100 Hours of Silence

I spent the better part of five days (we’re talking 100 hours) in silence as part of a retreat experience for seniors at my university. By the end, I had read seven books, ran, done yoga, danced, walked, sang, slept, wrote through a notebook and a half, and prayed a lot (or at least attempted to).

One day, I was reading a book on a couch in a sunny room, and I ended up napping with the book on my face (it was a book of poetry criticism – not ashamed that it put me to sleep). That nap ended up being the best nap of my life – and the book was also good, if we are talking literary criticism.

There were these lovely French doors for the sunlight and a portable heater that made my water bottle so hot I accidentally spat out some near the girl next to me who was reading a Bible marked with highlighted passages and hundreds of sticky notes, as if to say, look how holy I am. And then there’s me, sleeping with a poetry criticism book on my face – look how literate I am! When I decide to read and not sleep, that is.

Apart from a few singular instances of my mind running wild with judgement (see the above paragraph), I came to discover I quite like silence. It alleviates the strange group dynamics I often struggle with on a day-to-day basis. Nobody commented on what I was wearing or eating or how many cups of tea I drank between the hours of 3 and 5pm to pass the time. We ate meals together in silence, and I sat with different people every day. There were no cliques, no dramatic happenings, no arguments.

Before the silence began, I was joking with another person about being a “bad Catholic.” I mean, I go to Mass every Sunday, but I’m not what I would call particularly religious. Sometimes, I feel spiritually inclined, but mostly, my faith life is pretty flat. I felt self-conscious at the beginning of the retreat among this group of 30 students, many of whom hold active roles in the Church on campus. But when I joked about being a bad Catholic, this person looked at me and said, “If you’re a bad Catholic, what does that make me?” A priest overheard our conversation and laughed, “What even is a good Catholic?”

That was the last conversation I had before we entered into the silence, and it really set the tone as one of friendship and spiritual lightness (even religious humor, if you will). I was surprised by the amount of camaraderie I experienced even in silence. I did not really know anyone on the trip beyond a first name basis, but I felt close to them after so many hours spent eating, sitting, reading, and praying together in silence.

If I learned anything in those 100 hours of silence and internal struggle, it is that everyone else is struggling too (even if their Bible is color-coded in highlighter). I wish people of faith were more vulnerable about doubt and questioning. When I start to bring up my own struggle with faith, people instantly join in, but I spent years in silence before these 100 hours wrestling with my doubt.

I’m usually the person that tries to fill awkward silence with talking, but now I have grown more comfortable just sitting with the quiet. I don’t suppose I’ll ever complain about silence again, and that is a relief.

While I was reflecting on the experience, I noted how I always feel as if the first thing I write in a new notebook should be inspirational and poetic, but then I suppose I’d never start writing. Perhaps this is the same as a blank canvas or an empty dance studio or 100 hours of silence – the little moments, false starts, and mistakes end up being far more memorable.