Reflecting on a Meditation Retreat

There are some moments in life that teach us. Some of these moments are “mountain top moments”, milestones in our lives that are anticipated and planned. Others are small, seemingly insignificant happenings that cause us to pause in our current mindless trajectory and re-evaluate. Once such a moment happened for me on a bench in Barre, Massachusetts in front of a Catholic monastery turned Buddhist retreat center in April of 2023.

I had arrived at the Insight Meditation Society’s retreat center several days earlier for my first long retreat. I landed at the airport in Boston feeling mildly anxious and heavily sedated on Dramamine. I found my way through the airport and waited at the location designated for pick-up by the rideshare group I had signed up for. As we drove to the retreat center, the silence on the bus indicated most of us were anxiously awaiting the policy of “noble silence” instituted upon arrival at the retreat. No one came to this retreat to make friends.

After arriving I settled into my small room on the second story of the old monastic dorms. The building was old enough to have character with squeaky floorboards and creaking doors but many decades of spiritual reflection (both Christian and Buddhist) had permeated into the bricks and left a quiet peacefulness that seemed to rest over the building. After the evening meditation and welcome session, we all entered into the aforementioned “noble silence” and went about with our gazes directed at the floor. We had been encouraged not to make eye contact with other meditation practitioners unless necessary as it might disrupt their meditative state. This felt counterintuitive given that the retreat was a metta retreat where we would be directing lovingkindness to other living beings, but my social anxiety was relieved at first to lose any pressure of interaction, even non-verbal.

As the days passed with endless stretches of seated meditation filled with the chaotic happenings of my mind, I began to relish the moments in between sessions. The simple ritual of making a cup of tea and moving mindfully about the building to find a spot to rest was balm to my anxious mind. I also began practicing my metta meditation while walking and moving about in these breaks; offering metta to passing folks in the hallways.

It was during one of these breaks that I had a moment that was simultaneously profoundly simple and deeply impactful. The morning consisted of several fruitful sessions of walking meditation and I made my way to the tea station. After selecting my green tea and filling my cup with hot water I crossed to the front vestibule, across the creaking floorboards of the entry, and through the large front door.

The air was cold and a soft fog lay across the front lawn that sloped away from the tall white columns of the entry down to the road. Many other meditators had made their way to the front and sat with their tea or their coats bundled tight around them on the ledge of the entry patio or on the several benches which framed the front door. I found a place on the only unoccupied bench, sitting down in the middle with my characteristic lack of sociability and trying to remain gently mindful of the warm ceramic cup between my hands.

I had just begun to offer metta to one of the many meditators crossing the lawn when the entry door next to me swung slowly open and a woman in her mid-sixties with short-cut grey hair and a cup of tea stepped out into the cold air. She looked slowly about her and saw that each bench was occupied. I watched as a shadow of disappointment crept across her features. The social recluse in me would usually have intentionally ignored her eye contact and left her to search elsewhere for a place to sit. However, several days of metta practice had left my heart open and compassionate and instead, I looked intentionally at her face, hoping to catch her eye. She glanced at me, our eyes met, and I slid slowly to the far right side of the bench. As I did so a deep warmth welled up in me, better for defense against the cold than my down jacket or the cup of steaming tea in my hands. She did not speak but offered a soft smile and her silent “Thank you,” was more meaningful than any words she could have offered.

She sat down on the left side of the bench and we both rested for a long while. It was not the silence shared by two awkward strangers. Neither of us pulled out our phones (as they had been taken the first day) nor did we sit on the far edges and turn away from each other. In that moment I shared a profound togetherness with a woman who was a total stranger. It was precipitated by a willingness to feel compassion even for another being's very small need and an openness to receive with genuine gratitude a very simple gift.