Dixon, New Mexico. Early Autumn.
My friendship with Luke was lifelong. When I arrived at Luke’s place I had expected it to be like all of the other times when I visited. Instead he announced it would be good for me to spend a few days in silence.
The muscles at the base of my neck tightened. “Why?” I gasped. Luke smiled at me. Laugh lines danced around his eyes. “Just agree to do it, and then you’ll understand,” he said.
At sunrise Luke gathered a few things and said he was going to cross the river, camp and spend some time alone too. And for the rest of the week I entered a silent world where the thoughts inside my head never sounded louder.
Luke had filled the refrigerator. Good coffee beans and a grinder sat on the kitchen counter, left over fry bread from the night before, and fresh fruit.
On my first morning alone I sat on the roof porch, drinking coffee, watching the river run, and my mind reeled. Thoughts about my family at home, my job, medical appointments for my son, carpools, bills to be paid, endless arrangements, phone calls to be returned, and ideas for freelance writing projects.
My day ahead was empty, without anything to do, nothing demanding my time. The wind was warming up for the afternoon, and my thoughts thundered in my head. I wrote in my journal, with my jaw clenched, emptying my mind onto the pages. Next I read an entire book. I took a nap. Then I went for a long walk, while more thoughts raced through my mind.
After a dinner of bread and cheese, I sat in the rocker by the open window and watched the evening shadows fold into dim gray light. With a new awareness, both funny and painful, I began to understand I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about anything. The purpose of silence was to quiet my mind. But it was impossible for me to not think, not worry and not plan. I tried to hush my thoughts and my mind shimmered on the edges of sanity.
That night I slept in Luke’s bed upstairs and drifted with the ebb and flow of my wild mind until I fell asleep. The next morning the sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Moments after I woke up my mind went wild again, and I was irritated. Spending time alone, thinking about whatever I wanted, daydreaming and allowing my mind to romp in a wild field of thoughts tempted me. I loved being alone and I didn’t have enough free time. But my overactive mind was out of control. I needed to figure out how to put my thoughts at rest.
My simplified living conditions helped clear my mind. I didn’t have a closet full of clothes, only a small backpack. Less worry about what to wear. I was living in a small adobe cottage without a car and there wasn’t any place I needed to go. No telephone needing to be answered and no computer. A two-burner stove and plenty of food. I didn’t have to do necessary cleaning. No curtains, the trees gave privacy.
When I was inside I kept the door open and bird sounds drifted in. Or I drifted out for a walk. Simplification of my outward life continued to slow down my thoughts. I could pick simplicity over complication. Seeing how little I needed to get by and feeling happier than usual gave me extraordinary freedom and peace, and I began to shed my anxiety about many things.
To still my thoughts I focused on the wind blowing on my face, the way the sun cast light through the trees and the scent of pinion. I studied a cricket strolling along the floor, and the beams in the ceiling veiled with cobwebs. I watched them bend and sway in the wind, and when my thoughts ran away, I pulled them back into the moment.
Each morning I sat by the river.
“Live water heals memories.,” Annie Dillard wrote in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.
The river spilled toward me, streaming, and I felt my spirit fill. I imagined myself as a river stone, tumbling in the raging water, with my rough edges and hard spots rounded, softened, and my mind let go of deadlines and schedules.
While sitting on a rock by the river, a large lizard crawled up the pant leg on my jeans. I sat motionless. We spent a long time together, the lizard on my lap, and no agenda other than sunning ourselves.
At night I watched the moon rise full and wide in the corner of the sky. It was subtle but I felt the change, the air was turning from late summer to early fall.
After I figured out how to turn down the volume on my thoughts, my dreams became abundant. I found the trap door in my mind where upon opening it, the past and the future were one.
Each morning I pulled my long brown hair into a braid, and at the end of the week when I looked into the mirror my face looked relaxed. The lines at the corners of my eyes had softened.
The next day it rained and Luke came home at sunset. I was sitting near the door and I watched him come into view in a yellow-orange light pooling between the trees. He dropped his gear on the porch and sat down next to me. We talked a bit but mostly we were quiet together. Time slipped slowly. The wind came up. Twilight gave way to darkness.
The year was 1994 and that first silent period for me was much like a good herd growing more colts. What Auntie had been teaching me years before and the lessons I was receiving from my elder women friends began to take root.
A rough draft chapter from We Who Walk The Seven Ways, a memoir in progress
