Dear Friends of Mindfulness Northwest,
A group of 25 people is gathering for a day of mindfulness at Semiahmoo County Park, north of Bellingham. The park is situated on a mile-long sandspit extending into the Salish Sea, with water on both sides. It’s just before 9 a.m., and the park is quiet.
Some attendees live nearby, while others have driven considerable distances. A few recognize me or each other from previous retreats. I can see the “I made it; now I can relax!” relief in some smiles, while others appear understandably apprehensive.
What will this day of quiet practice really be like? Several participants remark on the beauty of our surroundings, and the surprisingly pleasant March weather certainly helps.
We set up yoga mats and chairs in a loose circle, drop our sack lunches in the kitchen, and begin settling in for the day.
After addressing some logistics and leading a short meditation to help everyone acclimate, I invite participants to reflect on how they’re approaching our day of practice. I share that I’m feeling tired and initially resistant to getting up this morning, but I also express gratitude for being here. Others share a wide range of feelings: exhaustion, gratitude, curiosity, nervousness, and a bit of breathlessness.
We articulate our hopes for the day as well—some seeking a true break, others hoping for clarity on a particular issue, and many expressing a deep intuition that “I need this.” There are smiles of recognition and occasional chuckles, with a few participants using humor to connect and perhaps ease their nerves.
I begin our first formal practice, guiding participants as we gradually establish a rhythm of seated meditations, body awareness and movement exercises, and mindful walking in the beautiful environment around us.
Throughout the day, we practice in relative silence. We feel the presence of our neighbors in the small historic building we’ve rented, jostling gently as we put on our shoes and coats to venture outside for more walking.
Facial expressions vary widely, but I remind myself not to assume how anyone is feeling. Each person is on their own journey into stillness, and I have a deep respect for everyone’s courage in engaging in this practice for an entire day.
I find myself observing the powerful worry loops churning in my mind. There’s always so much happening! However, I also notice things beginning to quiet down. I feel my breath and tune into my body, sensing the mix of ease and tension in my heart. In my wisest moments, I smile in recognition of the complexity of being human, while at other times, I feel frustrated by how persistent my hang-ups can be. I sit with the group, offer a few suggestions, and walk outside alongside my fellow inner adventurers.
We sit, we walk, we appreciate a few poems together, we separate for a while to eat and rest, and then we continue. The light shifts from one side of the room to the other, and we hear more voices from other park visitors. One of the birders inquires about our activities. We also observe others, not part of the retreat, who are just as deeply immersed in the shells and rocks on the beach as we walk outside. We merge with the larger community for a while and then return to the comfort of our meditation hall.
I feel myself settling deeper into my belly, my shoulders softening. I notice the thought loops about various problems in life seem less compelling, with longer gaps of silence emerging. Moments of true peace arise—though elusive and quiet, they are certainly present.
We close much as we began, reflecting on our experiences and the day itself. The room is filled with gratitude, knowing smiles, and more than a few laughs. The diversity of experiences is striking: some found the day very peaceful, while others struggled. However, everyone, in their own way, conveyed a sense of value in the experience, even if some struggled to find the right words. This resonates with me; there aren’t truly the right words to describe retreat practice. It is more mysterious and profound than language can fully capture.
I feel that for those whom it suits, the practice of retreat is indeed a profound gift. It is a powerful means of rediscovering ourselves and feeling our feet solidly on the ground. It serves not only to renew and recharge us but also to help us discover something more subtle—a space in our hearts and lives that is valuable beyond words.
We hope to see you soon on retreat, both in person and online. Surprisingly, the online format works quite well too! Whether for a day, a weekend, or even 5 to 7 days, we invite you to join us in the silence and continuous practice of retreat.
-Tim Burnett