours in, and I seriously missed my kids.

My first nonspeaking challenge appeared in the guise of several chirpy blond moms who, mistaking me for one of them, approached asking, "Have the games started yet?" I feigned a coughing fit, gave them a thumbs-up, and hurried away from the fields.

Venturing toward a salt marsh, I hoped for a peaceful vantage point to appreciate the streaking pinky hues of the clouds preceding the sunset. Instead, I ran smack into gangs of greenies, so I beat a hasty retreat back to the screened porch while mentally spanking Activity Lady for her smug pronouncements.
I joined the Companions for Compline, the evening prayer service held in the charming chapel. My sweaty glass of ice water and I slipped into the back row just as the bell rang. While they intoned various prayers to close the day, I thought about my mother and grandmother and how they would have loved this place. When I was little, they told me that a first visit to any new church entitled one to three wishes. It was probably a devious ploy to trick a faithless youngster into church, but I made the requisite number of wishes anyway. I hadn't been in a new church in years, and silently thanked the Companions for the unexpected gift.

After the brief service, I retired alone to my dark, daunting corner of the house. Trying times demand strong medicine, so I poured myself a very modest tot of the chardonnay I'd presciently thought to smuggle into my luggage, while I communed with a few old friends found earlier in the library, Robert Frost and T.S. Eliot. In an ancient second edition of North of Boston, I read one of my college favorites, "Mending Wall," about neighbors silently bonding during the annual ritual of repairing a winter-ravaged stone barrier, following it with "The Wood Pile," about a solitary discovery in the woods. I was struck by how these words penned long ago resonated so aptly with my current endeavor.

Darkness is decidedly not my old friend, as I awoke frequently in the sweltering heat feeling like a patient etherized on a table. I was terrified of the ax murderer most likely lurking in my closet, but had to endure in silent misery. Why had I thought this would be such a layup?

Waking with the birds to a cooler morning, things didn't seem quite so awful. I went to an isolated spot under an apple tree and enjoyed a blissful, silent hour of yoga, with not even a curious ant to invade my solitary salutations. No sooner had I stopped, though, than I felt the familiar hacksaw chewing on my right leg. In a very unyogic moment of rage, I smashed the offender dead in mid-bite while mentally screaming, "Die, you green little mutha!"--with not the smallest bit of remorse.

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