I went on a three-day silent retreat to try cut ties with my phone

Silent mode, activated.

I’ve thrown cash at the wind more times than I’d like to admit. This wasn’t one of them. A few weekends ago I paid the team at Happy Buddha Retreats to show me the benefits of practising silence for a weekend. I sacrificed technology, spoke nothing and was led by the retreat’s worldly volunteers through sessions of yoga, meditation and sound bathing at Wentworth Falls in the Blue Mountains. It was a sharp contrast to the monolithic high-rises and constant cacophony we city slickers call home.

12 others from across the country found themselves also craving quiet time this particular weekend. After swapping our phones for wristwatches, we ‘entered silence’ in unison. From Friday afternoon to Sunday late morning, the only person to speak would be our facilitators, their words mindful and few.

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It’s important to note this weekend was so beneficial largely in part because of the mindfulness we practised. Yoga and meditation teachings have been around for thousands of years, and over those years they’ve been moulded and modernised into what a lot of us know today. Despite the gentrification of these practices, their original spiritual and cultural significances remain true in the modern world.

Narrowing our focus on our breath, yoga and meditation pulled us into the present and united our minds and bodies, complementing our verbally-silent conquest. I know my ears aren’t the only pair tired of taking a constant beating of stimuli, so I kept a diary log of some of my experiences to share with those tempted by a silent retreat.

On the first morning of silence, my wristwatch buzzes me awake. I slip past the remnants of last night’s fire through to the garden overlooking the Blue Mountains. I sip my coffee on the swinging bench strung between two eucalyptus trees older than my great-grandparents. At 6.20am, I’ve already gone to check my absent phone four times before remembering it’s been placed in an untouchable bowl. My mind overcompensates for my sealed lips by reverberating thousands of unhelpful thoughts inside my skull. I put my focus on the valley that stretches from under my feet to the horizon’s rising sun.

I get to yoga at 7am then remember it starts at 7.30am. I’ve got nowhere to be and nothing to say so I lay on my mat reading a novel selected from the small library inside. We practise yin yoga while the windows housing the studio bring us closer to the mountains. I stretch every muscle, my blood circulating throughout my body and turning the volume down inside me. Our facilitator then takes us through guided meditation and I tap into the sounds of the trees that envelop us.

Like every meal this weekend, breakfast is plant-based: stewed pear, porridge, coconut yoghurt, nut and seed mix and so much fresh fruit. I can’t think of the last time I ate a meal without conversation or technology. Sitting by the pool, I now taste and appreciate every bite and wonder whether the cooks here are really, really good, or if eating with zero distractions means the food lands more potently.

I walk to find the nearby lake which resembles a vast but thin sheet of glass. I reach for my phone to take a photo. I roll my eyes at my automatic habit and share the joke with myself (which then makes me feel like a joke). I stare at the lake and file it into my memory. I realise I haven’t been missing my phone and feel grateful for an excuse to temporarily cut ties. Back at the retreat I plunge into the pool and hear the world more clearly when I come up for air. I feel level-headed.

During lunch, I see someone has placed a mug for each of us around the kettle, a silent offering of tea. I don’t know who did it so I put my best thankful face on for everyone in the dining room. Two talented volunteers unite to sound bathe our rested bodies. One plays the didgeridoo while the other creates melodies from music bowls. I’m transported to such a relaxed daze, a sort of voluntary surrender.

A fellow retreater excitedly greets me in the garden and attempts silent communication. We laugh at the nonsensical display and revert to the OG form of instant messaging: pen and paper. “Hammock,” she writes. “I can show you”. She smiles and waves goodbye as she leaves me sitting in a hammock in a hidden spot, enjoying a solitary view over the greys and greens of the mountains. There’s no noise other than birds singing to one another. I notice there are no planes or helicopters in the sky of Wentworth Falls. Only hundreds of butterflies.

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