Then everything started coming up. In that state of silence, there was room now for everything hateful, everything fearful, to run across my empty mind. I felt like a junkie in detox, convulsing with the poison of what emerged. I cried a lot. I prayed a lot. It was difficult and it was terrifying, but this much I knew—I never didn't want to be there, and I never wished that anyone were there with me. I knew that I needed to do this and that I needed to do it alone.

The only other tourists on the island were a handful of couples having romantic vacations. (Gili Meno is far too pretty and far too remote a place for anyone but a crazy person to come visit solo.) I watched these couples and felt some envy for their romances, but knew, "This is not your time for companionship, Liz. You have a different task here." I kept away from everyone. People on the island left me alone. I think I threw off a spooky vibe. I had not been well all year. You can't lose that much sleep and that much weight and cry so hard for so long without starting to look like a psychotic. So nobody talked to me.

Actually, that's not true. One person talked to me, every day. It was this little kid, one of a gang of kids who run up and down the beaches trying to sell fresh fruit to the tourists. This boy was maybe nine years old, and seemed to be the ringleader. He was tough, scrappy and I would have called him street-smart if his island actually had any streets. He was beach-smart, I suppose. Somehow he'd learned great English, probably from harassing sunbathing Westerners. And he was on to me, this kid. Nobody else asked me who I was, nobody else bothered me, but this relentless child would come and sit next to me on the beach at some point every day and demand, "Why don't you ever talk? Why are you strange like this? Don't pretend you can't hear me—I know you can hear me. Why are you always alone? Why don't you ever go swimming? Where is your boyfriend? Why don't you have a husband? What's wrong with you?"

I was like, Back off, kid! What are you—a transcript of my most evil thoughts?

Every day I would try to smile at him kindly and send him away with a polite gesture, but he wouldn't quit until he got a rise out me. And inevitably, he always got a rise out of me. I remember bursting out at him once, "I'm not talking because I'm on a friggin' spiritual journey, you nasty little punk—now go AWAY!"

He ran away laughing. Every day, after he'd gotten me to respond, he would always run away laughing. I'd usually end up laughing, too, once he was out of sight. I dreaded this pesky kid and looked forward to him in equal measure. He was my only comedic break during a really tough ride. Saint Anthony once wrote about having gone into the desert on silent re-treat and being assaulted by all manner of visions—devils and angels, both. He said, in his solitude, he sometimes encountered devils who looked like angels, and other times he found angels who looked like devils. When asked how he could tell the difference, the saint said that you can only tell which is which by the way you feel after the creature has left your company. If you are appalled, he said, then it was a devil who had visited you. If you feel lightened, it was an angel.

I think I know what that little punk was, who always got a laugh out of me.

On my ninth day of silence, I went into meditation one evening on the beach as the sun was going down and I didn't stand up again until after midnight. I remember thinking, "This is it, Liz." I said to my mind, "This is your chance. Show me everything that is causing you sor-row. Let me see all of it. Don't hold anything back." One by one, the thoughts and memories of sadness raised their hands, stood up to identify themselves. I looked at each thought, at each unit of sorrow, and I acknowledged its existence and felt (without trying to protect myself from it) its horrible pain. And then I would tell that sorrow, "It's OK. I love you. I accept you. Come into my heart now. It's over." I would actually feel the sorrow (as if it were a living thing) enter my heart (as if it were an actual room). Then I would say, "Next?" and the next bit of grief would surface. I would regard it, experience it, bless it, and invite it into my heart, too. I did this with every sorrowful thought I'd ever had—reaching back into years of memory—until nothing was left.

而后一切开始浮现出来。在这种沉默状态中，如今有余地让充满憎恨与惧怕的一切东西，蹿过我空荡荡的心。我觉得自己像在接受戒毒的毒瘾患者，浮现的渴望使我抽搐。我经常哭。我经常祷告。尽管困难而可怕，我却知道——我未尝不想待在那里，我未尝希冀有人陪在身旁。我清楚自己非做不可，也清楚必须独自进行才行。

岛上的其他游客是共度浪漫假期的几对男女。（美侬岛这地方太优美、太偏远，疯子才会单独造访。）我看着这几对男女，对于他们的浪漫假期有几许羡慕之情，却也明白："小莉，这可不是搞伴侣关系的时机。你在这里有其他任务。"我和大家保持距离。岛上的人并未打扰我。我想我投射出某种恐怖讯号。我的不佳状况已持续经年。你若长期失眠、体重下降、哭泣，看起来也会像精神病患，因此没有人找我说话。

这么说其实不对。有个人天天找我说话，是个小孩，是在沙滩上跑来跑去、向游客推销新鲜水果的一大群小孩之一。这名男孩约莫九岁，似乎是头头。他能吃苦而且好斗，我会说他充满街头智慧，倘若他住的岛上果真有任何街道的话。我相信，他充满海滩智慧。出于某种原因，他学会说极佳的英语，可能是骚扰做日光浴的西方人学习而来的。这个孩子注意到我。没有任何人问我是谁，没有任何人打扰我，但是这名坚持不懈的孩子，却在每天某个时间跑来坐在海滩上的我的身边，查问："你怎么从不说话？你怎么这么古怪？别假装没听见我说话——我晓得你听见我讲话。你干吗老是自己一个人？你怎么从来不去游泳？你的男朋友在哪里？你怎么没嫁人？你有什么毛病？"

我几乎要说："滚开，小鬼！你干嘛——解读我最邪恶的思考？"

我每天尽量和蔼可亲地对他微笑，礼貌地示意要他走，但他毫不松手，直到把我惹毛。记得有一回我突然对他说："我之所以不说话，是因为我他妈的正在从事一场心灵之旅，你这讨人厌的小无赖——现在给我滚！"

他笑着跑开。每一天，在他激起我的回应后，他总是笑着跑开。我通常最后也笑了，在看不见他的身影之后。我惧怕这恼人的孩子，却又期盼他来。他是这段艰难的旅程途中唯一的喜剧片段。圣安东尼（SaintAnthony）曾叙述自己前往沙漠静思期间遭受各种幻象袭击——恶魔与天使；他说，他在独处时，时而遭遇看似天使的恶魔，有时则发现看似恶魔的天使。当圣人被问及如何区分其差别，他说，只有在那东西离开你身边后，你才分辨得出何者是何者。他说，你若胆颤心惊，造访者就是恶魔。你若感到宽心，那就是天使。

我想我知道这小无赖是何者，他总是引我发笑。

沉默不语的第九天，傍晚日落时分，我在海滩禅坐，直到午夜过后才站起身来。我记得心想："这就是了，小莉。"我对自己的心说："这是你的机会。让我看看你之所以哀伤的一切原因，让我看到一切，切勿压抑。"所有哀伤的想法与回忆随之一一抬头，站起身来自报姓名。我注视每一种想法，每一份哀伤，我对它们的存在表示认可，感觉到（并未尝试保护自己而加以阻止）它们的剧痛。而后我对哀伤说："没事。我爱你。我接受你。现在进来我的心吧，都过去了。"我真的感觉到哀伤（仿佛哀伤是有生命的东西）进入我的心（仿佛心是真实的房间）。然后我说："接下来是哪位？"下一个忧愁于是现身而出。我看着它，体验它，祝福它，并邀请它也进入我的心。我如此处置曾经有过的每一种哀伤想法——回溯多年的记忆——直到一点东西也不剩。