Citygirl
Loves
Coffee
THE PROBLEMS WITH SILENT RETREATS, THEY ARE SILENT.
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I BROUGHT MY GERMAN SHEPHERD SERVICE DOG TO A TWO WEEK SILENT RETREAT, WAS IT THE WRONG MOVE?
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An excerpt from MEG & I; How Rescuing A German Shepherd Healed My Broken Heart
I was happily never married, middle aged, and gave up my failed eighteen year Los Angeles writing stint and rent controlled apartment after Covid, only to move to three different states, and be riddled with the grave task of finding affordable housing.
I have a Master’s degree, once had a successful career on Wall Street, and now I’m technically homeless.
I also had to file for disability for my arthritic fingers; the perfect payoff for a failed writing career, and I just rescued a German Shepherd.
To find solace and quell my broken heart, I duck into a two week silent retreat in the middle of Massachusetts with the dog.
What could possibly go wrong?
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It's springtime and we have a nice drive up to Massachusetts. My service dog, Meg, sits upright beside me and loves staring out the window and critiquing my driving. "Careful, mom, careful! You’re swerving, you’re swerving!”
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She makes me laugh.
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I am looking forward to this retreat and I’m convinced that I will come out a different person, or perhaps the world will be different when I get out, or it will be better or I will find some sort of answers as to why?
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I’m glad not to have to stare into an iPad looking for housing. I’m also glad not to have to look at the stock market and watch it run to higher highs, as I am technically short and lost a ton of money. And I’m glad not to check my emails to see the lack of response from Hollywood on my screenplay.
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No, I’m happy to leave it all behind.
I’ve had it.
I’m burned out.
I need a reset.
And this two week retreat will be that reset.
* * *
When I arrive to the small town in central Massachusetts, it’s as beautiful as it looked on the Internet. The building is tall and brick and encompassed by four huge white cement pillars. What surprises me is it’s right on the street and being that we’re in the middle of no where, I realize immediately, the place has no grounds. There’s a parking lot and a few buildings, but no large cliffs or greenery where my dog can run and play.
Undettered, I unclip Meg from the car and we make our way inside. They were nice enough over the phone and made special accommodations for me and the dog.
“Hi,” I say, entering the empty place and seeing one girl in the office. “I’m Juliana and I’m here for the retreat,” I say smiling. “I’m a little early. I’m here with my service dog.”
“Oh, yes, yes, Juliana, we spoke on the phone. I’m Tina! Welcome!”
“Thank you!”
Meg is standing beside me, and Tina, a young woman with dark hair, walks around to the dog. “What a cutie!”
“Yes, thanks.”
“I know we’re not supposed to pet the dog, because she’s working, correct?”
“Correct,” I nod, not wanting anyone to touch Meg anyhow.
“I’ll show you to your room.”
She shows me the massive meditation room and informs me that she has a special designated spot for me and the dog in the back.
I thank her, and then she takes me upstairs to the second floor and I am very pleased with the room. It has two windows and it’s on the end. It overlooks the woods and I can smell the blooming lilacs from the trees outside. There are communal showers and from there, I take the key she hands me and start to load my stuff inside.
This takes a very long time because the parking lot is located far away and I had to bring everything like sheets, blankets, shampoo, clothes for two weeks, and all of Meg’s food and treats and dishes and toys.
By the time this is done, I lie on the bed and turn off my phone while leaving my iPad buried in the trunk of my car. Meg is on the floor beside me and once I feed her and she’s done eating, I envelop the silence.
Peace at last.
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The problems at the silent retreat start immediately. When I have to go to the bathroom, I am given the stark reminder that rooms don’t come equipped with bathrooms; you have to walk down the hallway to seek out the communal toilets. Obviously not happy about this, I find the key, whisper in Meg’s ear, “I’ll be right back,” and make my way out of the room and descend down the empty hall.
I hear Meg back in the room squealing and jumping at the door. I can hear her long nails that are like knives, frantically scratching at the door. Oh, damn.
