I Went to a 7-day Silent Meditation Retreat — Here's What I Learned

Grieving a dissolved marriage, a writer seeks peace and compassion at a meditation retreat in California.

As I sat cross-legged on a red cushion, tears ran down my cheeks. The afternoon sun poured through large picture windows, warming the right side of my body. The rise and fall of my chest was heavy with the dull ache of a broken heart. “This is what grief feels like,” I thought.

My decade-long marriage to a man I deeply love had dissolved, and I had come to the Spirit Rock Meditation Center, in the secluded hills of Marin County, north of San Francisco, to steady myself. Led by the author and meditation teacher Oren Jay Sofer, the seven-day silent retreat focused on the four brahmavihāra, or Buddhist virtues: loving-kindness, compassion, joy, and equanimity.

I arrived on a Saturday afternoon last fall. After checking in, I was assigned spartan sleeping quarters in a dorm, where I met my roommate: a 30-something woman from California. We exchanged stories as we made up our single beds in crisp white sheets and quilted blue comforters. She, too, was going through a difficult separation.

We walked to the main meditation hall, where Sofer held a welcome ceremony, introduced the teachers, and invited us to turn in our phones, which I did. There were about 75 people in the group, most of us Americans, like me. The teachers took turns walking us through the week. Each day would consist of meditations, silent walks, communal meals, house chores, and Buddhist teachings.

We also took a vow of “noble silence,” agreeing that we would speak to no one but the teachers. The aim was to quiet the mind and cultivate compassion for ourselves and others. After a light dinner and a short meditation session, we spent the rest of the night settling in. Around 10, I slipped into bed and drifted off to sleep.

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The morning gong struck at 6 o’clock sharp. My roommate and I took turns brushing our teeth at the small sink. The cool air snapped me awake as I walked outside toward the meditation hall. At the crest of the slope, under an inky sky, I marveled at the North Star glittering like a solitaire diamond.

After a brief tai-chi-like session focused on breath work and movement, I skipped breakfast in favor of a hike on the Madrone Path, one of six trails that crisscross the 412-acre campus. In a huddle of auburn leaves, I stumbled upon a white Buddha statue scattered with offerings of pine cones, feathers, notes, and prayer beads. Later on the walk I found two smaller Buddha shrines hidden like Easter eggs, one in a tree trunk and one in a thicket of pampas grass. Each sparked a jolt of joy.

The day’s sitting meditations were a mixed bag. Sometimes my mind bounced around relentlessly, like a toddler’s — reviewing my life’s to-do list, feeling the pain in my back and knees, counting the minutes before snack time. At other points I felt crushed by sadness. I practiced sitting with the grief and not judging myself for it.

Then there were the blissful moments when I was able to quiet my thoughts and tap in to a sense of calm, riding my breath like a wave. If distractions arose, I directed my attention back to breathing to avoid obsessive spirals filled with projections, judgments, and fears. The more detached I became from the narratives swirling in my mind, the more peace I found. It felt luxurious to have so much time in silence.

Mealtimes in the dining hall, by comparison, were a feast for the senses. We moved silently in a single file to load up our plates with vegetarian dishes like lemongrass curry, escarole soup, roasted delicata squash, smashed cucumber salad, and corn and coconut chowder. Before tucking in to each meal, I silently thanked my fellow practitioners who had helped wash, peel, and chop the ingredients. We sat in silence, shoulder-to-shoulder, focused on the primal acts of smelling, tasting, and chewing.

In the evening, there was a 45-minute dharma talk on one of the brahmavihārā, followed by a walking meditation and a chanting session. Having the same routine created a daily cadence blissfully free of decision making.

As the week rolled on, the routine also provided a sense of balance, and my mind began to settle like a lake after a storm, the debris sinking to the bottom. Sitting in silence with others allowed me to feel less alone when confronted with feelings of loss, grief, and sadness. I was fortified by the presence of the white-haired man in front of me who sat cross-legged at every meditation without moving a muscle. I found comfort in the wisdom of the teachings, especially the adage that every life contains 10,000 joys and 10,000 sorrows.

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On my last morning, I set out in the predawn darkness to hike the 2.9-mile Great Loop Trail, guided by the light of my headlamp. It was an arduous uphill trek. After huffing up an incline for 40 minutes, I arrived above the tree line, where I could see the town of Mill Valley below a blanket of mist. I surveyed the landscape of jagged ridges and redwood forests, the curves of clouds, and the golden sun rising behind a summit.

My heart was still heavy, and I could still feel the sting of a lost love. But seven days of silence and meditation reminded me that my feelings were not something to bury or overcome. Instead, they were something I could embrace, knowing nothing is permanent — not marriage, not sadness, not grief.

Seven-night retreat at the Spirit Rock Meditation Center from $1,680, all-inclusive. 

A version of this story first appeared in the October 2024 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline “The Luxury of Silence.”

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