Leena on her experience during the retreat she attended in Corfu last month
This morning began with a question I didn’t mean to ask, at least not consciously. It arrived the way important questions often do – not as a tidy self-help prompt, but as a gentle yet persistent prodding from within.
Why am I here?
Not “here” as in sitting on my meditation cushion (though I was), or here at a silent retreat with fifty-one other humans. Not even “here” as in the latitude and longitude of the place I now call home. It was a question that stirred from my subconscious.
In hindsight, it was the perfect question for the day ahead.
The walk into silence
The forecast promised rain, and the morning delivered the prelude: shifting clouds, restless winds. As I walked toward the Buddha Hall, gusts of wind rushed through the cypress trees in wild, energetic bursts. Leaves lifted, branches tossed, and the whole grove seemed to be whispering, Pay attention.
There’s something about entering silence that always feels like crossing an unseen threshold. As the noise quiets, people settle into their seats, the bell rings to begin, and suddenly my senses become sharper.
Our retreat is community-led – there’s no teacher sitting on a cushion at the front and no formal instruction. Just a group of people from our community showing up to practice with presence and an unspoken agreement to hold one another through stillness.
Inside the Buddha Hall
The Buddha Hall itself is stunning – a glass-sided octagon with a soaring wooden-beamed ceiling and modern, minimalist lines that give the whole space the feeling of being simultaneously grounded and weightless.
From where I sit, I can see three worlds at once.
To my right: mountains layered in soft blues and greens, their ridges fading into mist.
Straight ahead: a long stand of cypress trees bending in the wind, tall and dark and solemn as monks.
To the left: the sea stretching into silver brightness, then deepening into shadow as the clouds shift.
It’s a rare gift to meditate in a space that insists on transparency. There are no walls to hide behind. Inside or out.
Dropping in
The first sit of the day was a familiar battle between mind and presence. My brain played its usual warm-up act:
Did I remember to turn off the lights?
Maybe I should reorganize the living room.
I need to call the service company for the dishwasher.
But beneath that scattered mental confetti, a question waited.
Why am I here?
Silence tends to strip away clever answers and rehearsed responses – those we give because we feel we should. Meditation doesn’t tolerate pretense, at least not for very long.
Communal practice, communal warmth
As our retreats are self-run, everyone carries a piece of the whole. Some chop vegetables. Some wash dishes. Some ring the meditation bell or prepare tea. I love this about us. It keeps the retreat grounded, human, and embodied. We don’t get lost in spiritual abstraction; someone inevitably has to scrub a soup pot.
Lunch was vegetarian – herb-infused soup, roasted vegetables, and warm, fresh whole-grain bread. Eating mindfully transforms even the simplest food into a delight. I detected sweetness in the carrots, richness in the broth, and comfort in the bread. Naturally, our chef deserves much of the credit, too.
And before the first meditation began, I’d already received twelve hugs. Yes, I counted. Community love is its own medicine.
Walking meditation and the world in motion
Our walking meditation took place as the wind howled around us. The cypress trees swayed wildly; the sea was covered with whitecaps. It was intense and lively – but inside the hall, our steps stayed steady, slow, and deliberate.
What I cherish about mindful walking is that, despite relentless motion, I can proceed slowly. When the mind urges me to rush, I choose to remain present at a steady pace.
The active meditation and the unexpected opening
At the end of the afternoon came Kundalini Meditation. This meditation has four phases: shaking (letting the body shake), dancing (be the dance), sitting (listening) and resting. Over the course of the day, old stories resurfaced, ones I’ve carried like heirlooms: the narratives about not-enoughness, the quiet fears of loss, the relentless drive to improve something that was never broken.
But even these stories seemed less captivating now – more transparent and less persuasive.
And that question kept returning, echoing gently through my awareness:
Why am I here?
The simple, unavoidable answer
Toward the end of the day, as the clouds thickened and the wind softened, the answer was obvious. It didn’t feel like insight – it felt like remembering.
Love.
I am here because of love.
Love for my husband, who first discovered this place and saw its promise long before I had ever visited the country.
Love for this community – imperfectly perfect, warm, devoted to connection in ways that still move me.
And love for this landscape, which has woven itself into the fibers of my being and teaches me, in its own quiet language, how to slow down and appreciate the beauty.
Love brought me here. Love keeps me here.
Home, rain, and the soft landing
After the meditation, I arrived home under a sky swollen with rain. The first drops began just as I reached my door – perfect timing, as if the day itself whispered, Rest now.
I warmed a bowl of leftover soup and carried it into my sun room, the soft trickle of the fountain blending with the growing patter of rain. The plants glistened under the dim light.
And there, with the rain tapping against the glass like a mantra, the answer to my morning question finally felt simple.
I am here because of love.
And today, inside silence and wind and breath and rain, I remembered exactly what that means.
This article was previously published on the author’s blog leenahorner.substack.com
Comments are closed.