Wednesday, November 16, 2011
I taught a silent retreat in Seattle last weekend, here: nalandawest.org. The silence of retreat goes towards vastness and self sufficiency—relief from the press of the other's gaze, being up before dawn, the perfection of each thing that rises into the mind—the leaves crimson and gold like antiquated military uniforms, Mt Rainier in the window with its crown of snows and its own vast considered air of being actually a volcano not at all tame thank you, the rain sliding down windows, the faces in the street, the feet of the meditators. We lived down a level, inside the world.
And as I came out of retreat I developed laryngitis. It is a different kind of silence. It’s like being a very innocent child engaging the world in new ways. I call the border collie; no sound comes out and on she hurtles. I am outside the world like Marcel Marceau in the mime school exercise when he is separated from us by a glass box. I start to talk with the guys working on the house and when nothing comes out of my mouth, I point, I knock on things, I draw in the air. At other times I look into people’s eyes and hang my head, I look up to the sky and raise my hands. I draw a tear line from one eye. I shrug and walk away. It’s freeing, there are so many questions on behalf of which I don’t find it necessary to wave my hands. It is a different way of living down a level. I feel well disposed, amiable, absurd, honest, more inclined to make jokes than decisions. It's a helpless feeling but perhaps for that reason, it’s fun. It’s hard to do on the phone though.