- Country of Origin: Australia
Enmeshed in a busy year working at my academic office at my university, I thought about attending a retreat. I wanted some relief from the tiresome routine. As a postgraduate student, I was embroiled in a substantial project of completing a research dissertation. The subject I was working on was philosophy/theology and ecology, and I enjoyed it. This was the year before the arrival of Covid-19, and there was still a bustle around the corridors and offices of the School of Humanities.
Added to my research paper, my academic duties included reading and grading assignments, attending lectures, and giving an occasional lecture to students enrolled in the Genre Studies unit. These were fairly light duties for any casual academic. For me, the burden of resolving the complicated subject matter of my research was most challenging. Sitting long hours working on it, I sometimes found it hard to concentrate, and I would try to find a way to clear my mind, mostly by strolling in the university gardens.
In the garden, there were trees, lawns, and walking tracks. Refreshment corners with coffee and snacks were also available in various locations on the campus — a campus good enough to refresh and recharge oneself. But I realized these moments were not refreshing enough. I needed more than these small havens on the campus, and a fuller break from the responsibilities of my work. Perhaps it was time for a course in contemplation.
I could usually recover by retreating into my quiet office space, writing, researching, and listening to classical music. This still works well for me, but the internet remains a constant distraction. When I was offered the opportunity to go on a retreat, I decided to go for it, so I booked a spot for the mid-term break.
Most retreat centers are located in bushland — remote woods away from town and the internet — areas of complete solitude. They are close to nature and use solar power and tank water. It could be rough to keep the tablets, pads, laptops, and phones always charged.
The silence here was so exciting
My first retreat was a combination of daily meditation “sits” in the gompa (silent sessions in the meditation hall), sleeping in a caravan, and engaging in the crack-of-dawn writing bouts lit by battery-operated lamplight.
On my first flush of morning in the retreat, the bush was quiet. I knew that soon, the birds would begin to stir in the sky. I was writing a paper to present at a conference on theology, while also working on completing my thesis. My computer, with its e-book library, was my essential equipment, and that early morning quiet time alone was inspiring.
Well before daylight each morning, I would walk up to the kitchen to fill a thermos with coffee. On the way, I might encounter kangaroos pausing watchfully in their paths, waiting to discover my intentions. I would practice a kind of gentle meditative walking, hoping they would not be disturbed by my presence. Soon, they would bound off, either down the valley towards the dam or into the bush, and I would continue walking, but now, I had a deepened connection with my surroundings. In the retreat center in a mountain range in northern New South Wales north of Sydney, the early spring air was crisp and clear.
The air
What a joy to have access to such clean air in the tranquil bushland!
Each morning during the break, I would sit near a small pond at the edge of a stand of gum trees, where spring wildflowers were blooming. Sometimes, the teacher would come and sit with me, and we would discuss a Zen verse or the Heart Sutra.
Then, we would return to meditate in the gompa. Here, a statue of Buddha sat before the window on an altar with smaller statues and photos around him and lovely flowers and incense offered to him. It was a serene space at the top of a hill, surrounded by native bushland and flat sandstone rocks from which a view extended across the valley to the south. Inside the gompa, it was silent, apart from the occasional rustle when other meditators adjusted their posture. A stillness descended over the space as participants focused on their breath, beginning to release thoughts of the outside world and various day-to-day activities.
At night, after the last meditation, the constellations of the Southern Cross and the Pointers were brilliant among the bright star fields beyond Earth.
One thing I learned was that no matter what might appear to be going on within my fellow attendees and myself or in the memories that arose during meditation, it would always be our own personal “stuff” that would come up, simply so we could become aware of it. It was only after several uncomfortable sessions with a busy mind that I found the best way to do that. It was to alternate a sitting meditation session with one in which I walked outside or stood among the wildflowers, attending to the birds while, as earlier in the day, emptying my mind of thoughts.
Silence would sometimes pervade my awareness of those airy heights, at least for a while.
When the last day arrived, we cleaned the gompa, the kitchen, and the caravans and left the Retreat Centre around lunchtime. The next day, I returned to the university, and my mind calmed as I settled back into my office. The world seemed brighter, and my random thoughts only came occasionally and more quietly. I knew I would be able to return to academic work, but now with a peaceful mind.
Soon, the paper was finished and ready to be presented. It was time I made some real progress in writing my dissertation.
Thank you to Yosef Baskin and Tripti Mund for their inspired edits on this piece and everyone else on the Work & Life team.
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Juliana
Juliana has written and published articles on Folklore and Eco-Lore, Eco-Theology and Philosophy, and Speculative Fiction. She has a PhD in Philosophy/Theology, and Speculative Fiction, and a Masters in Medieval Background. She also writes on Mystical Theology and Eco-Literacy, has two book chapters published and presents at International conferences. Juliana likes to practice meditation, contemplation, and stargazing.
