<p><strong>Day one.</strong> The absence of conversation is physical. I notice how much I use words to locate myself — in time, in relation to others, in my own narrative. Without them, I am uncertain where I am.</p><p><strong>Day two.</strong> The mind produces noise to compensate. A song plays on loop for six hours. I catalogue every grievance I have accumulated in the past decade. This is apparently normal.</p><p><strong>Day three.</strong> Something shifts. The internal monologue slows. I sit in the garden for two hours and watch a bee. I am not bored. This surprises me.</p><p><strong>Day five.</strong> I cry for no reason I can identify. The retreat director says this is common on day four or five. "The body has things to say that the mind has been interrupting."</p><p><strong>Day seven.</strong> I do not want to leave. Not because the experience has been pleasant — it has been difficult, disorienting, and occasionally tedious. But because I have become available to myself in a way I had forgotten was possible.</p>
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