Silence

Last week I was depressed. Not the usual all-the-time low-grade depression that’s been normal for me since childhood, but instead something hard and intense and ruthless.

It came out of nowhere and instantly took me down into the depths of sadness and despair. I had entered a new, unfamiliar reality where every person despised me and I was a horrible burden to anyone I locked eyes with.

I’ve been there before, but I hate it. When I’m in it, it feels so real. Much more real than even this moment now. Like a veil has been lifted and I can now see actuality.

I can’t, of course, but that’s what it feels like.

This depression lasted for about a week. During that week, my meditation practice fell apart.

Earlier this year I started going to a meditation circle that a local acupuncturist runs. It’s been a wonderful experience, but I feel a little awkward about going, because I’m so awkward and anxious. I struggle to find anything to say and I want more than anything to be part of a group, to have friends and connections…but I can’t seem to be myself yet.

Even so, I keep going. I know from therapy that these changes take time, and I’m trying to enjoy the process.

That process took a rest when I was too depressed to go to the meditation circle this past week, and didn’t meditate for several days after.

I didn’t notice the chatter, initially. Being anxious, I’m used to my brain just going and going all the time. I’m constantly running plans in my head. What if that person in the aisle ahead of me turns to the right? What if they come right at me? Do I have enough room to stand behind that column and get out of their way? If they just walk by me and look at me, should I smile? Do I say hi? Wait, do I know them from somewhere? Do they know me? Are they mad I haven’t said anything?

And if I’m not anxious about some individual, I’m anxious about something more abstract. It’s a lot.

During my depression, those voices came back with a vengeance I couldn’t recognize. The voices hurt me by loosening my grip on reality. They inspired me to create a new reality that is working completely against me.

Eventually, the depression began to retreat. I started to feel a little bit more like myself. And, even though I had decided to never interact with another person ever again while I was in the throws of it, I felt moved to join the meditation circle once again.

But as I walked to the studio, anxiety began to creep over me. What if no one wants me there? What if everyone rejoiced in my absence? What if their greetings were some sort of code they all understood, but meant the opposite of what they seemed?

I walked up the stairs and opened the door. One man sat inside. I didn’t recognize him. I took off my jacket and shoes, and as I did so, the acupuncturist came into the room and said hi to me.

I felt like someone turned a light on and I had to scurry under the fridge lest I get stepped on.

I smiled and returned his greeting, and then ran to the bathroom. When I came out, he was finishing up with a client and said that anyone here for meditation could start getting set up in the studio.

The other man and I entered the studio, me grabbing props and blankets, him sitting in a chair and immediately closing his eyes. I was safe again, and out of sight.

The acupuncturist walked through and told me it was good to see me. He seemed sincere, but was he? Was I reading into a statement that was actually intended to make me want to leave? What is real?

The meditation started and I closed my eyes.

The relative silence of the room washed over me.

In an instant I was energy swirling around in this sea of atoms, intermingled with the other participants.

The silence allowed a new reality to take hold of me. In sitting on a cushion in that studio, some feet away from anyone else, I felt so deeply connected, not to the individuals I sat with, necessarily, but with something deeper. I felt connected with energy, with life, with All.

I felt like I was home. At home in my mind.

When I get really depressed, like I was last week, I typically have this overwhelming urge and desire to “go home,” but that home doesn’t seem to exist in that moment. Nowhere feels like home.

But that day, on that cushion, with my meditation circle, I was home.

Maybe that’s why I have a hard time speaking there. What is there to say when you’re home?

If the word you are going to speak is not more beautiful than silence, then do not say it.

Related: Silence: Inner Learning through the Power of Silence – Jeanne Guesdon (podcast)