Softening in the Stillness

I've been off-grid in the Cederberg Mountains, spending six silent days at Bliss and Stars. I had certain expectations about the retreat, and it turned out to be nothing like what I imagined—and exactly what I needed.

Run by Daria Rasmussen and Heine Wieben, high-paced corporate executives who shifted towards a slow life in the bush, the retreat promised a sanctuary from the noise. I arrived with visions of spending my days watching the Doring River flow, journaling, and quietly processing my thoughts. I did all of that, but I also found myself hiking through the mountains, learning about the beginnings of the Universe under starlit skies, and breathing in ways that made my whole body tremble.

The retreat's rhythm was gentle yet full: daily meditations, breathwork, mindful walks, and absolutely delicious plant-based meals. we went on evening hikes, our headlamps casting a soft light over the path, Heine guiding our small group through the wilderness. Daria led the meditations and breathwork, weaving the sessions into something deeper than technique. Each session was an invitation to meet ourselves fully.

One of the first things I noticed was how eating in silence changes everything. Without conversation to fill the space, each bite became an experience. I noticed the texture of roasted vegetables, the complexity of flavours, the rhythm of my chewing. It struck me how often meals in daily life are rushed, dulled by distraction or overlaid with noise. We're social creatures, and sharing meals is a beautiful way to connect, but there’s something to be said for allowing food, and the moment, to have our undivided attention. (In fact, when we returned to the “real world,” my wife and I went out for dinner and were startled by the sheer volume bombarding us: loud music, clanging plates, raucous laughter, and overlapping conversations. It felt jarring after the silence.)

The silence wasn't easy for everyone. Some wrestled with restlessness, especially those who’d never meditated before. But I found it unexpectedly comfortable. As an extrovert, I thought I might itch to speak. Instead, I was pleased to discover how much I relish extended stillness. I filled hours breathing long and deeply, journalling about my experiences, and meditating outside of the scheduled sessions. I listened to birds, the wind and the the flowing river below. It felt like a rare permission slip to simply be, with nowhere to go and no one to perform for.

One of the most pleasant surprises of the experience was how my wife and I navigated the silence together. We weren't sure how we would be, not able to communicate with words. We were used to talking to each other about everything, and now we couldn't talk to each other about anything. We even devised “emergency signals” just in case. We never needed them. We communicated through eye contact, small gestures, and the occasional grunt, and it was enough. The silence between us was not awkward but rich, full of unspoken love and understanding.

During my breathwork sessions, I uncovered something transformational that I’d been missing in my personal growth. For years I have relentlessly pursued self-mastery through reading, reflection, and intentional action. I've worked hard to shape, strengthen, and sharpen my mind. But during a holotropic breathwork session, guided by Daria’s expertise as a somatic therapist, I realized my work wasn’t only mental. My body had its own language, its own wisdom, and I hadn’t been listening closely enough.

This wasn't simply about healthy eating or exercise (though those are both very important). Rather, it was about tuning into the signals my body sends: the tightness it holds, the emotions it stores, the ways it quietly asks for release. I’d been trying to think my way into Harmony, when what I needed was a deeper mind–body conversation. Like the Buddhist teaching of “two wings of a bird” (referring to wisdom and compassion), I realised that my mind and body must work together if I wish to be in Harmony. What I had been chasing wasn't just about inner peace and outer progress; it was about integration.

At the end of the retreat, we were each offered a personal takeaway. Mine was simple but piercing: soften. Ascension—striving to grow, learn, and make a difference—is my guiding value. But in that drive, I can be unforgiving with myself. The invitation to soften was a reminder to allow myself grace, to rest without guilt, to sometimes choose joy for no reason other than the joy itself.

Would I do a silent retreat again? Absolutely. It stripped away distractions and handed me a mirror to my thoughts. And in that stillness, I could finally hear not just my mind, but the quieter truths my body and the natural world have been whispering all along.

So, dear reader, I'll leave you with this: When was the last time you allowed silence to speak for itself? What might you hear, or feel, if you let it?

Until next week,
Ric