A Quiet Place

Reflections on meditation, retreat and The Hermit card

I was in the doctor’s waiting room, phone screen shining in my hand, a book I planned to read on my thigh to help pass the time. The corner of my eye peeked at the TV screen that flashed health reminders every five seconds. The chatter of two med reps who stood in front of me flooded my ears.

The nurse called me in and ushered me into another room. I tucked my handbag to one side of the beige pleather chair, phone and book still in hand, I sat down. I thumbed through the dog eared page I left off from, but was distracted by another screen mounted on the wall.

One can never get any quiet these days.

A tinge of envy crept in when my husband and I dropped off my friend for a 10-day silent meditation retreat in the middle of nowhere Texas. The cicadas sung to the top of their voices. The chiggers hopped onto mere sight of bare human skin. The blades of wild grass swung to the gentle exhale of the last days of summer.

“Mom, dad, I’m scared.” She whispered like a college student brought to their dormitory. She clutched the pillow she carried even closer. “This it is, dude.” I exclaimed, voice filled with nervous excitement.

I struggled to sit down through a mere five minutes of meditation as one’s body would by design buckle and fight against the cutting off of air from circulation. So I probed more into what was in store for my friend in the next ten days.

“So just you and your thoughts?”

“YUP.” Her lips tightened as she nodded her head.

On top of not speaking to anyone else in the duration of the retreat, one is not allowed to read nor write. To remove the ability to regurgitate thoughts on a blank page was unthinkable to me. Writing was an act of emptying the mind, heart and spirit to create space to breathe. If writing was breathing out, reading was breathing in.

I exhale my thoughts for myself in my journal and often for everyone else on social media and on this newsletter. And I read to inhale information, thoughts, stories that I otherwise would never have thought of on my own. In the same way that I hope that others would also inhale my words.

So removing both would mean death. Or is it?

In the tarot system, the card of retreat and silence is The Hermit card. A cloaked bearded man, standing in the darkness, holding up a lamp in one hand and a staff in another. I fondly call this the Gandalf card as the man reminds me of the great wizard of the Tolkien Middle Earth universe with his staff illuminated as the fellowship made their way through the pitch black darkness of the once thriving dwarf world, the Mines of Moria.

When The Hermit pops up in a reading, it is a call to remove one’s self from the world to allow for proper introspection. Away from the noise and the voices of the rest of the world. There may be something that your inner self needs you to heed, a nagging voice. Often, it is drowned out, pushed away as one may not even want it. But not wanting something does not mean one does not need it. Like vegetables, healthy, necessary for an optimal functioning human, but not always appealing.

I don’t remember how the world turned this noisy. But I certainly remember a time in my life, when one could escape and retreat, when one could stare into the space of the world whizzing by and not be caught in its frenetic spin.

Nowadays, it seems impossible with the smart phone tethered to all things. From the alarm that wakes you up in the morning, to the telling of time, to the communications to people far and wide for immigrants and expats like myself, to running a business and work, to knowing the goings on of the world and how it impacts wee little ol’ me.

But now I am coming to terms that I don’t need to always know. I don’t need to always be plugged in. I don’t absolutely need the noise. I already am at a point that I don’t want it anymore.

I do struggle with it everyday.

When I walk, I bring my phone with me to log in the steps I take. I have my earphones digging inside my ear holes, so I can listen to music or a podcast of choice. The same earphones are also my companion when I cook and clean. The TV blares and light flashes as my husband flips through channels. His voice booms as he attends his meetings from home. The dog, of course, as a herder whose very purpose in life is to keep everyone in line, also carries his fair share of noise - jolted by the scurrying of squirrels and the thumping of the rowdy children of the upstairs neighbor.

I try to carve out my own quiet time, little pockets of it, across my days. My favorite being the still of Sunday mornings. When everybody else is reeling from their Saturday nights still snoring in bed or already nodding their heads through Sunday mass or service, I relish every second, minute of it. A precious lull from my suburban corner of the Bible Belt.

I sit under the shade and sway of the oak tree that umbrellas over the dog park. I close my eyes, inhale and then exhale. My thoughts drive through the thoroughfare of my mind, in one toll gate then out through another. One minute, two, three, four, then five.

I’d like to take more time though. Teach myself to move up from five to ten minutes. One day, maybe even longer. A ten-day retreat? Not right now, but maybe one day in the future.

What I’m reading:

• I started reaching “Witches” by Brenda Lozano, a novel about two women’s lives impacted by the death of a famous Mazatec Muxe or third gender curandera or healer. This novel is loosely based on and inspired by real life curandera Maria Sabina, whose magic mushroom spores were taken from her by an American mushroom scientist in the name of science. This led to the rumored visits of numerous musicians in the 60s including names like Keith Richards and John Lennon, to gain spiritual “enlightenment” from her. It’s a complex conversation about womanhood, the patriarchy, indigenous cultures and colonization. Yes, big words, but somehow they’re all in the book.