Authors: Gay Hendricks
Tags: #ebook, #book
That was it, but it was enough. I refilled the bags and stuffed as many as I could into my own garbage cans, carefully separating the recycling from the rest. I loaded the remaining trash in the trunk of the Toyota and delivered them to a dumpster I knew of down the hill—in my mind, I was merely fulfilling their original fate.
Back at home, I barraged my skin with hot water, soaping away every last remnant of a long, stinky day. I set my alarm for 6
A.M
.—that would give me a whopping five hours of shut-eye—and collapsed next to my softly snoring cat.
A high-pitched
meow,
accompanied by the prick of claws kneading my thigh, told me I had slept past the alarm, and then some. I squinted at the clock; it was 7:15.
I bolted out of bed, pulling on clothes, cursing my late night activities. I dumped two cans of mixed grill into Tank’s bowl. His look was so piteous I ran into the living room and hastily rearranged his fort, adding another chair and towel to expand his choices of places to hide.
I drove my Mustang as if possessed, and squeezed into a space two blocks past the Sweet Spirit Meditation Center, 30 minutes late, and anything but sweet of spirit.
I added my shoes to the pile outside and tiptoed into the hall. A woman in her 50s, with close-cropped hair, a gray cotton jumpsuit, and an easy manner, was sitting on a cushion set on a slightly raised platform at the front of the room. She was addressing the group of about 50 people, some on the floor on cushions, others in chairs lined along the walls. The resident red-robed Western monk was right by the door. He smiled, handed me a schedule and a hard, round cushion, and motioned toward a spot in the back row between two sheepish-looking middle-aged men, trying to get comfortable on their own hard cushions. I looked the crowd over, and soon spotted a perky blonde ponytail. Heather was in the front row. Well rah-rah for her.
I took a deep breath and used the long exhale to send my hostility outside, where it belonged. I was here. I was doing this. I had almost put a bullet in a teenager the other day and almost taken one myself yesterday. Maybe this woman could help me.
“Listen, I understand,” the teacher was saying. “I was in law enforcement for twenty-five years. We all shut down emotionally around stress. How many of you have found yourselves turning to alcohol, drugs, even infidelity just to cope?” She put up her hands. “Don’t answer that question. God knows I didn’t, at my first retreat.”
Everyone laughed, and the room opened up a little. I glanced at the schedule. The leader’s name was Marcie Whitney. I had missed most of her opening remarks. I was sorry I had.
“This day isn’t about changing human nature,” Marcie said. “And it certainly isn’t about me telling you guys how to do your jobs. It’s about acquiring tools—tools for examining our intentions, our hidden biases. It’s an invitation to approach your work not with anger and cynicism, but with love and fierce compassion.”
There it was again. That word,
fierce
.
A red-faced man squirming in his chair raised his hand. “This is bullshit, pardon my French. You should see the scum I deal with every day. I’m here because I have to be—the brass wants me to manage my anger better. Manage it, not get rid of it.” He snorted. “Only tool I really need is my Beretta.”
Marcie nodded. “I respect that. No one is asking you to put away your gun. But I would ask you this. Who do you think is better at serving and protecting, someone blinded by anger and fear, or someone centered and taking action from a mindful place?”
She had a point.
She invited us to close our eyes and led us into a process of counting breaths while allowing thoughts, a process deeply familiar to me. The initial restlessness around me settled—I never ceased to be amazed at how quickly the simple act of closing one’s eyes and counting breaths resulted in ease—and I soon sank into a place of deep relaxation, all the more powerful because it was multiplied by the power of 50.
I take refuge in the sangha.
I’ve missed this.
The morning was a seamless flow of sitting and walking meditations, and I slipped into the silence as easily as if it were a warm bath. At lunchtime, we were given a few simple instructions in mindful eating. I had run out of my door without breakfast, so the flavor released with every slow, thoughtful bite was enhanced by my appetite. Even so, I couldn’t remember when I’d last enjoyed a meal so much. Heather and I sat next to each other, our eyes lowered to our plates. She was focused and serious about eating mindfully, like a little girl learning to trace. I smiled inside.
She gets it.
My heart gave a little twist and cracked open. Sweet appreciation, like warm syrup, spilled out of my center and widened its path to include Heather.
Heather put down her fork. She pressed her hand to her heart. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and smiled. Then she turned to look at me, as if to say, “Whatever it is you’re doing, don’t stop.”
She gets me.
