I crave solitude. Not so much to exclude others, as to see myself more clearly. This does not always endear me to friends or family. It does not enrich our bank account, nor lead to enduring enlightenment, but I crave it anyway. It has driven me to nap in the lone rocking chair in the kitchen of our summer bungalow, rather than next to my mate on the little bed in the next room. It has even driven me further than that, in my quest for what Thoreau called “inward detachment.”

So when my childhood friend suggested a yoga retreat in the Berkshires for a few days of “retreat and renewal,” I signed on without hesitation. While I was going with a friend (not quite solitude), the experience was to be about focusing internally, where all things external sift into self-awareness.

I had been warned about the unappealing facade of the place called Kripalu Yoga Center. Five acres of sprawling brick buildings sit atop an emerald hill overlooking the Berkshire landscape and a long, clear lap of lake below. Built in the 1950’s to accommodate a wealth of Jesuit seminarians, the structure flaunts its modern, monastic roots. But the true ascetics have dried up, leaving a perfect hostel for the new weekend ascetics, the urban flock in search of retreat. From the beginning, I sensed a clear distinction between the life inside Kripalu and the one outside.

The regimen is as simple as the accommodations. Yoga classes at dawn, followed by vegetarian breakfast eaten in silence, then a variety of self-enrichment workshops, lunch, more yoga, time to read, write, hike, nap before dinner and a massage or whirlpool. Lights out at 9:30.

From my perch on the top floor I could see motorboats circling the lake in huge arching patterns. They could not be heard from this distance, only seen. It was as though the world was being muted by a cosmic remote control. I could feel my inward detachment growing stronger. In my first yoga class, however, just as my state of relaxation settled into the rhythm of my own breath, my mind started jumping into spasms of thought. Unwanted obligations hurtled like guerrilla soldiers into my meditation, grabbing my attention away from its inward quest. The previous month of high stress levels waged war on my inner peace. I struggled to be “here, now.”

Sitting outside later, in silence, I became aware of some crows cawing in the trees nearby. They seemed to be teasing me with their noise. Suddenly a large crow swooped down onto the grass, followed by a smaller bird that chirruped at the crow and hopped up and down insistently, almost hysterically. The crow shook a branch of leaves in its beak. The little bird continued its fervent dance as I watched in silent confusion. Then the crow took off and passed in front of me with a nest firmly planted in its jaws, the little mother bird following it quixotically, still complaining, pleading. A gasp of horror broke the silence as I wished aloud that there were something to do. At once the outside world was present and unmuted. I felt as attached to that little bird as she was to her nest. I could see myself again in the larger world, thanks to a little solitude.