Silence. And Silencing.

Retreats have been like buses over the past few years — long spells of waiting followed by a couple close together. In March I went on another short retreat, this time exploring silent meditation as a path to peace.

It was a treat to step away from the distractions and responsibilities that so easily clutter our days. To be greeted by a house used to welcoming strangers with gentleness and simplicity was delightful. The sunshine and its warmth spectacular, the birdsong sublime and the food delicious. Sumptuous gifts.

I loved walking outside and having my ears filled with the expansive sounds of springtime. To hear waves suck and swoosh through sand and stone was immersive and meditative, pulling me to a state beyond my thoughts. Reminding me that I too am part of this miraculous interconnected web — intricately held together with wave, song, and pebble. Deep wells of peace that it was refreshing to drink from.

Inside, something else lingered.

On arrival we were given a brief tour and walked through the room we would be gathering in. Chairs were lined in rows either side of a central gap, the guide was sitting upright at the front, surveying the scene. It was a scene reminiscent of an old-fashioned schoolroom or church. A setup I associate with a particular form of teaching: teacher superior, pupils silent unless invited to speak.

This was billed as a weekend exploring silent meditation as a path to peace, community, and oneness, and in that first moment a dissonance rang. The room spoke of a power dynamic that was at odds with what's needed to promote any of those things.

Safety is something we sense. Experienced firefighters will tell you they know the moment they must flee a building — something shifts in the air or sound, beyond description but deeply felt. They trust it.

"No matter," said my head. Be open. Don't jump to conclusions. You've come to learn; do what you can to listen. And I did. What I didn't yet see was how easily a space of quiet can shift from being a way to encounter peace to a place where I disappear from myself.

As the weekend unfolded, the structure never shifted. We arrived silently and namelessly into each session, our view of each other obscured by sitting in rows. Together, we focused on one man whose name and face we all knew. We listened in silence. We meditated in silence. Twice, we were invited into conversation — but remained in rows, still faceless to each other, still oriented towards the guide.

Mostly I settled into accepting that though the setup was not my preference, it worked well enough for receiving the talks. Some of what was said I found useful, some I didn't — that’s normal. I appreciated that the guide moved to sit among us for meditation which gave a sense of cohesive community for our collective practice. With eyes closed, it didn't matter that we couldn't see one another.

But the invitation to conversation totally threw me. Unless I'm on the phone, I want to see the face of the one I'm speaking to, and if going to any personal depth, I prefer to know their name. I'm grateful for those who engaged — their questions opened windows into their experiences, and the guide's responses were thoughtful. I too had questions, but I didn't bring them.

Because the deepest question I was carrying was about that dissonance. I was asking — Am I safe here? Is this guide someone I can trust? Can I trust my ability to be myself within this?

And I didn't know where to voice it. No invitation had been given to have a quiet word if anything arose that didn't feel appropriate to raise in the larger group. The focus was repeatedly on maintaining the silent and communal aspect of the retreat. The message was clear: anything that didn't fit the form didn’t belong here.

So, I withdrew. Not dramatically — I stayed in my seat, kept showing up, kept meditating. But inwardly my question flapped like a trapped bird.

I came to find God in the silence, instead I silenced the part of me God was trying to free. The bird learnt to be still in its’ cage and fell silent. The question stayed trapped.

Once the retreat ended the noise rushed in accompanied by dismay. How did I abandon myself so readily? How did I confuse Silence with silencing, yielding with surrender? As I've pondered, discussed, and prayed, clarity has slowly emerged and I’ve recognised a need for inner reconciliation.

A verse kept surfacing:

Matthew 5:24 — Leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to them; then come and offer your gift.

For the original audience, the altar was the closest place they could get to God. But unresolved tensions obstruct presence.

For us, the place we meet God is in our heart. And this verse reminds us that true participation in peaceful community, oneness, requires honesty, openness, and humility — including with oneself. It's costly. We cannot access peace by hiding or bypassing potential difficulties. Wisdom whispers when to be silent and when to speak. Peace becomes possible when we pay attention.

Over the weekend I knew something was trapped. I wasn't at peace. I hoped to access peace by bypassing discomfort. I hid behind trying to be a good participant, not being quick to judge, trying to stay open. But openness without safety becomes self-entrapment, my body knew it. I supressed my discernment that could have led to deeper peace for myself and possibly others.

This week, I've been reminded that I abide in a presence that lovingly holds me — deeper and wider than any other. When I remember I dwell in that presence, I know I'm safe and loved beyond measure. Knowing this brings peace. By believing I was unsafe, I took a step away from that awareness. No wonder I've been so distressed.

Oneness with the Divine would have looked like me honouring my discernment and acting on it. Not caring if in doing so I was seen as disruptive, or judgemental, or closed. Not minding how uncomfortable it might have been.

Divine Love has never asked me to silence my inner voice. I don't know how the guide might have responded had I brought my discomfort into the light. Doing so would have potentially disrupted the quiet but not the Silence. Sometimes words are necessary to keep me whole within the Silence, and Silence knows that and whispers — go, leave your gift here. I know your heart. Go tend to what needs tending. You've got this.

I’d love to say this insight has brought peace. It hasn’t. But it’s been a necessary step towards reconciliation. I know I must voice my experience to the retreat centre, where it first appeared. And I need to meet mine, the guide’s and the retreats centre’s fallibility with compassion and grace. To finally surrender my thoughts, words, feelings to Divine Love and know myself and them fully held and loved, just as we are.

I wonder if you've known this too — a moment when you've quieted your own sensing or voice in the hope of drawing closer to the Divine. If so, I'd love to hear what it revealed to you and how you found reconciliation.

If you’re currently experiencing a similar challenge, may you find the courage you need to honour your sensing and find your voice. Both are precious and needed.