On a snowy weekend this past January, my friend and fellow meditation teacher, Beth, and I, sat our first meditation retreat. Pretty much all we knew before we arrived was there would be sitting meditation, walking meditation and guidance and instruction from the teachers leading the retreat. In addition, there would be silence. Three days of it.

Stepping through the retreat center’s front doors, we prepared to enter a world of monk-like stillness. Instead, the foyer bustled with chatter as people checked in. The smells of vegetable soup and freshly baked bread drew us into the dining hall where we were assigned “yogi jobs.” All 90 of us would roll up our sleeves over the next few days and wash dishes, scrub bathrooms, ring the wake-up bells, etc., in order to keep the retreat center humming.

Next stop, my room for the long weekend. I placed my belongings inside the simple wooden wardrobe, made up my bed with sheets brought from home and then headed down to the meditation hall for the official start of the retreat.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder with our fellow retreat-goers, we were welcomed by our teachers. They explained that we would be turning our attention inward by practicing noble silence. They encouraged us to refrain from writing notes to each other, journaling, reading, using electronic devices and taking photos. We would put that all down for the next few days to experience what it’s like to fully engage with our minds, bodies and hearts.

The next morning we were awoken by the bell ringers making their rounds through the dormitories. We silently filed down for 6:30 meditation. The only sounds in the large, dim hall were the occasional rustling of someone shifting position on their cushion and the stray cough or throat clearing. My mind felt hushed like the way falling snow lays down a blanket of quiet on the outside world.

We spent our time moving between sitting together in meditation and walking alone in meditation. Outdoors among the pine trees and winter air and indoors throughout the cozy retreat center, we walked slowly, in a straight line, counting out 20 paces to ourselves. Then we’d pause and turn around and retrace our steps. Back and forth. Back and forth. Our minds anchored to our feet connecting with the ground.

In-between stretches of sitting and walking meditation was meal time. We’d line up in four rows along the long pine buffet tables and take turns ladling out fragrant steaming dishes from stainless steel kitchen trays. Since making small talk with table mates wasn’t on the menu, my attention turned completely to the food in front of me. My eyes took in the colors and textures. Flavors exploded on my tongue. I naturally lingered on what I was tasting and paused between bites.

After meals we had some unscheduled time. I used these breaks to soothe my back which was achey from sitting for longer stretches than I was accustomed to. That meant lying on my dorm bed on top of a heating pad I’d brought from home, looking out the window. What will I do while lying here? I asked myself with a twinge of panic. I discovered that, without a book or cell phone to turn to, my eyes were free to linger among the trees. My mind was available to take in what I was seeing.

Time, and my relationship with it, began to slow down and become more spacious as the days passed. Walking from my room to the meditation hall, I found myself pausing to take in the snow-covered backyard of the retreat center. I delighted in the snow that had accumulated on top of the picnic tables like white table cloths. I noticed and appreciated the neat and precise paths that the volunteer staff had carefully shoveled. I allowed it all to register and sink in.

As the retreat drew to a close I was struck by a realization. Turning my attention inward actually allowed me to feel more connected to the world and the people in it. Even without speaking to each other, I was acutely aware of my fellow retreat-goers: hearing someone’s breath go in and out as we sat next to each other in meditation; waiting for the person in front of me to take their turn at the dish washing station; silently holding doors open for each other to pass through. The feeling was crystal clear. We are all in this together.

At the closing ceremony, all 90 of us gathered together, forming a large circle that reached out toward the edges of the meditation hall. We were each given a red thread to tie into a bracelet to remind us of our experience. As I held the crimson strand in the palm of my hand and traced my finger over it, it made its way into the shape of a heart. A reminder of what can be uncovered when we slow down enough to take it in.

You can see a lot just by observing. —Yogi Berra