Solitary Retreat Quotes

Solitary. But not in the sense of being alone. Not solitary in the way Thoreau was, for example, exiling himself in order to find out where he was; not solitary in the way Jonah was, praying for deliverance in the belly of the whale. Solitary in the sense of retreat. In the sense of not having to see himself, of not having to see himself being seen by anyone else.

I spent the rest of the film miserable, hardly seeing it. Or, rather, I was seeing it but in a wholly different way: not the ecstatic prodigy; not the mystic, the solitary, heroically quitting the concert stage at the height of his fame to retreat into the snows of Canada - but the hypochondriac, the recluse, the isolate. The paranoiac. The pill popper. No: the drug addict. The obsessive: glove-wearing, germ-phobic, bundled year round with scarves, twitching and racked with compulsions. The hunched nocturnal weirdo so unsure how to conduct even the most basic relations with people that (in an interview which I was suddenly finding torturous) he had asked a recording engineer if they couldn't go to a lawyer and legally be declared brothers - sort of the tragic, late-genius version of Tom Cable and me pressing cut thumbs in the darkened back-yard of his house, or - even more strangely - Boris seizing my hand, bloody at the knuckles where I'd punched him on the playground, and pressing it to his own bloodied mouth.

The Garden" How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown’d from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flow’rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men; Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So am’rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress’ name; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion’s heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race: Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wond’rous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that’s made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root, Casting the body’s vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets, and combs its silver wings; And, till prepar’d for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk’d without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share To wander solitary there: Two paradises ’twere in one To live in paradise alone. How well the skillful gard’ner drew Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new, Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And as it works, th’ industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs!

adolescence; as never, surely, were the certain-coursed, dynamic roller-coasters of youth. For most men and women these thirty years are taken up with a gradual withdrawal from life, a retreat first from a front with many shelters, those myriad amusements and curiosities of youth, to a line with less, when we peel down our ambitions to one ambition, our recreations to one recreation, our friends to a few to whom we are anaesthetic; ending up at last in a solitary, desolate strong point that is not strong, where the shells now whistle abominably, now are but half-heard as, by turns frightened and tired, we sit waiting for death. At forty, then, Merlin was no different from himself at thirty-five; a larger paunch, a gray twinkling near his ears, a more certain lack of vivacity in his walk. His forty-five differed from his forty by a like margin, unless one mention a slight deafness in his left ear. But at fifty-five the process had become a chemical change of immense rapidity. Yearly he was more and more an "old man" to his family--senile almost, so far as his wife was concerned. He was by this time complete owner of the bookshop. The mysterious Mr. Moonlight Quill, dead some five years and not survived by his wife, had deeded the whole stock and store to him, and there he still spent his days, conversant now by name with almost all that man has recorded for three thousand years, a human catalogue, an authority upon tooling and binding, upon folios and first editions, an accurate inventory of a thousand authors whom he could never have understood and had certainly never read. At sixty-five he distinctly doddered. He had assumed the melancholy habits of the aged so often portrayed by the second old man in standard Victorian comedies. He consumed vast warehouses of time searching for mislaid spectacles. He "nagged" his wife and was nagged in turn. He told the same jokes three or four times a year at the family table, and gave his son weird, impossible directions as to his conduct in life. Mentally and materially he was so entirely different from the Merlin Grainger of twenty-five that it seemed incongruous that he should bear the same name. He worked still In the bookshop with the assistance of a youth, whom, of course, he considered

The higher we look on the scale of strength and individuality, the more isolated we see that the nature and habits of creatures are. The eagle chooses his eyrie in the bleakest solitude; the condor affects the deserted empyrean; the leopard prowls through the jungle by himself; the lion has a lonely lair. So with men. While savages, like the Hottentots, gibber in their kraals, and, among civilized nations, the dissipated and the frivolous collect in clubs and assemblies, dreading to be left in seclusion, the poet loves his solitary walk, the saint retreats to be closeted with God, and the philosopher wraps himself in immensity.

