by Kevin Freidberg

I was getting ready to go on a month long silent meditation retreat when the editor of this magazine asked me to write an article about the holidays. This was late October which meant I’d be returning home in late November. Just in time to visit my family for Thanksgiving. Now, if you’re a writer, which I pretend to be from time to time, you know that this is what writers kill for. Conflict. The lifeblood of great stories and compelling characters. I’d be coming off a month of peace, equanimity, and mindfulness only to run headlong into a buzzsaw of family dysfunction. A virtual goldmine, right? Even though the deadline was tight, I agreed to do the article, knowing the story would practically write itself.

If you ever decide to attend a month-long silent meditation retreat, talk to me first. It’s by far the least fun you’ll ever have. Imagine four weeks of no stimulation whatsoever. No TV, cellphones, or computers. No books, magazines, or newspapers. No reading, no writing, and most distressingly, no talking. There’s absolutely nothing to distract you but the thoughts in your head. That’s a lot to ask, even for the person who absolutely loves himself, which I do not. I’d been laid off about a month before. And a month before that I’d gotten a divorce, meaning the thoughts attached to both those events would be my constant companions for four weeks straight. Again, not a good time. But as much as I’d like to be self-deprecating and tell you I was a basket case who fought every minute of it, I didn’t and I wasn’t.

Sure, I had my share of rough patches. One quote from Anne LaMott seemed especially appropriate for my time inside, “My mind is like a bad neighborhood. I never go there alone.” Well, that’s exactly what I wrestled with. But I got through it mainly with the help of a new meditation practice I’d picked up from one of the instructors. The practice of lovingkindness. This was something I’d never known I needed. It involves treating yourself with compassion and kindness and wishing well of others. Instantly I saw results. I was no longer piling hate on myself. I was no longer berating myself for sleeping in and missing the morning Q&A session, the one time we got to talk. I treated myself with compassion, cut myself break after break, and simply brought myself back to the present moment again and again. It was glorious. I’d been beating myself up for years. Now I was taking care of myself.

When the retreat was over I was relieved, but I was surprised to find myself a little sad. I’d grown to kinda like spending time with myself. I think mainly because I’d grown to like me.

Luckily I had something on my plate that demanded my immediate attention—a deadline to keep for this magazine. But like I said, this was going to be a cakewalk. I was more peaceful than at any other time in my life. And as my plane landed in Chicago where I’d be spending Thanksgiving with the brood, I reassured myself that they could be counted on. To be insane. And it was this bottomless well of insanity that I’d depended on to be the tableau of just about everything I’d ever written.

And then the unthinkable happened. They weren’t crazy. They weren’t weird. They weren’t even mildly irritable. They were conscientious. They were sensitive. They were listening. Even my brother’s dog Elvis looked up at me with a soulful expression that said, “I hear you. Now can I lick your face?”

My dad had been dubious of the whole enterprise from the get go, especially the timing. So let me get this straight. You just lost your job. You have no savings. And instead of networking and making calls, you’re going to make yourself less accessible than if you were in the witness protection program.

But even Dad had come around. I think he realized that this was the longest amount of time we’d gone without talking since I went to sleep-away camp when I was twelve. And he genuinely missed me.

Among the rest of the family, I think there was, dare I say, a fair amount of respect. As much as my brother ridiculed me when I told him I had to pay for the privilege of not talking—he’s a lawyer which means people pay him to shut up—the fact remained that the idea of not feeling compelled to check e-mail, return calls, or make small talk was vaguely attractive to him. And my family, rather than wanting to sweep it under the rug and pretend it didn’t happen like any healthy, warm-blooded American family would, they wanted to talk about it.

Let me just tell you now, dear reader, that this story doesn’t have a happy ending where everyone, given a few days to get comfortable, resorts to type and starts screaming and yelling at each other. That weekend, there was no “other shoe” that dropped. Trust me, I waited for it. All weekend long. There was no built-up tension waiting to burst. No pent-up aggression that desperately wanted to see daylight. It was one of the nicest, most pleasant visits I’ve ever had. In other words, every writer’s nightmare.

They left me with nothing. Conflict? I’d visited nursing homes with more conflict. I was hoping for West Side Story and they gave me The Sound of Music.

Sure, there were moments of tension. Like where we should shop. My dad wanted to go downtown, but my brother wanted to stay in the suburbs. And I soon found myself egging them on just to get some kind of reaction. What are you, crazy?! No way we’re going downtown! But all my dad said was “Okay.” See what I’m saying? That’s the worst dialogue exchange ever written! I kept repeating it to myself in my head to see if there was some hidden resentment I’d missed. Maybe some latent bitterness bubbling up in my dad that would surface a little later when my brother would innocently ask him if we could stop for coffee, giving my dad the perfect opening to blurt out, “NO WAY WE’RE GETTING COFFEE!!”

But nope. That was it. Nothing. No conflict. No bitterness. Not even a smirk. I got more tension from the sales clerk at Bloomingdale’s who insisted I had to have a $600 shearling coat. “That’s what unemployment checks are for!” But even that my family ruined, offering to give it to me for Chanukah. What do I have to do to get some frickin’ tension around here! This was worse than the U.N. At least there they’ve got a language barrier, which is always good for a few misunderstandings. But what I began to understand all too well was that Peace and Harmony were taking turns putting a death grip on my career. Dashed against the rocks by a family that refused to not cooperate.

The whole non-episode really made me wonder about my future as a writer. Can a writer exist in a peaceful world? When people pray for a peaceful co-existence for all mankind, is this a world writers want to live in?

I’ve talked about this with friends over the years that know I’m into meditation. And one of the first reasons they give for not meditating is the fear that they’ll “lose their edge.” Same thing with psychotherapy. “I’d run out of material” is usually their first reaction. That and “I don’t want to turn into Woody Allen.”

I’d always defended my new age fixations because, at the very least, they’ve been a tremendous aid in helping me avoid distractions. I have less anxiety and write more now than I ever have. Still, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve painted myself into a corner. The last thing I want to be is the writer who writes about how well I’m getting along in the world and just how easy life can be.

Then again, the fact that I had to ask for a deadline extension to finish this article because I’d been procrastinating all weekend not getting anything done but watching football and catching up on all the episodes of Mad Men I missed while I was on retreat makes me think that my ego will make sure that for as long as I’m still breathing, I’ll never suffer from a lack of suffering.

Kevin Freidberg is a freelance copywriter in Minneapolis. He has written for the New York Times Magazine, worked for the sitcom King of the Hill, and performed at Upright Citizen’s Brigade in New York. He is also available to attend to any and all of your advertising needs. www.kevinfreidberg.com