Silent retreat in Brooks, Maine
On a hot and humid August night, I had a decision to make. It was nearly 2am and I hadn’t slept more than an hour. While I hate to greet my children with annoyance at the start of the day, when they spend the prior night waking me, hour after hour, it’s almost impossible not to. As I returned to bed once again, this time after locating a lost precious stuffed dinosaur, I was desperate to turn on the air conditioner, a beast of a machine that would definitely cool the room to a comfortable temperature but whose constant churning and aggressive gear shifting drowns out calls from my kids and startles me awake. I pictured my husband, 4 nights into a business trip and hundreds of miles away in his climate controlled hotel room, and grabbed my phone. “We need to get a new AC ASAP.” He did not reply. It was the middle of the night, after all.
Phone in hand and righteously not turning on the AC, I began to google, searching for the one thing I felt could give me hope - a silent retreat….somewhere north. Ten minutes later I hit “confirm booking” for a Women's Retreat at Rolling Meadows in Brooks, Maine, over a long weekend in November. With the promise of silence (eventually), cooked meals that someone else cleans up, and no kids, I found myself dozing off and not dreading (as much) the coming morning.
Rolling Meadows offers spiritually focused (and vegetarian) retreats that are aimed at healing and awakening one’s consciousness. For $700, which included everything - a room, all meals, and all practices, it’s a fantastic value. The property includes 100 acres of trails, dozens of spiritually, nutritionally, and artistically themed books, and a delightful sauna just beside the house (few things inspire grown women to giggle like trudging silently and nearly naked through a snowstorm).
From the moment I arrived I was grateful to be there. While all free time and meals were held in silence, nearly every single yoga/mediation session was accompanied by music and a revealing conversation between each guest (we had 11) and Patricia, our host. It was an ideal mix of reflection, peace, and deep, deep emotion. Patricia is a fearless leader, and her continuous intuitive adjustments to the thermostat to accommodate our ever fluctuating body temperatures (there's a lot of moving and not moving) solidified her as my personal hero.
My interest in silent retreats began a decade ago in my thirties. In a 4 year span, I lost both my parents separately to illnesses, my father’s a prolonged, gruesome, and utterly devastating experience. Also in that time, I was engaged, married, pregnant, and then a mom (twice). Gratitude came easy because the simple things mattered - the sun on my face after a day spent in a cold, dark hospital room was given its proper respect. Good times ushered in not just joy but also relief and respite, the grand slam of rejuvenation, and it was so welcome that my gratefulness was usually overwhelming.
Now, in my forties, and in the throws of full time motherhood, the contrasts of life have gone from earth shattering quakes to tremors so small that I don’t even feel them. My career is paused while I care for my family. My days are a mix of utter predictability and total chaos. Colds, stomach bugs, bad dreams, too much wind and a hundred other whims rule my nightlife now. The sense of urgency that was once a matter of life and death has been diluted, the monotony muddying the very tools that gave me my will to survive: my gratitude and my humor. I fight the urge to apply ambition to motherhood, constantly reminding myself that I already “got the job” and that this is a promotion that works in reverse. While money and achievement were the markers of my twenties and thirties, now success is measured in hours slept, a day without yelling, a dinner without hot dogs. And, unbelievably, any one of these things is hard to achieve.
These themes of grief, anxiety, and isolation did not miss the opportunity that Rolling Meadows afforded them. When my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer, her natural inclination to put her children first was stronger than ever. In one of our last conversations she looked at me with such worry and said, “No one realized how sad I was when my mom died.” I wanted to assure her I’d be fine, but the ability to speak was gone, and we sat in silence, holding hands. My mom was 57 when her mom died, I was 32 when my mom died and 34 when my dad died. All the major moments of life that lay ahead were marked by their absence, and grief is now a hallmark of my parenting style. My kids, ages 4 and 2, work hard to make sense of one set of grandparents, and the explanations fall short, because the truth is too much for all of us. And for me, I know I look at my girls with the same worry my mom had, terrified for the grief that, if I’m lucky, awaits in the wake of my death 95 years from now. After working with Patricia and the other participants during my silent retreat, I feel like I'm learning to acknowledge these feelings without letting them rule my mind.
