In the leadership programs I help run at local nonprofit Leading From Within, we teach about why it’s so important for leaders to grow in their self-awareness.
Leaders leave a large wake, and those who don’t know themselves can unconsciously do a lot of damage. Our classes and retreats serve as a kind of a “pause button” for our busy participants to take time away to reflect on who they are and how to grow their impact and sustain themselves in their challenging work.
Earlier this month, I discovered a different way to pause. It was something that’s long been on my bucket list, but I was afraid to do up until now. I went on a 72-hour silent retreat at Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Marin County just north of the Golden Gate Bridge.
I’ve been reflecting on this unusual experience ever since.
Why did I want to go on silent retreat? I’ve heard from people who’ve done it, and I used to think, “I could never do that.” The last thing I wanted was to be alone in my own head and without distraction.
But as I have become solidly middle-aged while maintaining an active working life, I find myself wondering more and more what it might be like to experience life as a “human being” rather than a “human doing.” I finally reached the point where my curiosity overcame my resistance.
Upon arriving at the retreat, the first thing that surprised me was that I was one of the older participants. Of the 93 attendees at this “Insight Meditation for the Curious” retreat, maybe half were millennials, many of them techies working in Silicon Valley.
Before we began our silence the first evening, I learned that some attendees were at life transition points, and I heard a couple of younger participants speak of having panic attacks at work. Others were regular meditators who were looking to go deeper, or to reconnect with their practice after “falling off the wagon.”
During the 2½ days we were silent, we alternated 45-minute periods of sitting and walking meditation, interspersed with a bit of yoga, vegetarian meals and time in nature. Each of us was also assigned a daily “work meditation” (like kitchen work and bathroom cleaning).
Basically, everything you did, you were asked to do mindfully — with your focused attention, fully aware of where you are and what you’re doing.
For an introvert like me, the silence was easy. Not having to make small talk felt like a relief.
And anyway, silence never feels silent to me. I think hard about things and it’s rarely relaxing or quiet inside my own head. In fact, there was so much going on between my ears while at this retreat that I failed to even notice that I didn’t speak for more than 60 hours.
What was hard were the lack of all the things I use to distract my brain — reading, writing and my technological devices. I happily turned off my phone and left it in my car (No email! No social media! No news! … that all felt like a gift).
But the instruction to not write or read surprised me. Another unusual prohibition was no photography. No Facebook posts of me in the lotus position that would show my friends and colleagues how cool and evolved I am! At this retreat, you were guided to be present to yourself.
As I started trying to meditate and focused in on my own breathing, the first thing I noticed was how tired I was. I fell asleep in my first three meditations, then slept nine hours overnight, and I napped three times the next day, including 90 minutes after lunch.
I slept more in a day than I had ever done before. I wasn’t the only person who experienced this. Could it be that many of us are going through life somewhat sleep deprived? What impact does that have on us? Already it seemed I had an important new question to reflect on.
Throughout the retreat, we were invited to practice equanimity, gladly receiving our simple meals, our cell-like rooms, our humble jobs — whatever was offered. I strived to let go of my typical agitation that things aren’t what I would have them be, and to accept what is.
One thing that challenged me was a guy sitting by me who kept moving around in his squeaky chair. It kept bugging me. I found that this situation was a good opportunity for me to practice mindfulness and to let go of my need to change things. Maybe this lack of neediness is why Buddhists often seem so downright … zen.
As one sits in silence, all sorts of things enter our heads that we typically try to avoid. Many of us distract ourselves with busy-ness or entertainment so we don’t have to face up to our thoughts — maybe self-judgment or reliving past wounds.
For me, a number of negative stories from my past had the space to re-emerge in my thoughts. Our teachers suggested we just note this and not judge ourselves. I could see how by attending to what goes on in our brains, we have the ability to become less reactive to our thoughts. And as we become less reactive, we can be more intentional about how we want to be in the world.
One way we practiced intentionality was Metta meditation, in which we extended loving-kindness and compassion to ourselves and then moved outward — to our loved ones, friends and colleagues, and ultimately to people who bug us (like the guy in that squeaky chair!) and all the way to far-away strangers as well as animals, insects and nature.
I could feel how one could use this practice to cultivate more empathy and compassion in myself, which is something I aspire to do.
By halfway through the retreat, I gave up on my fantasy of sitting on the floor for hours at a time meditating like I thought the pros did. One of our teachers said it’s hard to be kind and compassionate with ourselves and others when we are not comfortable. And my back was in pain! What was I thinking trying to sit on the floor all day when I had not slowly built up to that?
I finally moved to a chair, and my more evolved self made an appearance. “No pain, no gain” was definitely not the right attitude to take into a meditation retreat. I reflected about where else in my life and work I might cause myself problems by doing things how I thought I was supposed to do them.
On the final morning, I woke really early — I was all sleeped-out by then! And with nothing else to do, I decided to go on a hike in the dark. I remembered how I used to enjoy headlamp hiking. And so, I got on a trail and began to climb. I kept pausing and turning off my light and just listening to the quiet and feeling the early morning fog on my face. It was beautiful.
Just past the high point of the trail, I found a tree under which was placed a Buddha and a chair. I sat down, turned off my headlamp, began to focus on my breath, and then —‚ whoosh, off to the races. My brain did what it often does, quickly flying from one person or challenge in my life to another. I don’t know how long I sat there, but I know I wasn’t present. It was like when you’re driving and you have no recollection of the last 10 miles.
Eventually I found myself back in that chair, in the dark, under that tree, across from Buddha. And I reconnected with the sound of my breathing, which had helped anchor me for the past couple of days.
I enjoyed the silence, and felt held by the fog and the darkness, and I felt gratitude for the love in my life and for work I find so meaningful. I just sat there, fully present, not wanting to be anywhere other than where I was. For someone like me who spends so much time in action and movement, it was a new experience to feel so still and so content.
After a while, I heard the bell ring that signaled our group would be reconvening for our first meditation of the morning. I rose slowly and wandered down the hill. But I had already started my practice that day, and the lightness and warmth that I felt under that tree in the dark stayed with me most of the day. I’ve tried to stay connected to it since.
As our teachers ended the retreat, they gave advice on how to integrate what we had experienced into our lives back in the “real” world. I put quotes around “real” because what I experienced in my own head was arguably much more real than the distractions and media I reflexively crave.
My time in silent retreat exposed me to a new way of coming home to myself. The retreat experience wasn’t easy, but it felt worthwhile, and I can imagine how such a practice could well serve my life and my leadership.
— Ken Saxon is board president of Leading From Within and an instructor in its Courage to Lead and Emerging Leaders programs. Click here to read previous columns. The opinions expressed are his own.