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♫ Sacred Syllables ♫
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I enter the corridor. It’s a natural fissure in the rock, widened by monks like me over centuries of labor. Along the sides, the passage opens into small cells, yet my path leads deeper into the mountain. I take a deep breath.
For 49 days, I will sit in darkness, in a place where no ray of light penetrates. I have been warned by other monks. Some meditators have gone mad in there, and it was whispered in hushed tones that some adepts didn’t survive these 49 days.
Descending deeper into the mountain, toward an unknown and frightening place, I realize that I am about to confront what lies deep within me—unknown and terrifying. I break out in a sweat. Nevertheless, I continue to inch forward into the darkness. I don’t want to disappoint my master, and I certainly won’t change my decision.
What will I discover? What will rise from the depths of my being when I sit there in absolute silence and complete darkness? I stumble, and despite my desperate grip on the metal bucket, it slips from my grasp, falls over, and the precious water—the only thing accompanying me into the depths of the mountain apart from my robe—spills onto the bare rock and seeps into the cracks and crevices. I must turn back. Without water, I won’t survive!
Yet, I keep going.
There are no more cells along the sides of the corridor for a long time, not even niches. The passage narrows. I feel lost. It’s better to turn back now than to come crawling out later, half-starved and dying of thirst!
But my master said that I can take this path into the darkness, into the mountain’s interior, only once. If I turn back now, the descent into the mountain is forever closed to me. I start sobbing for no apparent reason. Fear of death seizes me. Yet, I continue to stagger forward. I am deep inside the belly of a mountain, and it feels as if the rock weighs tons on my shoulders.
People I once knew come to mind, hurtful words, thoughtless actions that I regret. I beg the black, cold walls for forgiveness. They do not respond. I am four years old, exploring the basement alone, and an unfortunate coincidence causes the only lightbulb to blow. I scream, and my own voice and its echoes through the mountain send shivers down my spine. I can’t stand myself anymore, yet I have no choice but to endure myself, somehow. It’s as if I’m walking through hell, and hell is me.
There. A glimmer ahead of me. At first, I think I’m mistaken. Then I realize that there must be another monk down here. He must have brought a light, a candle, or a torch. But the light does not flicker.
I’ve actually been ascending for some time now. It’s daylight that awaits me. I have to squint. The deepest and darkest part of the journey, the dark night of the soul, is bright?
I step out into the open. A green valley, bathed in sunlight, stretches out on the other side of the mountain. The master sits on a rock, pouring me a cup of tea. I feel confused. How long was I on the journey? Was it hours? Or weeks? Am I already dead? Am I dreaming?
“We never really know for sure,” says the master.
Dark Retreat: 