Withdrawal is not really a choice. Nor is it something one should try to do. Some people will find that their attachment to the world has, without effort, diminished and they will crave solitude. They may withdraw from mainstream life in order to focus on their growth. Withdrawal can be deceptive in appearance. A person can live an apparently solitary lifestyle but their mind is full of noise. On the other hand, someone can have the appearance of a normal life but, unknown to others, be in a state of inner solitude.

prostrate to the father guru. I, the yogi Milarepa, From within the abiding nature will sing you a song. I’ll do a dance in the space free of true existence. Listen, assembly of mamos and dakinis. This reliance on confidence in cause and effect Is faith with which ordinary ones’ cannot compare. Staying alone in solitary places Is samadhi with which ordinary ones’ cannot compare. This resting evenly, free of perceiver and perceived, Is view with which ordinary ones’ cannot compare. This postmeditation that’s free of forgetting Is meditation with which ordinary ones’ cannot compare. This mindfulness without perceiver or perceived*3 Is conduct with which ordinary ones’ cannot compare. This union of compassion and emptiness Is fruition with which ordinary ones’ cannot compare. This clothing that’s free of any feeling of cold*4 Has softness and excellence with which ordinary ones’ cannot compare. This samadhi that’s without any hunger Is meat and beer with which ordinary ones’ cannot compare. This drinking from the river of enlightenment Is drinking with which ordinary ones’ cannot compare. Giving rise to contentment from within Is food and wealth with which ordinary ones’ cannot compare. Marpa Lotsawa, the translator, Is a siddha with whom ordinary ones cannot compare. The view of one’s mind as the face of the deity Is the yidam with which ordinary ones cannot compare. I, the yogi Milarepa, Am a meditator with which ordinary ones cannot compare. This body that’s without any sickness Is a doctor with which ordinary ones cannot compare. Now listen once more, assembly of dakinis: Where nothing is clear, it is clear for me.57 This very luminosity is clear. Where there is no heat, I feel warm. This very single cloth is warm. When there’s nothing comfortable, I feel good, This very illusory body feels good. Where there is no joy, I feel quite joyful, This very dream is so joyful. This yogi here feels better and better. Is Drakya Vajra high, or not? If Drakya Vajra isn’t high, Then how could vultures soar below? If the icy new year’s wind isn’t great, Then how could water in the mountain and valley freeze? If the garment of chandali isn’t warm, How could I feel warm with a single cotton cloth? If I don’t eat samadhi for my food, How could I survive being hungry with an empty belly? If the river of enlightenment isn’t drunk, Then how could I survive being thirsty without water? If the guru’s instructions are not profound, Then how is it obstructions and maras don’t come? If this yogi does not have realization, How could I wander in mountain retreats with no people? This is all due to the kindness of the wise guru. Put efforts in practicing just like this.

In the midst of this scene of enjoyment, a solitary horseman rode up to the house, dismounted and entered--a tall soldierly looking man in uniform of a captain of infantry. Seeing that we were a private party and believing himself to be an intruder, he was about to beat a retreat, but we pressed him to join us, and after some hesitation he consented to do so. He introduced himself as Captain Atkins of Wheat's battalion and told us that the battalion was on picket duty, and he on the grand round, and had come out of his way to warm himself by the hospital fireside of the tavern. Learning from him that Major Wheat was on the line, Meade and I started off in search of him. We found him at his headquarters, a fly tent under a tree at the crossroad, and it required no great deal of eloquence to induce him to join our dinner party. W. F. Shippey, C.S.A.

Perhaps it does come back to valuing community, after all. Recent studies in science communication have suggested what I've sketched out in this chapter: that scientific literacy is not the variable that determines whether or not a group will accept the reality of a public health issue like vaccination or global warning: social groups are. While those individuals tested demonstrated a surprising ability to factually interpret scientific findings, they tended to eventually revert to in-group thinking about the issue, siding with whatever their main social group already believed. We humans are social, after all. Our social nature is why solitary confinement is potentially a human rights violation, why just about all of us wish we weren't having to stay home during the COVID crisis, why we all cling to Zoom meetings-why children yell at one another across balconies, starved for the sound of another child's voice. We all do the same dance of retreating to our social safety spaces. And if our 'safe' social group told us that our experience during the pandemic was a lie? Well, it seems we'd be more likely to believe our friends than science, because, as I've argued elsewhere...in times of desperate calamity, all we humans really have is one another. I have no answer to this twisted dilemma that the healthy carrier narrative, via the vehicle of COVID-19, has presented to us in the United States, but understanding the dilemma rightly is surely important.

