Oranges & 10 Days of Silence | Part 1

Why I'm Here (on Substack and maybe even on Earth) & Hello!

Once, I shut up for 10 days and then I vowed to never shut up again.  

Three years ago during a windy dry December, I subjected myself to a 10-day vipassana meditation retreat in the middle of nowhere. Upon arrival, I reluctantly unclenched my fist to turn in my cell phone, flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights of my tiny box of a room, groaned as I starfished on the gray twin size bed because there were only fluorescent lights (deep hatred for them), and then stared at the ceiling in wonder of how yet again, I ended up in such a curious situation. 

The rules there were simple. You signed an agreement committing to ten strict days of silence. No cell phones, no talking, no human interaction of any sort with other retreat folks. No personal items besides clothes and prescriptions. Not even pens or books—nothing you could use as an activity. Your mind was to be alone.

10 days of waking up at 4am followed by three hours of meditation. Breakfast around 7am and then four hours of meditation. Lunch at noon followed by an hour of free time. Then, hours of meditation until dinner at six. End of the day group meditation for two hours. And finally, sleep around 9pm.

But hey, they had the best vegan meals I’ve ever had in my life. After every meal whether day or night, I would sit down and patiently peel an orange and have a cup of hibiscus tea. 

At the time, I was freshly twenty-one and had decided at the last minute to graduate a semester early. It was the first semester back on campus in the pandemic, the first semester back for me after I had taken a year to study human rights in Chile, Nepal, and Jordan and then a semester to fool around in Spain. Despite it being cut short, the year was so ironically cliche in absolutely changing my little life. Being back, I had felt like a stranger in the life I left behind.

Even though I was struggling to fit back into the shape I had left everything, internally I was thriving in somewhat self actualization for the first time in the two decades I had been alive. Due to this, it was enough to leave. 

At twenty four, it’s reassuring to confirm that there are three things that remain innate about me: knowing when to leave, leaving with conviction, and my curiosity that always pivots with precision to new strange situations that end up being exactly what I need. I marvel at pieces I can collect and know like this now, especially as I get older. Though I cannot control or even know what exactly will pop up in my garden, I have become fond of how I do know the way most things here grow and how to water and weed it all well. 

Since I had no interest in returning for another semester at school despite its structure, my friends, and the comfort of college, a 10-day meditation retreat seemed like an intriguing concept and even a good idea at the time. That new self affirmation, the new inner voice, I wanted to silence everything else and crank up its volume.

The first thing I did there was steal a pen and then fish for scrap paper I had shoved in my coat pocket from the week before. 

Throughout my ten days, I would have many revelations. Some discoveries were about how I was in love with my best friend, how I failed at relationships as a whole, and digesting other glorious fun from my life’s tragedies. Most sessions, I’d put my cushion away and tidy my space while wiping my cheeks. A ball would sit in my throat and these new revelations would sit in my head. Agony would follow me to my room as everything in my head began pounding. 

But there was nothing more crystal clear: even if you took everything away from me, I would find a way to write. 

The one hour we were allowed outside, a stranger could’ve watched me walking aimlessly in circles for those ten days. However, I would be writing. My mind would splash open into the vision of a clean empty word document and words would spill out over some random topic inspired from my daily orange peeling and tea session. Some days would be non-fiction evaluations of the mundane and other times would be creative fiction. Fantasy story ideas, conversations between characters I hadn’t fully developed, and plotlines I’d tangle and untangle. Ribbons and ribbons of ideas dancing in my head. Some stories would even spiral from the very strangers I spent 24/7 with while meditating but knew nothing about. My curiosity had sharp teeth and my mind begged me to feed it. 

I’d pause in real time near a tree or path while backspacing at terrible lines spewed or characters that demanded development. When the bell signaled the end of the hour, I would rush back to my room for the paper and pen I hid under my pillow and write it down while half shrugging off my coat. 

In my upbringing when I was going through all that was now resurfacing during meditation, writing saved me. It always would. My childhood would shapeshift through forms as a fantasy writer, a playwright, an actor, a comedian, an entertainer, and online novelist. On family vacations in the dark and on Saturday nights as a teenage girl, I would sit in front of a screen as a cool buzz would ripple through my body and overpower time, matter, and life itself. Inspiration that felt so intoxicating that if I did not write it down, I would feel half on Earth and half drunk daydreaming somewhere else. 