I turn and go back for her, realizing she’s not going to stayed holed up in our room for one second without me. Me and the dog are both very alike in two distinct ways: Number one: We both can’t stand confinement and the second is noise: Any kind of noise, especially loud banging or shots or thunder; forget it, Meg turns into a wet noodle and runs for cover.
I leash her up and take her into the small bathroom with me and close the door. The space is tight. I am bent over trying to urinate without having to touch the public toilet seat and it’s a disaster. I’m trying to wrestle with Meg who is starting one of her panic attacks and she’s going in circles. “Hang on, hang on!” I whisper, as I flush the toilet and we make our way out of there.
Then it’s time for dinner. By the time we get downstairs, a line of people is already formed. Everybody is staring straight ahead and there is a rope dividing the hoards of people waiting for the buffet table to open, which from what I can gather, is merely shreds of lettuce and various vegetables and the soup, from what I can smell, will be out shortly.
I am starving by this point and will eat anything. I am hoping the soup is good and the bread that it is served with is warm of which I will load on the butter, if they even have butter, and I don’t really like or use butter anyway. But I need sustenance. This traveling on the road and lack of funds has whittled my body down to under 100 pounds and I am 5 4”. Meg is even thinner. We needed to bulk up. And fast.
As we stand in line, I can feel the angst. The room is not filled with locals; I can tell that immediately; many have come from all over the world and there are a lot of people from Asia. They are sniffling and coughing up a storm.
I recall how at other retreats, on the first night, we were served a nice meal and got to speak to one another before it turned “silent.”
Not here.
Here it starts immediately and you can cut the animosity with a knife.
Meg is pulling on her leash while we are standing in line and sniffing the back of people’s legs and it’s embarrassing and I can’t even apologize because there’s no talking. I can’t tell her to heal so I tug on her leash urging her to stand close beside me but she is now close to seventy pounds and this is not an easy feat. Plus, you think people would give me space with the dog.
No.
They won’t.
They need to inch as forward to the food as THEY POSSIBLY CAN EVEN IF THEY CRUSH ME AND MY DOG IN THE PROCESS.
The massive clock on the wall clicks to 6:00 p.m. and a GONG goes off, and two people on either side of the line unhook the rope and people grab their dishes and make their way for the food.
Now lots of clanking can be heard; plates, spoons, forks, clattering and I watch as a bunch of non-peaceful meditators stare at plain vegetables taking lots of time deciding which ones they want to put on their plates as if they are choosing somebody to marry from an online catalogue.
“Let’s GOOOOO,” I WANT to scream, but I just stand there as Meg keeps pulling on her leash and now has it in her mouth.
I am trying to now juggle a tray, the food, the hot soup, and the bread and Meg, who is pulling me. Nobody comes to help me and I can feel the awkward stares. Meg lunges forward and the entire tray nearly goes flying but I manage to hold it all together and sit down at the “reserved,” table they saved for me in the corner so I can sit with the dog.
Of course nobody comes to sit with me so I’m there alone receiving mean looks by the other participants due to the fact that I lugged a German Shepherd along with me to a silent retreat.
At least she is not barking! I think to myself, as I eat some of the hot soup and pick at the salad.
Meg won’t sit still AT ALL, so I just give up on it, hoping she adjusts to this somehow, and with half of the food left on the tray, we make our way out of the cafeteria and go outside.
She’s relieved to be out of there, and quite frankly, so am I, and we walk around the premises and quickly learn there is no place for us to go or walk to other than back and forth to the parking lot. The grass is not cut and I’m wondering why the place isn’t kept up better landscaping wise.
When we get back up to the room, I want to brush my teeth before the 8:00 pm first meditation practice kickoff, but the faucet doesn’t work. There is no water coming out of the lowly sink in my room.
I rush downstairs with Meg to tell them, and they send someone up immediately who fixes it. I am grateful, and as I’m thanking him, I see something black on the rim of the baseball cap I am wearing. I take it off and I look at it, and say, “Oh, there’s a bug on my baseball cap.”
