Back in December, Sunisa of Heart Sangha sent out a short email to a group we’re both in inviting anyone interested to the Buddhist silent retreat she would be guiding in January. The theme would be self-loathing.
While I don’t feel particularly plagued by self-loathing, I knew that I was a few weeks away from turning 40 and what better way to ground myself in this new year and new decade of life than by attending my first silent retreat? I have friends who do them and love them. And one 9-to-5 session didn’t seem like too much to commit to even for someone like me whose elementary school progress reports were always labeling me as too chatty. Sign me up for some spiritual enlightenment!
And the timing of the retreat ended up being impeccable.
On the morning of the retreat, I dutifully rounded up all the items the welcome email suggested I should bring — a pillow, a blanket and a sleep mask for “cocooning,” a yoga mat, a travel mug for tea, a reusable water bottle and a notebook for journaling. I also tossed a few snacks in my bag because, despite all the occasions that prove otherwise, I’m still stubbornly concerned vegetarian food won’t fill me up (the lunch was incredible and my snacks went untouched!).
Initially I’d been looking forward to the retreat and the insights to be gained, but the email had injected me with worry. It now felt serious. What if I did something wrong? What do I know about Buddhist etiquette?! What if I breathe to hard? Or fall asleep and ruin the silence with my snoring? Whatever. I pushed aside my concerns and called my Lyft.
The retreat was held in a beautiful old church that had been converted into a co-working space. The Heart Sangha room had just been remodeled and this was their first event in the new space. There were large square meditation pillows spread around, small pillows and bolsters for support. There were also a selection of chairs people could sit-in if that was more comfortable. There were about 20 people in the room. Nat ran the retreat and Sunisa appeared for teaching and meditation sessions.
During our her first teaching session, Sunisa discussed the heartbreaking fires in LA and said 2025 is what the Buddhists refer to as a Wrath Year. And that wrath invites us to act — immediately.
As we slid into the first meditation, I had a lot on my mind.
You may have heard the news about Reckon — which, if you didn’t know, I worked for as the editor of Black Joy — and while Black Joy and my role will continue on under the purview of a different outlet, the shake up, my colleagues and the fog that has settled over our futures at the start of what was already certain to be a tumultuous year, have been on a constant march through my thoughts.
(It’s also why I didn’t quite get a newsletter out last week…)
So I fully anticipated that during my first silent retreat my biggest obstacle to meditating would be my workplace woes. But that’s not where my mind drifted. For months now, I’ve been struggling to rework my memoir as a TV show project. The task has felt like a lot alongside everything else in my life (Remember when I was stranded on a mountain without running water, electricity or wifi in the aftermath of Hurricane Helene?! Yeah, bouncing back from that derailed this project by a good month…) and I find that my creative mind is oriented toward nonfiction and it’s been challenging to bend it around a new genre. I have not brought much joy to the work.
And yet, that’s what, once off its leash, my mind immediately raced toward. Without even realizing it at first, I found myself immersed in potential scenes, with potential characters and even wisps of dialogue. And my brain… it wasn’t drafting… it was playing…? Turns out, once I brushed aside anything that wasn’t consequential to the present moment, THIS is where my mind wanted to be, that actually, there was much joy to be found in this work.
Navigating the transitions at work has made me feel like a shark zipping through an ocean of unknown attempting to seek out my best options. Even when they sleep, sharks remain in motion.
I am not a shark.
I am tired.
I want to rest. And my mind wants to play. But capitalism.
At the end of the retreat, we paired off and were instructed to repeat the metta phrases to our partner.
Pouring this positive regard into a stranger, but not-stranger because you just spent eight hours together in silence, was incredibly moving. It was validation that we are all inherently worthy and deserving of care. All of us.
May you be safe
May you be happy
May you be peaceful
May you be free
Afterward my pair partner and I discussed what the retreat brought up for us and got on the topic of anger. Born of our childhoods, we both found anger to be this unpredictable, unruly, illogical thing that we attempt to avoid in ourselves and others. But what does this look like in wrath year that calls on us to act?
Rates of autoimmune disease are higher in women, and even higher in Black women. There’s some suspicion this is because we hold these intense feelings inside our body without outlet. That stress is short circuiting us. Wrath year or no wrath year, there is an imperative on me to act on the anger I see in the world — from the Earth herself — and within me. But how?
I think about how at the retreat, after lunch, I took myself for a walk. It was cold out, but ambling around the neighborhood felt less awkward than killing the remaining hour silently seated at the lunch table with no iPhone to distract me.
On the walk back to the retreat, I looked down and discovered I’d stepped in what must’ve been a massive pile of dog poo in my $$$ Moon Boots. Even since I moved to Philly, I knew it was just matter of time before stepping in dog poo ruined my day because there are a number of trifling ass pet owners who just leave it where their dog drops it, even if that happens to be in the middle of the sidewalk.
I made use of multiple patches of snow, dragging my boot through the snow, then knocking the filthy snow out of the nooks and crannies in the sole. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. As other people from the silent retreat quietly passed me. I was extremely far from a state of Zen. There I was like a Blackapina Charlie Chaplin sans bowler and stache wrapped up a silent fury over dog poo in my expensive boots at a Buddhist retreat — Ludicrous right?
Even in the moment I could appreciate how silly I looked and what an apt metaphor stepping in dog poo at a silent Buddhist retreat was for 2025.
If it’s possible to defang my anger by finding the humor in it, then shouldn’t it also be possible for me to move it away from this framing as illogical and unruly and unpredictable to serve other purposes too?
I once told a friend I found losing my temper to be shameful. That in those moments, I was exhibiting a lack of control. This friend said that was interesting, that they their anger as information.
I wonder what my anger will attempt to teach me this year?