24 Hour Silent Writing Retreat

Halfway into our retreat we entered into a twenty-four period of silence. It’s my most treasured and revered part of our time here in Greece.

That’s not to say that there isn’t resistance. Whether it’s voiced out loud or not, it’s there. It shows up in a range of ways. Like having anxious feelings about having to spend 24 hours in silence. Needing clarity about what was allowed and what wasn’t allowed during the silence. Questioning whether the time would be fruitful or not?

The one thing I know from past experience is that the silence will weave her magic over each of us in her own special way once the silence begins. I arrived at the start of the silence with a long list of writing projects, many needing completion. I knew this was a valuable time and space to make traction in my work.

I knew the silence would clear a space for me. With the distraction of speaking removed the long stretch of time would give me that much needed space to work without interruption. In normal everyday life our inner voice is distant and then by the time we find and make space to sit down and write we have to spend more time coaxing that voice from deep recesses inside ourselves. That’s why retreats offer the space to not just find our voice but also use our voice. In the silence we get to listen, we get to hear what it is we want to say, what it is we want to write.

I like what UK coach, Ken Barnes has to say about the word silent, ‘When you move the words silent around you get the word listen.’

Right now I’m writing this blog post sitting in a shaded olive groove in the middle of Mount Pelion, which in Greek mythology is the birthplace of the greek god Chiron, half man, half beast.

In the background I can distinguish the different sounds of calls of birds native to Greece. If I fine tune my hearing even more I can dip beneath the sounds on the surface and hear the honey coated humming of the honey bees who live in their thousands in hives on the mountain side not far from where I’m seated.

Silence can be gold to a writer. Whilst we don’t need it all of the time we need it a lot of the time. We need the silence to create. Right now the silence finds me in a creative flow, unleashed by the opportunity to indulge in the rarity of silence. Tonight I plan to write some more under the gaze of the full moon, late into the night after supper. There is so much to appreciate about the silence for example noticing how the flavours of food become more accentuated when we eat in silence.

There’s a lot to learn from the silence – the staff at the retreat centre are also observing the silence but for some it is hard and frequently they resort back to speaking using the volume of their everyday voices.

The parallel process between the staff breaking the silence is also a challenge for us as writers. Many writers despite wanting to write find themselves avoiding silence, afraid of what the silence might tell or show you. I found the silence breath takingly productive. On my last count I had drafted four new pieces of work, uploaded a new blog post, written a poem that emerged as I sat on the bedroom balcony with the full moon gazing down on me. The stretch of silence was like running a marathon. I had a distance to go but no idea of what the journey would be like.

As I expected a couple of hours away from breaking the silence and already I wish we could be in the silence for another two, three days. I’m already thinking how I could have more of this in my life back home. London is a busy city. I live next door to two sets of neighbours who are very noisy. My partner does not require the levels of silence and quiet I’m in constant need of.

But paradoxically there maybe some mileage that silence is becoming harder and harder to access whatever part of the world you’re in. It’s a challenge because even in this lovely, quiet spot in Greece we could not control the continuous sound of a barking dog echoing across the hillside for most of the day and night.

We cannot always control the level of silence we experience in the outside world. But when we hunker down and give the page or our computer screen our full attention we’re less likely to require absolute silence.

A question I’d like to leave you with is:

What can you hear in the silence and what can the silence bring to your writing?