He takes a look and says, “Yep, that’s a tick.”
“A tick!?!!” I gasp. “Oh, my God! How did it get there?!”
“They’re everywhere.”
I stare at him holding my breath. I remember the horror story of one of the Beverly Hills Housewives having Lyme disease which is caused from ticks. I think my mother had it too, but since she never tells me anything about her life, I’m not really sure.
“Here,” he says, taking my baseball cap. “You just flick it down the drain and run the water.”
I nod. I’m aghast. This is disgusting. I’m wondering how many are on Meg. Not to be deterred, I reply, “Well, I better get going, the meditation is about to start.”
“Sure thing,” he says, “Enjoy.”
When Meg and I get downstairs and enter the massive meditation room, there are a hundred people staring straight ahead at us and we are late, although it has not started yet.
As I walk through the room with this massive German Shepherd all I can hear is gasps from everyone and see all the dirty looks.
Was this a bad idea? I’m thinking. Am I imaging this? What the hell?
We find our seat in the back corner and Meg and I sit down. I pull out the Benebone I brought for her and she sits down beside me and starts to chew on it. The room is dead quiet and for every bite she takes on the bone, it slams down hard to the wood floor and with her paws wrapped around it, every time she moves her head to chew it, her tags jingle on her collar and she’s making TONS OF NOISE.
She can’t sit still and people are turning around to stare at us. I’m wondering when the damn thing will begin, and other people are coughing and I can’t see anything because I’m so far in the back.
Meg rises and starts pulling on the leash again and I am determined to hear the opening so I just ignore her.
A lady enters the room and starts giving some speech. I can hardly focus but I’m surprised at her tone; she is yelling. She makes these long statements emphasizing certain words for effect and she sounds ridiculous.
“I KNOW. Many of YOU. Have COME. From all over the WORLD. And you are HERE. For ANSWERS. Answers to that great question of LIFE. And you are SEARCHING! SEARCHING FOR MEANING!…”
She hardly sounds serene or peaceful. I know with my meditation teacher that I’ve had since Covid, I just feel relaxed the instant she starts speaking. Here, I feel on guard. The people here are like MEDITATORS on steroids. These people are NO JOKE.
I thought me coming from LA and having gone to so many meditation sessions and doing so much yoga, I’d have the leg up. But not here. This is next level.
Meg & I give up and go back up to the room.
Apparently, word got around that she was causing a ruckus and one of the facilitators knocks on my door and brings me a headset. She tells me that I can listen to all the sessions from my room “going forward.”
Fine.
I’ll just stay up here alone with the dog, like a dog, I think.
I was hoping for some nice community, maybe even make a few friends here, but I can tell right away this isn’t going to happen.
So again, it’s just me isolated with the dog.
Meg looks up at me from the floor. I look back at her. She retrieves her green ball and brings it to me, looking up at me with those big brown eyes. “Oh, my darling,” I whisper. “Tomorrow will be a better day.”
I throw her ball and she fetches it, excited I want to play. I throw it again, repeating, “It will be better, my love.”
But will it? I wonder. I put the headset on over my head after wiping it down with disinfectant soap and water and listen to the woman ranting, “We all want peace and harmony but how do we get it. How HOW HOW!”
I listen hoping some kind of answer will surface.
But none does.
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* * *
The next forty-eight hours at the retreat center are murder.
I was looking forward to the peace here and the meals that would be provided. But it was all impossible.
Starting with sleep. The walls are paper thin. You can hear every cough, sneeze, whimper, even breath. The idiot across the hall from me decides to bring some cheap, high speed mechanical fan and it’s so loud. Obnoxiously loud.
It resonates in my room and down the hall. On the second night, I knock on her door at 2:00 a.m. I don’t care anymore.
“What is that NOISE coming from your room?!” I shriek when she opens it.
“Oh, my fan? It’s bothering you?”