In the Second Mansion, you aim to become more discerning about your thoughts, motivations, and personal companions. We all need to be more discriminating about whom we allow into the circles that influence our souls. Beyond your friendships and social interactions, you need to become aware of how your psyche and soul are changing, of their shifts in perceptions. As you become more awakened, you may become more psychically hypersensitive and reactive to other people’s emotional energy, to highly charged negative atmospheres, to stresses in people around you, or even to the great tensions of the planet. Teresa warned her nuns that as they progressed in their Castles, they would become vulnerable in some way to other people’s emotional, psychological, mental, and spiritual debris. You need to learn, as an emerging mystic, how to protect your energy field. This hypersensitivity can be brought on by spending too much time alone in retreat or by opening up too many interior rooms too rapidly. In rare cases, achieving a blissful state of consciousness can result in a sense of ungroundedness and disorientation. A more common experience is that reading sacred literature and doing soul work can shift your values and make you feel very detached from your familiar world. In these states, you require serious hand-holding and the companionship of someone who understands the journey of the soul. You will always need to maintain a solitary, silent prayer life and time for reflection, but you will also need to reach out to at least one other person to share your experience of God.

Ideological introversion manifests not as a retreat from society, but as a retreat from discourse; it is the solitary journey of decision-making, where debate is replaced by the quiet birth of resolution.

He had read that the only way to endure solitary confinement—if that was your sentence—was to retreat into your own memories, to open and reread the books stocked in the library of your mind.

The preaching of Jesus shows how deeply He had drunk the essence of natural beauty and reveled in the changing aspects of the seasons. It was when wandering in these fields as a lad that He gathered the images of beauty that He poured out in His parables and addresses. It was on that hill that He acquired the habit of retreating to the mountaintops to spend the night in solitary prayer. The doctrines of His preaching were not thought out on the spur of the moment – they were poured out in a living stream when the occasion came – but the water had been gathered into the hidden well for many years before. In the fields and on the mountainside, He had thought them out during the years of happy and undisturbed meditation and prayer.

Nestor Kaliman gave a chortle. He pointed an accusing finger at the abbot. “ ‘Solitary prayer retreat’, my arse,” he said, “You lie like a hippopotamus in a mud-hole. These lies being as big and bold as a buffalo’s bollocks. You are as crooked as a crocodile’s grin and as slimy as a lungfish. Deceit is written all over your fat porcine face, you treacherous old warthog.” He gave a scoffing huff. “A face with its attempts to conceal such guilt and deception now blushing as red as a baboon’s buttocks.

If we seek solitary retreat, you will be more often refreshed.

Thus, in eastern Tibet, they say that before he died one monk asked that no one touch his corpse for a week and that the door to his room remain closed. After seven days, when they went into the room, his body had completely dissolved. They found only his monastic robes; even his nails and hair had disappeared. This monk was a hermit who lived very simply, without externalizing any signs of realization during his life devoted to contemplation. He had managed, through his practice, to actualize the primordial purity of the mind. We are not all called to such an accomplishment. It is better, for our daily practice, to stay at home, keeping our professional and family life while still learning to become better from day to day and adhering to a positive mode of life that will contribute to the good of society, according to the principles of the Dharma. We should choose professions in the areas of education, health, or social services. We should avoid renouncing everything for a solitary retreat. The aim is not to devote ourselves solely to spiritual practice, to lead a life lost in the glaciers. We should progress by degrees, steadily, taking care not to have extreme views, in a spirit of steadfastness and perseverance.

Are any of these anxieties or beliefs about my past real? Maybe I'm just making them up⎯re-creating the past. I have to smile as I look at what I just wrote. I can tell when my solitary exploration becomes too threatening, or when I'm treading close to a memory too frightening to be remembered. Rather than push through unfamiliar brush, I stomp the well-worn path of "Maybe I'm making all of this up." But retreating there no longer makes sense to me.

Initially the training in Ajahn Chah’s tradition requires long periods of communal walking and sitting practice, and frequent all-night sittings in the Buddha Hall. After training together with the collective of monks, you may then be directed to a period of practice in solitude for some months. For this part of the training, monks live in isolated caves or in more distant parts of jungles and mountains, a long morning’s walk from the last remote village. Or, in certain retreat centers, small huts are provided for solitary intensive meditation. My own training included a solitary retreat for one year and three months. I didn’t leave my room, just meditated fifteen to eighteen hours a day, sitting for an hour, walking for an hour, then sitting again. I’d see my teacher every two days for a fifteen-minute interview. You don’t have to be in solitude very long before any pride you have goes away. It is quite humbling. Your mind will do anything. Every past thing you’ve ever done or imagined comes back. Every mood, every fear, every longing, your loneliness, your pain, your love, creativity, and boredom appear with great intensity.