How can I describe it? Let’s see. To me, writing feels like…

• That feeling you get on an airplane

• The sensation of noise-canceling headphones

• An IV going into your bloodstream and the coldness of it as it hits your veins

• The song “Non-Stop” from Hamilton

• A bird on drugs using its beak to hit the cage repeatedly begging to break out

• The feeling you get after you leave a movie theater

• Time with your best friend or your sibling

• The place I hope I end up at when all of this ends

• What meditation probably should’ve felt like if I’d done it properly lol

In those one hour strolls after lunch, I promised myself I would return to writing. To what makes me happiest at my core, free from fear of failure, of pretentious critique, and free of even my own judgment and need for perfection. I was done stopping myself. I suppose that’s why I’m here, even if it’s three years late (I am pathetically human after all). Know that during those three years, I sat at my desk again and again. Sat before my own hands, staring, and begged them to just write. 

I’m here now.  

It’s a Saturday night. I’ve stared at this first entry nearly every other day the past few weeks and have mulled over its existence, or lack thereof, for years now. 

But it’s here too.

The same buzz that kept my pulse afire as a child, the buzz that replaced friends and sleep and weekends as a teenager, the buzz as I scribbled words down like a mad criminal on the sheet under my bed at the meditation retreat, and the buzz that has never ever left me alone and has escaped onto napkins at restaurants, paragraphs in my phone notes app, and the towers of mismatched journals perched all over my room. 

We’re both here now. It’s the only way this can work. 

When I was at that retreat, Substack didn’t exist yet, but it’s also the perfect space for what I was searching for. So thanks, Substack, for being here too. 

Over time, I hope to release many pieces here. Some from the collections of random napkins, notes, and journal entries. Some fiction, some non-fiction. Stories that others allow me to share. Stories that are silly bullshit. Sometimes, just word vomit. Articles, essays, chapters, poems, blurbs, lists, all shapes and sizes. I truly can’t wait to see where this will all go! 

There is more to that meditation retreat like what I actually learnt and the places it took me. If we follow the orange peelings, I can take you there too in the next part. 

Photo by Antonio Napodano on Unsplash

And hello! For those that don’t know me, by the way, I’m Yaju (yeah-jhu).

I can’t tell you who I am in a quick blurb but I can tell you which point I’m at and maybe some quick facts. Soon, you’ll know too much anyway. 

I’m a new twenty-four year old on the cusp of yet again another curious little pivot in my life. Labels I’ve accepted: traveler, writer, lover, sister, friend, daughter, virgo. My favorite color is wine and pastel yellow is a runner up, both reflect my aura well. If you ever go to a cafe, it’s a safe bet to get me a vanilla iced latte or vanilla iced matcha, both preferably sweet. Water? Tundra cold, lots of ice. But if we’re meeting up for a meal, always savory and very spicy please. 

Numbers: favorite number is 4, traveled to 30 countries, written 3 novels and finished 0, fallen in love around 2.8 times, have called 2 soils home, filled 15 journals, and have had 4 therapists but got dumped by 1 of them. I have 181,829 items in my camera roll currently. 

My favorite noise is other peoples’ laughter and maybe brown noise. 

My favorite years have been 2019 and 2023. My life feels full even if it’s crashing and I am the most annoyingly grateful & optimistic little shit. I value community, friendships, joy, food, wellness, movement, singing out loud, collective healing and liberation in every stretch. When the first bite is good, I have to exclaim “Mmmmmm!”. On many festive holidays, friend gatherings, birthdays, or during any collective human experience, my heart becomes swollen and I tell everyone I love them and then I cry and that is a great thing because it took a lot to get here. 

I believe in the invisible—love, magic, luck, manifestation, intuition, wonder, justice (have you seen it?), energy, karma and sometimes even the capacity that men can get better. I love the simple pleasures and enhancing the tangible—communities, playlists, bookshelves, savory meals, trips, joyrides, walks. 

I try to leave every person, relationship, room, and hopefully this planet better than I found it (good luck Charlie) and I hold the door open for things to leave me better too. 

Don’t worry, take a seat, I’ve saved you one. There is so much to show you! 

The places all over the world that I’ve been, the many lives I’ve led, the people I’ve loved, the things I’ve learnt and lost, and even rooms inside my head too. A little bit of this, a little bit of that, what is life if it isn’t all over the place? And who am I if I’m not too, physically and mentally? That’s why I’ve named it exactly that: All Over The Place. 

Ten days of silence and look at what it made me do. Now, I will never shut up again.

Thank you for joining my storytelling. I’m thankful for this passion and the beauty of its release. 

Welcome, I hope to take care of you. Please enjoy!