THIS IS A SILENT RETREAT, I WANTED TO SCREAM! WHY THE LOUD NOISE THAT’S DISTURBING EVERYBODY?!
We are all jammed in these tiny rooms right on top of each other. I can’t stand it.
And poor Meg is bored. She keeps playing with her ball and it seems to be so LOUD every time it smashes to the cheap wood floor.
On no sleep, I decide to be the first to breakfast which begins daily at 7:00 a.m.
I arrive at 6:55 a.m. and many had the same idea because by 6:57 a.m. the line is out the door. I get a plate of oatmeal and this time am smart enough to bring a large shoulder bag so I can take whatever items I want like fruit or muffins by placing them in the bag. It’s easier than juggling the tray and having Meg pulling me in different directions.
But more problems are to be had at the coffee station.
They don’t serve it.
As in, no coffee.
Luckily, I came prepared with tiny packets of instant coffee that I would mix with hot water. You have to bring your own mug, which I would have done anyway, but the problem was, with my arthritic fingers, I can’t open the coffee packets!
Frustrated, I walk all the way down to my car with the dog, ditching the oatmeal to grab a scissors. I put it in my bag and go back to the no coffee machine area to start over. Successful now, finally with a cup of coffee, I realize they don’t have SUGAR.
When we arrive to the meditation room to try again, I soon realize sitting with the dog is futile. She will sit for maybe four minutes top before causing problems. It’s not worth it. So we leave and sit up in our private room and stare out the window like we’re in prison.
The withdrawal from life in doing this comes on hard and strong. No sugar. No internet. No stock market. No emails. No news.
I can’t bare it. It’s like coming off of drugs.
I’m so used to being so jacked up on the adrenaline that all this brings that I feel like I’m dying. I keep leaving the room with Meg. We walk around and that helps a lot. Until we return to the room only to find ticks everywhere; on the inside of my jacket, my socks, and on Meg, and even on the walls and in my bed.
I blow a GASKET. I MEAN REALLY BLOW A GASKET. I GO DOWNSTAIRS TO the station where there’s “help,” if you need it.
Yeah, I need it. Bad.
“What’s up with all the ticks?” I ask. “They’re everywhere! I feel that being that I was bringing my service dog, I should have been notified of this!”
“Oh yeah, the ticks. Annoying, aren’t they?”
“Annoying?! They’re everywhere! Why don’t you guys cut the grass?! How is my dog supposed to go to the bathroom?”
As if they care one iota about my issue.
I am dismissed.
* * *
The next time I venture outdoors with the dog, I am buttoned up head to toe in a baseball cap, a hoodie, and scarves all around my face and sunglasses. I have my yoga pants tucked into my socks and I look like I’m wearing a hazmat suit.
We give up on the food because other than the fresh fruit, it’s terrible. The hoards of people there came ill, and the constant coughing and sniffling is also unbearable. Everywhere you go, you have to use your hands to open doors, touching door handle after door handle, so I wear a pair of gloves.
It’s GERMS GALORE.
But I’m destined to tough it out! It’s only two weeks, I tell myself. And plus, I have NO PLACE TO GO! I have no HOME TO GO BACK TO! If I did, I would have blown out of here already.
Actually, if I had a home to begin with, I wouldn’t have joined up to begin with. I’ve done silent retreats before. For me, it’s a one and done. You do it once, check it off the bucket list, and try something else.
However, I arrived on Sunday, and by Tuesday, I find a note on the bulletin board that has my name on it. This is for emergencies if your family is trying to get a hold of you or something like that.
I reach for the note and open it. It reads, “Hi Juliana, this is Todd, the retreat manager, I’d like to speak to you. Can you come to my office immediately?”
Yeah, I IMMEDIATELY get a bad feeling. Something is wrong. What could he possibly want?
I enter his office with Meg. She is looking lost and baffled by this point, probably wondering, “What is the PURPOSE OF ALL OF THIS, MOM?! WHY WHY WHY!??!”
