During this meditation retreat we practice what they call Noble Silence. We're supposed to remain silent during mealtimes. I have been to silent retreats before -- twice. I know the whole trick here is to silence the mind -- not just the tongue. By muzzling my yapping mind – with its nonstop spewing of instructions, judgments, comparisons, and pronouncements – there supposedly is a pay off: clarity and true insight.
It's only for a weekend, but it is interesting how it goes. At first eating in silence with about fifty other people is an odd experience. The idea is to remain present with what you are doing in the moment. No idle chit-chat with others nearby to fill the space. You see how you usually mindlessly talk about nothing? No multi-tasking. If you're eating, eat. Don't eat, talk and read the newspaper. Eat. "We will practice mindful breathing, walking and eating while enjoying noble silence," read the retreat flier, "in the spirit of togetherness to grow our peace, joy, and calm for our loved ones, our world, and ourselves."
I'm not feeling much togetherness at the moment. The man sitting next to me bows when he gets up to retrieve a spoon, and bows when he comes back to sit down. I start to bow -- along with all others I'm sitting with -- but then I stop myself. It feels like a pointless ritual, and I came here to shed pointless rituals. A simple gesture, a bow, takes on an immense importance. So I resist bowing. I have found my place, again, my own way of resisting authority.
It's odd to even think some of these thoughts. Such as: Can one measure another's spiritual development based on how much sound one makes? At this moment it's what my mind wants to do. I'm sensitive to all manner of sounds now. The endlessly bowing man sitting next to me? I hear him loudly swallow each sip of coffee. It's his obnoxiously noisy Adam's apple, loudly announcing that liquid is moving down his throat with each swallow. I'm focused on this, for some reason. I hear every sip he takes, and anticipate the next one. It's a downside to this noble silence thing. You hear the burping of a man at the next table, the sound of the synthetic rubber foots on chair legs when they sputter on the concrete floor, the low hum of an unseen refrigerator, sounds of a metal utensil on metal, plastic on metal, the muffled talking of women workers in the kitchen. (Had the kitchen staff gotten the word about noble silence?) The sound of a paper napkin raised to a man's unshaven chin, a spoon scraping the sides of a bowl of granola, the slight nasal whistling of a man -- sitting to the other side of me -- breathing. A metal folding chair squeaking as a woman rises at another table, a toilet flushing in the bathroom at the end of the cafeteria, a door closing. Now laughter from the women in the kitchen, a compressor inside some refrigerator equipment kicks on, the shuffling of someone's feet on the stained concrete floor. (Are they wearing sneakers or Top-Siders?) Having finished eating, I sit and take in the scene. I count forty-four people in this large dining hall. After a damp night, it's a bright morning, and looking through the windows I see mostly bright shades of green -- trees, grass, shrubs.
The man across the table peels green grapes with long, nimble fingers. He picks off the skins and adds the peeled grapes to a growing collection on a white ceramic plate. He is handsome and tall, an angular face, thick hair parted to the side, very dark skinned. His eyelashes are impossibly long, eyes focused on the grape between his fingers. He finishes one, places it on the plate, and goes for another. All this action is in front of me, and I watch. Will he ever eat them, or is he just peeling them to pile them up? I resist the urge to reach over and take one. Then, finally all his grapes peeled, he pops them into his mouth -- one at a time -- chewing with his jaw moving slightly sideways, eyes averted. Here is one of these people who can perform one thing at a time – peeling all his grapes before eating them. A disciplined man, this. He gives new meaning to the expression "peel me a grape," which I've always taken as a sarcastic comment aimed at one who wants pampering and can't be bothered to eat grapes like everyone else. In this silent stew, my mind once again finds senseless stuff to puzzle over. What if we indulge ourselves and peel our own grapes? That's interesting, but not indulging, I think later.
John, one of the robe-wearing retreat organizers -- all of them wear brown monk-like robes -- coughs. The grape peeler scraps a bowl with a spoon. A woman catches my eyes and looks away.
I take my time, and perform the simple things that I can do. I concentrate. I must not trip, or drop a spoon or squeak across the floor. I imagine that I can scoot my chair back when rising without making a sound, scoop the contents of a bowl without any noise and make no audible sound as I lift my own cup to my mouth. I sip quietly, no sound do I make. No desperate gulping. I gain a measure of satisfaction from being able to perform a bodily function silently. Across the room, I see the meditation teacher, a short Vietnam-born man who now lives in Ottawa, Canada. He wears a yellow rain slicker over his brown robe, a black beanie on his head, and has slung a black canvas bag over a shoulder. He moves to the front door, holding a paper cup with a tea bag label dangling from its string, eyes smiling as a woman bows to him. Some others, having also finished breakfast, sit staring off into the distance. Like me, they seem content to do nothing. I am still, but still I am observing and judging -- anything within earshot, in eyesight or that can otherwise be detected by my senses. Take away my ability to make noise I am left with pestering thoughts, mostly nonsensical, often self-inflated rationalizations. Nevertheless, in the moment, I remember feeling content, even peaceful.
It is time to get up and empty my plate scrapes into the garbage pail and place my dishes in the big gray plastic tub for washing. As I rise and walk across the dining hall, I tense up my toes and try to glide so my usually squeaky sandals are silent. I slowly place my silverware into the tub. A click on the edge of a plate. I slide over to refill my coffee cup, pull tentatively the lever on the big brushed steel container. I tilt my cup to limit splashing sounds. I walk to a table to check a piece of paper that has the retreat agenda. Another session of sitting and walking meditation is scheduled next. There is no clock on the wall, and I left in the dormitory my potentially annoying cell phone, usually my personal time piece. I bow to a woman wearing a wristwatch and motion to her, silently pointing to my left wrist as if I wore a watch. She bares her arm, and tilts it in my direction. I see it is 9:22 a.m. I have a few more minutes before I must go.
Charles Boisseau is a freelance writer based in Austin, Texas. You can reach him at crboisseau@yahoo.com.
