About a year ago, amid the throes of an existential crisis, I signed myself up for a three-day silent meditation retreat. It sucked. It also changed the way I interact with the natural world—but not in the way I expected.
If you’re already raising your eyebrows, I don’t blame you. When I say the words “meditation retreat” to most people, they either take on a blank look or start grinding their teeth. A rare few lean in and ask how the retreat went. Those people are all raging hippies.
I personally identify as hippie-adjacent. I’m not into crystals or hard drugs, but do enjoy going a few days without a shower and, when the occasion calls for it, wearing paisley. Still, I suspect my decision to sit on a lumpy cushion in silence for three days had more to do with a temporary delirium brought on by too many emails and not enough life direction. Before this, I’d never been on a meditation retreat of any kind. My record for silence on solo hikes was about five hours. At that point, I usually started talking to myself.
Still, I’d heard some good things about mindfulness. Allegedly, sitting around in the…