Todd, a decent looking preppy guy in his mid-thirties, comes out and nods to the dog. He says, “Let’s take THIS outside.”
Meg leads us out the front door.
We walk down the driveway and he’s not saying anything, so I start, “Oh, Todd, it is so beautiful out here…”
“Really, Juliana, is that what you think? Because I wanted to check in. How are things going?”
I have to say the right things. I’m trapped. If he kicks me out, I have no place to go. I still haven’t landed decent housing. And in New England, the hotel prices run sky high.
“Things are great!” I say. “I am so glad I came. There are so many people! I didn’t think this was going to be so popular.”
“Oh, yeah,” he agrees, “we really pack them in. They come from all. Over. The. World. Umm, you see, Juliana, we’ve had some complaints. The dog, you know…”
“Oh, yes, she’s no trouble. She’s such a great service dog…”
“Yes, but we have people complaining. The ball, when you’re playing with it in the room, it’s disturbing the people underneath you and we’ve had many, many complaints.”
“Oh, the ball… Gee, I’m so sorry. Okay, yes, it’s a heavy ball, I will stop immediately.”
“Well, actually, what we were thinking was… we wanted to move you to the other building.”
“Other building?” I ask dumbfounded. It took me HOURS to load all my stuff into our room, and I liked our room. It had two windows and it was on the corner.
“Yes, we want to move you right away due to all the complaints we’ve had.”
“Okay, sure,” I appease him, trying to buy some time. “Happy to.”
After our conversation, when I get back to the room, there are more ticks everywhere. And I mean everywhere. I can’t stand it. I find a huge blister on Meg’s nose and wonder if she has been bitten.
I take out my cell phone that’s buried in the closet and I turn it on. I call my childhood friend Krina while standing in the closet, and I start crying. She lives only two hours away, and I had mentioned that I was coming to the retreat, and maybe I’d visit her after it was done.
But now, I’m in a panic. “I think Meg was bitten by a tick, Krina. This place is filled with them. I need to take her to the vet!”
“Come up here. I’ll get you an appointment.”
“Really?”
I pace, thinking about it.
Moving to another room isn’t going to solve this problem. My dog needs help. They are adamant they want me out of the main building with the other participants, and at this point, I have had enough.
I agree with Krina and she texts me her address.
I inform Scott I am leaving and want a full refund. I’m going to need the money for the road.
I begin unloading my room which is a huge chore going up and down the stairs. The girl who is supposed to be watching Meg in the car, is going through my stuff in the car when I come out, and I am furious. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m just helping you put your things in the car.”
I get a bad feeling.
My gut tells me she’s lying.
“Please don’t do that. Just stand here and watch the dog. I need to pack the car a certain way so everything fits in.”
She nods. I stare at her. She is carrying a bag. I remember reading the information before coming and how one of the rules was “No stealing.” I thought it was a strange rule to have at a silent retreat. Who would come to a retreat center TO STEAL?
I need to get Meg to the Vet and don’t have time to push this. I hurry up, get everything into the car, and we’re off.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” I say to Meg as we drive out of there, forty-eight hours later. I turn on the radio and blast it. “That was a disaster.”
Fast forward to a year later, Meg and I have found affordable housing in the blissful state of Connecticut. My elderly parents are an hour away. It was thanks to my Aunt who I was taking care of who has dementia and she’s a nun living in a convent. It really was like finding a needle in a haystack, but we found it, we are blessed and we are happy.
There are still ticks galore here but Meg, the dog, is growing and happy, and she loves our new home.
We do plenty of meditation here on our own. Far, far away from any silent retreat centers.
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Thanks for reading. Juliana Jones. Kiss kiss. Smooch. Smooch
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H E D G E D
@copyright Citygirl Juliana Jones 2025 💕💋
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This is part of our new book coming Nov. 1, 2025 MEG & I!
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READ PREFACE AND CHAPTER ONE HERE OF MEG & I
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