Last month I attended a silent retreat. Here’s what it taught me.
It started with a newsletter from a place called Xenia — a retreat centre located on Bowen Island. A quick 20 minute ferry ride from the coast, Bowen is one of my favourite places; small, quiet, and bursting with lush forests. It’s absolutely magical and I visit every chance I get. It’s the kind of place that attracts a lot of artsy people, probably because it’s hard not to be inspired by.
I first discovered Xenia a few years ago when I was looking for places to hold a personal writing retreat. It’s a gorgeous piece of property nestled in a shallow valley deep in the woods. With its whimsical log cottages and yurts, eclectic gardens and old-growth trees, the place makes you feel like you stepped into the pages of a story book. Whether it was to hole up on my own for a few days or to attend one of their programs, I knew I wanted to spend more time there.
That chance came with the arrival of a newsletter announcing two upcoming retreats, one of which was specifically for writers. After having to withdraw my registration from the Iceland Writers Retreat, this felt like the perfect alternative. Excited at the prospect of finally having a reason to stay at Xenia, I sent off an email asking for more information.
About a week later, Xenia’s owner contacted me to let me know that the writer’s retreat had been cancelled. But, she wondered, would I be interested in attending their silent retreat instead? The retreat was scheduled for the third weekend in February and, while it wouldn’t have the structured programming that the writer’s retreat offered, I’d have plenty of quiet space and uninterrupted time to write. Given that all I really needed was time and space, I didn’t need convincing: I sent my deposit, booked a couple days off work, and impatiently waited for the 22nd to arrive.
What is a silent retreat?
I’ll be honest: I have no idea what silent retreats are usually like, but I can tell you what they’re like a Xenia.
There were 14 participants in total, and we were all there for different reasons. There were a few other writers who, like me, where there to work on a creative project. A lot of people had come because they were struggling with burnout (relatable!) and needed time to decompress. Others were on healing or spiritual journeys and needed a safe place to just be for a while. Many of us were a combination of all the above.
Throughout the retreat we had full access to the 38-acre property, which included cozy buildings, forest paths, horse meadows, a labyrinth, and an 1,100 year old Douglas fir tree called OPA. Meals were provided three times a day, and the only formal programming consisted of opening and closing mediations and sharing circles, and something called the Vigil, which I’m not going to explain because this post is long enough as it is.
From the moment the opening circle ended on the first night, everyone entered “The Silence”. It’s exactly what it sounds like: for four days, no one spoke. And it was in that silence that the real magic happened.
Embracing silence can be profound
There’s something really liberating about intentionally spending time in silence. Once you understand that there’s no obligation to start or hold conversations or explain yourself to anyone, your brain starts to relax. As someone who usually fills my silence with podcasts and music, it took a beat to get used to sitting with my own thoughts. But without the pressures and distractions of everyday life I found it a lot easier to sift through my feelings and ideas.
I walked the labyrinth again and again, working out the knots in the muscles of my story.
I mediated in the sanctuary and, in the quiet, entire paragraphs presented themselves to me without having to try.
I confronted my frustrations and self-doubt while sitting under the OPA tree and walked away with the clarity I’ve been chasing for a long time.
And, of course, I wrote. I wrote pages and pages of mess, my hand cramped and smudged with ink. I let the story spill out of me while the forest stood guard and the birds kept me company.
What the silence taught me
If it all sounds a little woo-woo, that’s because it kind of was. It was also exactly what I needed. When I left the island I felt as if I’d finally found my way back to my creativity, which is something I’ve been trying to do for a long time. I was so grateful to have the time and space to reconnect with my love of writing and with my story again.
The experience also helped me accept something that’s been hard to admit, even to myself: it’s time for me to put some of my long-held goals to bed for a little while so I can focus on other things. I finally let myself accept that, despite the promising revise and resubmit I received last year, the novel I’ve had on submission probably isn’t going to get published any time soon.
In the silence I was able to see just how much my focus on getting traditionally published has overshadowed everything else. I’ve been so obsessed with writing stories and creating art that I think other people want that I’ve lost touch with the joy and fulfillment that comes from creating art simply for the love of it. And, even though I know this has been slowly eating away at me, I’ve been reluctant to admit how unhappy I am or how much the experience has hindered me creatively because I didn’t want to give up on myself.
What the silence taught me is that letting go of things that aren’t serving me doesn’t mean I’m giving up on myself. Letting go is a gift; it’s giving myself permission to get back to my roots and remember how good it feels to create the stories that matter to me, regardless of whether they’ll sell or whether my followers will like it.
The silence taught me that if it matters to me, it matters.
And that’s good enough for me.