The sign posted above the yurt’s entrance read:

All students must observe noble silence from the beginning of the course until the morning of the last full day. Noble silence means silence of body, speech and mind. Any form of communication with fellow students either by gestures, sign language, written notes, etc. is prohibited.

Jerry’s stomach clenched as he entered.

“Welcome to day one. The next ten days will be about learning to listen. That’s why God gave us two ears and one mouth. He wants us to listen,” said Howie Cohn, the retreat leader. Howie couldn’t have been further from what Jerry expected. Instead of a dark skinned guru garbed in white linen, he was a pale skinned New Yorker in yoga pants and t-shirt. Instead of an Indian dialect, a Brooklyn dialect filled the air. “We call this Noble Silence. We live in a world that has banished Noble Silence. We are surrounded by talk and music 24 hours a day.  Here we will strip away the noise so you can, perhaps for the first time, listen to your own inner voice. Stop and listen. You will discover who you are. 

“I know you all picture the Lotus pose as the correct position for meditation, but actually sit any way you want. Sit in a chair. Lie on your back. If you need to change your position, do so. Don’t force yourself to remain in an uncomfortable position. All I ask is that you respect your neighbor’s space. Don’t drape your legs across their lap or cuddle with them.”

This brought a tension releasing laugh from the group of about 30 people ranging in their early 20s to late 60s, with more women than men.

“Be still and observe. If you start to fall asleep, go ahead. In fact, most of you are sleep deprived. So for the first few days there’s going to be a lot of snoring around here. (More laughter.) Don’t worry. I’ll wake you when the sit is over.

“If you have a thought, say to yourself, ‘I am having a thought.’ That observation will stop the thought. If it continues, say to yourself, ‘I am continuing to have a thought.’ Gently prod yourself back to observing. 

“Be in constant awareness, until the mind quiets and there is a waking awareness of everything.

“Let’s try it. We’re going to sit for 20 minutes. I recommend closing your eyes, but again, if you don’t want to, don’t.”

The gong rang and Jerry closed his eyes. 

 Now what? Jerry thought. How long is 20 minutes? 

I am having a thought. 

Of course you’re having a thought. That’s you thinking, you idiot. 

I am yelling at myself. 

He started laughing…out loud, which he stifled.

 I stifled my laugh. This made him laugh more.

This is so ridiculous. And he dissolved into giggles. 

Slowly he calmed down and for a moment all was quiet within. Then, more thoughts. Hasn’t it been 20 minutes? Are we there yet?

After an eternity, the gong rang.

“Now we will do a walking meditation,” Howie said, “Notice each footstep; how the foot plants itself on the ground; how the weight shifts from the back to the front. Observe every detail.”

Off they wandered in all directions. Jerry’s mind now had a job to do and was as happy as a dog fetching a stick. He studied his every footstep. He observed the outdoors. Time passed unnoticed.

Around noon a luscious buffet awaited: fresh salad, an ambrosial soup and zucchini bread. In silence, they sat side by side at community tables, avoiding eye contact. Jerry minded each bite, each flavor, each chew, each swallow. He charted its passage down his esophagus into his stomach. He detected the digestive juices gurgling. 

Smells stood out: the intoxicating squash bisque, the warm pine needles. Sounds previously unheard emerged: the lapping of water on the nearby rocks, the clattering of dishes in the kitchen.

Jerry contemplated the forest and ocean. The aspen leaves glinted white in the sunlight. Bay water sparkled with swirling color, inky blue alongside orange and burgundy. 

After lunch they toiled in the garden: pulling weeds, spreading compost, harvesting. This was no typical garden. Giant corn stalks stood 12 feet tall; enormous pumpkins ruled the ground; a forest of sweet pea vines threatened to pull down a fence; giant dahlias, trumpeting vermilion, crimson and gold, ran rampant. Jerry eased his fingers into the soil and yanked out a weed. He dropped it into his bucket. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. Contentment grew in his belly.

This wasn’t so bad, he thought. Instead of the crazy-inducing experience he had feared, he was transported back to the simplicity of childhood. Nothing to figure out. Nothing to overcome. Be in the moment. 

The gong rang out. They shuffled back to the yurt. 

Dinner came up surprisingly fast. And he was famished. He laid into his vegetarian casserole with a carnivorous lust. Melted white cheese hung from each bite of broccoli, mushrooms and walnuts. He had to restrain himself from wolfing down his neighbor’s portion. He picked up every last crumb of his organic ginger snaps like a detective scouting for DNA evidence.