Silent Retreat Reflections: The Space Between Sensing and Reactin
In life, our senses are the doors to our experience of the world. They help us interpret what we perceive, and from that perception, we produce a response. We are constantly engaged in this loop of receiving and reacting. Sometimes the reaction is wise and feels good, but often, it is not. More often, we try to "fix" the moment, and that kind of reactivity becomes a source of suffering.
This pattern continues—on autopilot—until we interrupt it with a pause or a moment of observation. And what happens when we find just a little space between these two events, between receiving and reacting? That’s where the true power of freedom begins to show up.
This was the essence of the work during the silent retreat: creating space, slowing down, observing, and not rushing to respond. That rhythm, of deliberate presence, revealed great clarity.
Choosing silence removed much of the usual mental load involved in social interaction. The mind had fewer external stimuli to process, and with the outward distractions quieted, a subtle but immediate sense of relief arose. And something even more profound happened—once the need to speak or make eye contact faded away, a deeper inward gaze began to emerge. I could hear so much more—not just sounds, but the subtle whispers of the inner world.
In this quiet, every daily action became an opportunity for introspective work. Simply noticing what the present moment felt like, and observing my attitude toward it, showed me whether I was resting in bare awareness or clinging to something.
I could clearly investigate whether my practice was leading me toward a sense of ease and freedom—or toward tension and suffering.
Being immersed in nature—the wild songs of Australian birds, the vastness of the sky, the grounding earth—was the perfect companion for this journey inward. I was surrounded by 20 experienced yogis, all holding the same intention: to find peace within, and to see clearly.
Listening deeply to what was constantly unfolding in my body, mind, and surroundings strengthened my ability to stay present. I saw directly the ephemeral nature of all things. There was an ongoing dance between deep concentration, which brought a sense of spaciousness and ease, and moments of contraction—where the "me" story would sneak back in.
One moment I was resting in blissful awareness; the next, I was caught in strange memories or clinging to some trivial need or desire. But it didn’t matter—because as soon as I remembered that everything is transitory, the contraction would soften, and even unpleasantness would dissipate. And with that, the feeling that it was all happening to a “someone” called “I” or “me” dissolved as well.
If this resonates with you, I invite you to join me on a retreat (not a silent one) where we explore some of these same practices—creating space, cultivating presence, and reconnecting with the deep wisdom within.
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