This third essay in the series was written in reflection following my time at Sampoorna yoga, based on my notes and journal.
"Sleep is the prayer the body prays,
Breathing in unthought faith the Breath
That through our worry-wearied days
Preserves our rest, and is our truth.”
From Sabbath Poem XIII, by Wendell Berry
Although I had planned the outline for this short reflection series some time ago, I have noticed that the final contribution has not been forthcoming. Whilst I had a sense of what it might contain, the form and flesh of the piece would not come to life. And so, whilst I don’t claim to be one, any so-called “good” writer will tell you not to force it, the words will come (it’s likely that the same writer will confess to the complete opposite at times, but that’s besides the point…).
The stars were set to align, and inspiration struck during my first experience of a silent retreat, taking place at the Jesuit Centre for Spirituality: St. Beuno’s, in North Wales. It is here that my intended theme of “opening” began to incorporate. This was my first experience of a retreat in silence, and really my only exploration of Ignatian spirituality to date. Whilst I was not hugely apprehensive, I did wonder how I might respond to the invitation to silence, and whether I would find this helpful or a hinderance.
During my time at Sampoorna there were, unsurprisingly, encounters with encouraged silence through the acts of meditation, but also in during our asana practices. Both were heavily punctuated by audible breath (and the occasional snore in the former), and so they never quite like the intentional stillness that I stepped into at St. Beuno’s, but they felt as if they were kin with one another all the same.
As a teen pondering what I might do with the rest of my life, I considered for some time that I might pursue archaeology as a career. Sunday afternoons were spent watching Time Team, and I selected subjects at A-Level that would compliment that vocational direction should I take the plunge. Archaeology remains an interest of mine, but like many young imaginations of what the future may hold (including an astronaut), this slipped to an interest not a passion, as I focussed my efforts on ministry and theology.
However, my experiences whilst fully submerged in a life of yoga in India were perhaps the next stage in the archaeological excavation of my self. Having not quite given up on the pursuit of elaborate digs in far-flung places (or indeed, a cold and soggy part of the UK as per seemingly every episode of Time Team), it seems my desire to dig a little deeper has been turned inward instead. With every layer that is unearthed, a new one with fresh perspective is revealed, one that usually invites digging to begin again at a later date to see what came before that too.
The processes of vulnerability and realisation during my month with Sampoorna, offered opportunities to go further than my previous delicate excavations had allowed. Sometimes on Time Team they had to get the big and heavy machinery out, whereas sometimes a small gardening trowel and a fine brush were the tools that were required. Sampoorna nurtured an environment for both, where the breakthroughs came because of the consistent dedication to discovery: a desire to see what’s really there.
I became more aware of this whilst on retreat in Wales. There was “nothing to do” at St. Beuno’s, and indeed, nothing we ought to be doing – our time was to be spent in silence, in prayer, and in reflection. If we must read, it should only be a little; if we feel like we need to walk, don’t let it become a hiking holiday; and if we were to speak, then it would be most helpful if that were only in the time dedicated to meeting with our Spiritual Directors.
As it happens, and this is a common occurrence I believe, I spent a lot of time sleeping, which is why I chose the words from Wendell Berry above to introduce this piece. It speaks to the essentiality of a commonly abused facet of human existence: our ability and need to rest and sleep. That it links this with our breath and perhaps even plays on a divinity of “the Breath”, seemed to so eloquently tie together my growing asana practice, my exploration of meditation, and the silence in which I dwelt in Wales.
Yet with all this “nothingness” and rest, to the modern eye our days could seem lazy and extravagant, to me – it offered the glimpse of an opening door, a thin slither of light peeking through.
I don’t believe that I would have been ready to even note the existence of the door without first experiencing the vulnerability and the realisation I’ve spoken of before, and in such divine timing, I was able to not only now see the door, but be guided in the language of “opening” by my Spiritual Director – a word that had come to mind when planning how I would write this short series.
I found encouragement in the words I was offered during those times of direction; that, although perhaps sometimes it is not clear or transparent, we are indeed invited to participate in a divine dance. The very fact I was at St. Beuno’s asking the questions I asked was not a random fluke, I did not wake up one day and just decide to go on a silent retreat, but instead could perhaps be seen as the nudging of something other, inviting me onwards.
These experiences during my sabbatical, along with many others, have helped nurture hidden parts of my self – that which has been kept away under layers and layers of history, like the layers of earth that cover priceless treasures from millennia ago. Yet there is now an opening, an opening that I am not yet able to walk through but which I can see, and which I value. The door is rather nice to look at: friendly, warm, centuries old, it is framed by intricate design and flanked by broad stone, it is open just a slither – enough for the light to be seen, yet not quite enough to be tempted through, for now. Whatever is behind the door is for another day, perhaps even another season, for now it is enough to acknowledge the journey to this uncovered portal and be grateful for all that, and all those, who have carried me thus far.