Greenfire Farm was a women's retreat center in Tenant's Harbor Maine-- an almost 8-hour drive from my home in the Southern Tier of New York. It was conceived as a place for the spiritual nurture of women, and was staffed by a number of women who were Episcopal priests (including two from the earliest days of "irregular ordinations"). Greenfire was located in a farmhouse on many acres of wooded land, and a short drive from the ocean.The first time I went, I didn't know what to expect. I only knew my soul was hungry. My chief worry centered around the daily half hour silent meditation. Chatterbox that I am-- inside and out--would I be able to stand it?
I arrived on a frigid winter afternoon in which the sun was shining so brightly, it was a shock to get out of the car and feel the ice crystals in my lungs. I carried my bags into the farmhouse and was met by a woman in overalls and braids (a friend of the house), who showed me to my room. We climbed stairs to a floor shaped by the deep V of the roof, and I had to crouch through the doorway to my little cell. It was a small, warm space, which held a good mattress on a carpeted floor, and boasted a skylight through which, I later learned, I could see the stars. There was a lamp and a small table with books on it. It was simple and wonderful. By now I was beginning to understand what an adventure I'd begun.
We gathered in a great room warmed by a wood stove for our half-hour meditation before supper. There were about a dozen women, ranging in ages from late twenties to, maybe, seventy. Connie, one of the Episcopal priests, gave a brief introduction to the meditation time. She told us, after we made ourselves comfortable (some of us used prayer benches on the floor, some sat in chairs, others in lotus pose) she would begin by playing a note on a singing bowl. She asked us to listen to the note, as it grew and as it faded, and to let it carry us into the silence. She explained that in meditation, we would simply continually return to focusing on our breath, letting go distracting thoughts without judgment. At the end, she would ring the bowl to signal our time was over.
I'm sure it was only a brief introduction, intended to set us at ease by clarifying procedure, but it had the effect of making me increasingly nervous. Worried as I was over whether I could "succeed" at the silence, it was a relief to start, because it was the beginning of getting it over with.
I can't remember whether Connie gave suggestions as to the content of our meditation, but I believe I chose to use a word like "Spirit" or "Lord" to help me to focus on my breath. At the outset, sitting in this new, slightly unusual posture, I was anxious, uncomfortable, and acutely aware of every sound in the room... the crackling of the logs in the stove, a cough, someone shifting in their seat. But soon something happened I had never experienced before. I began to find the silence. In fact, the silence was electric. I felt carried along on the silence borne by each person in the room. If you could have seen my heart during that time, I believe it would have resembled in some way a flower opening. Or, maybe, a flame flickering.
To my astonishment, the bell sound of the bowl rang out, and our meditation time was over. Dinner was served.
I don't particularly remember that dinner, except for the fact that it was vegetarian and served with warmth and hospitality. I do remember my awkwardness as I tried to strike the balance between listening and speaking. I also remember bedding down in my little room with a book--my bible?-- the moon making its way across my skylight, a trail of stars in its wake. In a way I couldn't understand, despite the distance from my family and everyone I loved best, I felt strangely at home.
I had come to Greenfire dreading the silence. After one experience of meditation as a part of that group, I began to crave it.
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