Tim O'Shea Must Shut Up!

“No talking. At all. The whole day. Are you crazy?” This is my reaction as I read my invitation to the White Mountain Sangha, “a day of silence and inquiry,” so that I might discover my “deepest nature” and “share in beautiful silence.” Considering silence and deep thought fit me about as well as a two-piece bathing suit, I’m skeptical. I tell my son Sam about the idea, and after informing me that a story like this will be “the most boring story in the world,” he declares, “You can’t stop yourself from talking.” I’m not listening because I’m too busy telling him about my favorite kinds of apples and how Saving Private Ryan is such a good movie and that Kevin Garnett sure will make the Celtics better this season and that I had a crush on Linda Ronstadt as a kid and that Buzz Aldrin would have been a really cool uncle and some other stuff I’ve been meaning to tell him.
Despite Sam’s misgivings, I head to the Universalist-Unitarian church on a recent Saturday, armed with a bag lunch and a willingness to try out this silence thing at the Sangha, or “spiritual community.” I take my seat and mentally declare that my lone goal for today is to utter not a single word. Margaret Fletcher, my host and today’s organizer, begins with a set of shared rules. Among them, “We agree not to make non-spoken speech so we don’t interrupt the silence that someone’s cultivated today.” I guess my plan to use my self-taught mime techniques is out the window. Margaret continues, telling us about the afternoon’s planned “free-form walking meditation,” which sounds a lot like the Grateful Dead’s third set at Hartford ’87 (“’Space” into “Drums” into “Franklin’s Tower” with a brief free-form walking meditation as an encore”), but I’ve agreed not to be judgmental so I keep my lip buttoned and settle in.
Norman Scrimshaw, the Sangha’s leader, enters the room, filled with twenty-five of us, some on the floor and others in chairs. Norman is a barrel-chested man with remnants of a sturdy head of white hair, and as he takes his seat on a platform in front, he has a look of pure calm on his face. For the next twenty minutes, Norman reels off Zen-like quote after quote, pausing ever so slightly while saying things like, “The mind loves attention,” “To be nobody is extraordinarily peaceful,” “While meditating, let go of the ambition,” and “The heart dwells in silence where there is no judgment.” This is like two full semesters of eastern religion in less than a half-hour, my mind swelling as I try to make sense of what he’s telling me without looking like the charade I am.
A gong sounds as a woman gently strikes a large bowl, and the first meditation begins. She now makes circles around the bowl with her mallet, and the sound grows louder and louder, like no noise I’ve heard before. The tone now blankets the entire room and massages my brain, and I watch the others start their meditation. I try to spend the next forty-five minutes as motionless as possible, but having no idea how to meditate, I close my eyes and try to give into the silence. Between Journey’s “Open Arms” playing inside my head, the image of the pile of leaves that needs raking on my lawn and the age-old question of why Dee from What’s Happening was so darn sassy, the first session flies by and I’m exhausted, leaving me to wonder why people think this is relaxing.
Next up is the satsang, or “gathering in truth.” Norman poses ideas to the group such as, “Awakening is opposite from denial and judgment,” and “Practice radical acceptance – accept the way things are about the world and about yourself.” A few participants ask Norman questions, but I’m far too intimidated to speak; besides, I’m not breaking my vow of silence. The audience is riveted. Some, like me, take notes while others wait on every word from Norman’s mouth, and I understand why. His delivery is so smooth and simple, and his message –focus on yourself, accept yourself and don’t judge – is a pretty good approach for people like me, a 40-year old guy with an expanding waist, a shrinking hairline and a legitimate concern that I’m actually getting shorter.
After another meditation session, it’s time for lunch. I’d put some thought into what to bring. An iceberg lettuce, carrot and radish salad followed by a big bag of Pringles seems wrong for a silent lunch so I opt for a turkey wrap and a handful of Fig Newtons, the quiet cookie of choice for meditation enthusiasts and cat burglars across America! We eat in silence, staring at our meals, careful not to make eye contact. To the casual observer, we must look like the misanthrope section of the high school cafeteria, each of us silently plotting our revenge for all those wedgies we’ve endured, but we’re the exact opposite, each of us choosing to be our own best friends for this lunch break.
The gong sounds, and we head back to the room. I can’t wait for the next meditation. The one just before lunch was not as cluttered as the first, and I’m hoping to think a little less and just be for a spell. Okay, so maybe I doze off for a bit, but when the gonging bowl calls us back to satsang, I’m relaxed and engaged.
After another chat with Norman, my judgmental ways creep back in. We’re into our fourth meditation session, and I’m distracted by a man sitting on the floor. He’s the only one moving, methodically swaying back and forth, like a slow-motion bob and weave. He’s also asked a few questions during the satsangs, and frankly, some of his “questions” sounded more like statements, as if to say, “I’m super excellent at meditating, and I want you to know this.” Well, if Norman says we should leave ambition at the door and Mr. Bob and Weave doesn’t oblige, then I’ll judge him, silently, of course.
The final meditation begins, and I notice that Mr. Bob and Weave is taking huge breaths; he’s starting to sound like a mating humpback whale. I try to shut that idea out and focus on my silence, but seriously, he’s really making a lot of noise with that breathing. I start to get angry and consider breaking this silence with a “Dude, put a yoga sock in it. We’re trying to be in the here and now, but that noise is keeping me in the there and then!” But I remain silent and refocus my mind on nothing. I close my eyes and let his whale song opera wash over me. Pretty soon I’m in my own world. No more ‘80’s arena rock lyrics, no more bills to pay, no more emails to answer and no more cetacean love songs. Nothing but silence.
As the church bells announce that it’s four o’clock, many in the group take a moment to ask one last question or to say a few words of thanks. I’ve met my goal and been silent the whole day, but it’s quittin’ time and I’ve got something to say. I take the microphone, thank the group for inviting me and then make a quick joke about how writing a story about an experience where there are no stories will be a tough task. This is apparently a clever joke for those in the meditation know, and it gets a nice laugh, but as I get ready to toss out a few more Zen-filled zingers and establish myself as the Don Rickles of the meditation set, Mr. Bob and Weave takes the microphone and makes one more statement about his tremendous meditation acumen, and I’m pretty sure I even see Norman’s eyes roll a bit at that one.Driving home, I think through Norman’s comments about “being present” – about having a “calm abiding” that allows you to be completely aware of the moment you’re in now. It gets me thinking. Am I ever really present? Do I put my energy towards what I’m doing now rather than recalling things I’ve done or need to do tomorrow? Do I let go of the mistakes I’ve made or things I’ve failed to do? Nope, not a chance – not by a long shot. But it’s good to know there’s a path to get there, but I first need to get this Journey song out of my head.