I rang the bell in the October dawn light to open our first silent mediation retreat at Wild Heart Farm, our one-acre farmstead in Rimrock where my partner Mike and I have lived since early this year. When Mike and my friend Molly first proposed the three of us do a self-directed silent farm meditation retreat, I felt resistance. The idea of doing nothing but alternating between walking and sitting meditation for the weekend felt like a luxury I could not afford. A long list of end-of-season farm tasks loomed. I feared I would not be able let go of the work I thought needed to do and that my distraction would ruin the experience for the others. But after an entire summer of nonstop doing on the farm I decided I needed a reset.
The farm itself has been a long time dream and central to my meditation journey. It began a year ago when we first saw this place and fell in love, and in the same moment, learned the sellers had accepted another offer. We waited patiently in second place, and as the other buyers moved forward with the purchase we put in a counteroffer with a heartfelt letter and tried to let it go. Then the week before Mike and I began our first 10-day silent Vipassana meditation retreat in Joshua Tree, the sellers accepted our offer. We scrambled to sign paperwork and get things in order before the retreat where we would surrender our phones, and follow strict guidelines to have no contact with the outside world. Even Mike and I would be completely separated. Though I was full of doubt right up to the hours before whether I should still go ahead with the retreat, something told me that this was exactly what I needed.
On day two of the retreat I was not able to sit for more than twenty minutes without pain requiring me to shift my position mid-meditation. While I was supposed to be focused only on breath, my mind raced with constant thoughts about the farm—from what I would grow to the logistics of moving and how I would keep my full-time gardening job while caring for my own farm.
That morning, I noticed the gardener trimming the rosemary bush near my room. It was a massive, sprawling plant speckled with shining, purple-blue flowers, blooming in the midst of the darkest winter days. I immediately desired the discarded plant material to freshen up my room. Scented products were prohibited at the retreat, which was a form of torture to me. Aromas, especially the essential oils of plants, ground and uplift me. I could barely sleep without the Chill Pill aromatherapy blend on my pillow.
I took pleasure in stroking the deep green leaves and inhaling the pungent aroma on my way back and forth to the mediation hall. Rosemary essential oil helps improve moods, boost mental activity and concentration. Walking by after the morning session, I noticed a branch with roots laying on the ground. Immediately thought of taking this sacred rosemary to plant at my new farm sanctuary. It would be a reminder of this retreat, and a story I could tell. I snuck it into my room, wrapped the roots in a moist hankie, and hid it in a trash bag. Immediately, I worried about I might be violating one of the Buddhist precepts I had vowed to follow by taking something that was not freely given. But what if this discarded plant scrap was freely given by the plant itself, or maybe even given subconsciously by the gardener?
My mind did the mental gymnastics as I walked the path on breaks and shifted on my thin mediation cushions. I decided to ask the teachers about it during the interview period after lunch as I had signed up for sitting instruction pointers. I was afraid I would never be able to sit still for one whole hour, let alone the ten required of us each day.
The interview room was full of windows and bare bone winter light. Both teachers wore white shawls and sat serenely crosslegged with eyes closed as I entered. I asked what I should do about sitting as nothing was working. One teacher advised matter of factly, “Keep working on it.” Since I still had time left in my 5 minute slot I presented my quandary about the rosemary.
“It sounds like it is very distracting for you, my advice would be to let it go.”
I was shocked by the simplicity of her answer.
I went outside into the desert rain, steady and soaking. I opened the big, black umbrella on loan from the center and took this new concept of letting it go to the walking path. A great swell of grief and relief buoyed me along as my tears mingled with the winter rain. I began to let go of the need to save every plant, to grasp after things that only filled space, and claimed my attention and my precious time.
While meditating last weekend at the farm, I was not free of thought or pain. Distracting thoughts arose—constant planning, worry about my finances and the flowers as frost loomed, and sadness and clinging to their aliveness. Each time I returned to my breath and my body to anchor me in the present moment. I let the constant barrage of thoughts go, one by one. I felt lighter, at ease, grounded in this place of innate beauty that needs nothing but my loving attention. After all where we place our attention is what grows. I can see that my plants have grown from my care, but what else needs attending to? What remains when I let go?
When the bell rang out signaling the end of the last meditation I noticed the pungent scent of the established rosemary plant that was here when we moved to the farm growing happily, and remembered the one I had left behind at the retreat center. The plant at the retreat center had been a great ally and teacher on the practice of letting go and staying present. Now this one on the farm offers a daily dose of mindfulness to keep noticing what is already here in the present moment.
