Photo: RNZ
I gaze awkwardly out the window as I slurp my soup as slowly and quietly as possible.
I'm surrounded by a dozen people doing the same. It's a strange scene as we all silently spoon soup into our mouths while not trying not to look at anyone else.
I'm here to practice silence. This means no polite chit chat over dinner or even making eye contact. Bar the occasional clink of cutlery, the call of tūī and the swooping of fat kererū from the garden beyond are the only audible sounds in this dining room.
It's day three of my first ever silent retreat, and I'm slowly learning about the art of slowing down. There's no talking, no phones, books or music here. Instead, the days are filled with meditation, yoga, and hours and hours of solitary, empty silence.
Mealtimes, which are usually such social occasions, feel the most awkward. Unsure where to look, I focus my attention on the brilliant green canopy that spreads over the hills before me, noticing how the foliage sways in union on the gentle breeze. From this Coromandel hilltop paradise, the ocean far in the distance glows in the evening summer sun. The silence makes me feel extremely self-conscious, but also there's also a sense of calm.
I booked this first retreat on the eve of my 40th birthday on an impulse. I'd been practicing yoga and meditation for years, but silence was something new. A few friends had been on different silent retreats and raved about them, but I couldn't imagine how I'd cope with not talking, reading or even looking someone in the eye for a week. It sounded extreme, crazy even.
But I was intrigued, so I had to try it.
It ended up being one of the most challenging things I've ever done, but it literally changed my mind. So much so, I've done it every summer since.
The first few days are the hardest. It feels unnatural, rude even, not to engage in small talk or acknowledge someone you cross paths with. Silence can be boring and lonely, and I'll admit, even unpleasant when it's just you and with your thoughts for company.
But as the mind and body slowly unwind, I begin to find certain solace in silence, enjoyment even.
It's suddenly quite freeing not to have to engage in small talk or return a smile from a stranger. The biggest unravelling is that I start to become more aware of my thoughts, more discerning about the stories swirling in my head that might not actually be helpful or true.
When there is silence, the senses come alive. Food seems to taste better - probably because I didn't have to cook it - as I purposely eat more slowly, savouring every bite.
Sounds appear more intense. I'll never forget the solo walk through native bush one afternoon where the trees seemed to pulse with aliveness from the deafening vibrations of cicadas.
After several days, I notice there are far fewer unhelpful thoughts circling my brain and I'm often bursting with creativity and energy. Silence seems to open up space for the real me to emerge.
But it's a state most of us never truly get to experience. In a world full of noise, where all sorts of entertainment and distractions can be conjured in an instant from up from our fingertips, silence is a luxury. Rest is a luxury.
But maybe it should be viewed as more of a necessity? An antidote, perhaps, to this fast-paced world that glorifies busyness.
This is not just indulgent, wishful thinking for alternative types and new age wellness seekers. Over the years, I've met people from all walks of life: Dentists, builders, fashion stylists and accountants, all choosing silence and rest as a radical act of resistance to modern day life.
Silence is not new. It's been embraced by religious and spiritual traditions around the world for centuries from Christianity to Buddishm and Judaism. Nyepi, the Balinese Day of Silence, is practiced by the entire island every year.
All these traditions say silence is good for body, mind and soul. And now science agrees. Silence can help with stress and anxiety, and may even stimulate brain cells and growth, studies on mice show.
Other studies show silence can also help lower your heart rate and blood pressure and improve information processing.
Of course, we can't live our lives in silence, nor would I want to. But I find a short stint gives me a new appreciation for the world.
Usually, the night before a retreat ends, silence is officially broken and people are invited to share their experiences. The room starts to fill with loud chatter and laughter as people swap stories and finally get to know one another. Within minutes, it feels like the silence never existed, but it's not forgotten.
At the end of my first retreat, I remember switching my phone back on in anticipation. I'd been hanging out to read the news again and checking in with my family who I had missed terribly. But as the notifications and messages flooded in, I realised I didn't want to return to the grind just yet.
I sent a quick text to my husband and kids and I turned the phone off again. The rest could wait until tomorrow.
Part four of RNZ's summer essay series.
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