That wasn't the only revelation I was gifted on this retreat: I was able to see my girls and their father for the gifts they are, something that can be hard to see in the fog of motherhood. Rolling Meadows helped me see that my family isn’t a problem to endlessly solve, but actually the funniest, sweetest, silliest, and always most loving group of people I know. I just needed to not hear them for a bit to see it.
Phone in hand and righteously not turning on the AC, I began to google, searching for the one thing I felt could give me hope - a silent retreat….somewhere north. Ten minutes later I hit “confirm booking” for a Women's Retreat at Rolling Meadows in Brooks, Maine, over a long weekend in November. With the promise of silence (eventually), cooked meals that someone else cleans up, and no kids, I found myself dozing off and not dreading (as much) the coming morning.
Rolling Meadows offers spiritually focused (and vegetarian) retreats that are aimed at healing and awakening one’s consciousness. For $700, which included everything - a room, all meals, and all practices, it’s a fantastic value. The property includes 100 acres of trails, dozens of spiritually, nutritionally, and artistically themed books, and a delightful sauna just beside the house (few things inspire grown women to giggle like trudging silently and nearly naked through a snowstorm).
From the moment I arrived I was grateful to be there. While all free time and meals were held in silence, nearly every single yoga/mediation session was accompanied by music and a revealing conversation between each guest (we had 11) and Patricia, our host. It was an ideal mix of reflection, peace, and deep, deep emotion. Patricia is a fearless leader, and her continuous intuitive adjustments to the thermostat to accommodate our ever fluctuating body temperatures (there's a lot of moving and not moving) solidified her as my personal hero.
My interest in silent retreats began a decade ago in my thirties. In a 4 year span, I lost both my parents separately to illnesses, my father’s a prolonged, gruesome, and utterly devastating experience. Also in that time, I was engaged, married, pregnant, and then a mom (twice). Gratitude came easy because the simple things mattered - the sun on my face after a day spent in a cold, dark hospital room was given its proper respect. Good times ushered in not just joy but also relief and respite, the grand slam of rejuvenation, and it was so welcome that my gratefulness was usually overwhelming.
Now, in my forties, and in the throws of full time motherhood, the contrasts of life have gone from earth shattering quakes to tremors so small that I don’t even feel them. My career is paused while I care for my family. My days are a mix of utter predictability and total chaos. Colds, stomach bugs, bad dreams, too much wind and a hundred other whims rule my nightlife now. The sense of urgency that was once a matter of life and death has been diluted, the monotony muddying the very tools that gave me my will to survive: my gratitude and my humor. I fight the urge to apply ambition to motherhood, constantly reminding myself that I already “got the job” and that this is a promotion that works in reverse. While money and achievement were the markers of my twenties and thirties, now success is measured in hours slept, a day without yelling, a dinner without hot dogs. And, unbelievably, any one of these things is hard to achieve.
These themes of grief, anxiety, and isolation did not miss the opportunity that Rolling Meadows afforded them. When my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer, her natural inclination to put her children first was stronger than ever. In one of our last conversations she looked at me with such worry and said, “No one realized how sad I was when my mom died.” I wanted to assure her I’d be fine, but the ability to speak was gone, and we sat in silence, holding hands. My mom was 57 when her mom died, I was 32 when my mom died and 34 when my dad died. All the major moments of life that lay ahead were marked by their absence, and grief is now a hallmark of my parenting style. My kids, ages 4 and 2, work hard to make sense of one set of grandparents, and the explanations fall short, because the truth is too much for all of us. And for me, I know I look at my girls with the same worry my mom had, terrified for the grief that, if I’m lucky, awaits in the wake of my death 95 years from now. After working with Patricia and the other participants during my silent retreat, I feel like I'm learning to acknowledge these feelings without letting them rule my mind.
That wasn't the only revelation I was gifted on this retreat: I was able to see my girls and their father for the gifts they are, something that can be hard to see in the fog of motherhood. Rolling Meadows helped me see that my family isn’t a problem to endlessly solve, but actually the funniest, sweetest, silliest, and always most loving group of people I know. I just needed to not hear them for a bit to see it.
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