When I signed up for a “silent vipassanâ yoga and meditation retreat” at the Esalen Institute, I didn’t even know what the word vipassanâ meant, but I wasn’t worried about it. I planned to use the week as a personal sabbatical. I’d get up at sunrise and bathe in the hot tubs overlooking the Pacific, then drift into the morning sessions for a bit of yoga or meditation, and spend afternoons writing in the loft of the big blue art barn. After dinner I’d check e-mail, soak again in the hot tubs, and read an Anne Tyler novel and Carl Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections. Because it was a silent retreat, the whole time — five days — I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.