We followed lunch with another walking meditation in the garden area. Placing light attention on the lift and press of each foot, I paced a ten-foot path between a stone bench and a clump of rose bushes. I guess my banished hostility decided to camp out behind the bushes, because within minutes, resistance started nipping at my heels, followed closely by doubt, worry, and the howling hounds of horniness
. This is a waste of time. Who are these people? Why am I here? I need to get back to work. Look at those curves—maybe I can get Heather to spend the night tonight. What if she won’t? What if she never does again?
I paused, to regroup. I looked around. Everybody but Heather had taken on the shape and personality of deluded fools. She, on the other hand, looked like a tantric goddess. I recognized my wild mind from long sits in Dharamshala: the Buddha talked of the five hindrances to meditation, and except for sluggishness, I was, as Bill might put it, batting a thousand.
The sluggishness hit the instant we returned to the hall, and I spent most of the next sit with my chin on my chest. But right toward the end, the fatigue dissolved, and my mind opened into a wonderful, spacious clarity. I decided to take advantage of it and do a little work.
I mentally addressed a few of the many uncertainties regarding my case. Once in a while, if I phrase the questions just right, the answers come spontaneously, as if they already lay waiting, right beneath the surface of my mind.
Who is running a con on me?
What is the con?
Are Marv and Julius connected?
How?
I came up blank, four times.
Instead, an observation pushed its way forward, a painful one that had lurked in the background like a lingering sore
. We’re both refugees.
Both trying to get to someplace and away from someplace else at the same time.
Charlie’s words had struck a minor chord in me. I rephrased them: What am I running from? I let the question resonate and then let it go.
Longing for Yeshe and Lobsang pierced my heart area. They would surely know the answer—they understood me better than anyone. The three of us had shared a bond so close growing up that we’d practically heard each other’s thoughts, read each other’s intentions. Like any other close-knit crew of kids, we’d had each other’s backs.
I smiled, remembering our favorite game,
sgom rgyab
, a game that would probably mystify most children. The name meant “meditation,” but we played it with a twist. First, we’d put a bunch of random objects in a box—anything from chunks of turquoise, to feathers, to pictures of cars torn from magazines. We’d meditate for 15 minutes or so to get tuned up. Then, taking turns, whoever was “it” would reach into the box, select one object, mentally “picture” it, and attempt to send the image telepathically to the others. Whoever correctly identified the most items won.
It wasn’t Angry Birds, or Wii tennis, but we worked with what we had.
Once we hit puberty, we started linking up telepathically for more practical purposes. If one of us had a problem with a teacher, “one of us” meaning me, the other two would link up telepathically to neutralize the situation. And when Lobsang and I started getting pimples, we linked up with ever-clear Yeshe, letting our skin learn from his how to be blemish-free. Call it crazy, but the pimples didn’t stand a chance; our skin was usually clear within a week.
You’re wandering. Come home again.
I gently returned to my breath. The outer edges of my mind melted. I entered a deep domain of spirit and light, both above and below the surface ramblings.
Yeshe. Lobsang. Are you there?
I opened up to our shared field.
Unh!
Instead of expanding into that familiar home-space, it was as if I’d crashed into a wall. I took a few conscious breaths and tried again.
Yeshe?
Nothing.
Lobsang?
A bolt of fear jolted my core. What had happened to them? ”Slowly, mindfully, become aware of the body,” I heard. “Take your time.”
I tried to breathe through the tightness in my chest and shoulders. Rinpoche used to warn us never to end a sitting with residual fear or anger—we might end up wearing it for the rest of the day, like a thick
chuba
. I rolled my shoulders, inhaling, exhaling. The coat of worry was still pretty heavy.
I realized Marcie was giving a few more simple instructions. We were finishing up the afternoon with a loving-kindness meditation practice, known as
metta
.
Maybe that would help.
She asked us to close our eyes, and settle into an awareness of our breath. To feel into our heart area. Then she asked us to picture the person in our lives who most easily opened our hearts. The furry face of a Persian Blue wiggled his whiskers at me.
Tank.
I sent him a series of wishes for safety, joy, strength, and ease.
Next, she asked us to expand our loving-kindness to a mentor . . .
Bill. Safety, joy, strength, ease.
To a friend . . .
I considered Heather, but knew any loving-kindness was sure to be high-jacked by the gravitational pull of our powerful physical connection.
Yeshe. Lobsang. Safety. Ease.
To a parent . . .
No!
My heart slammed shut as my eyes snapped open. I wanted to run from the room, and only the thought of disturbing the peaceful row of fellow meditators stopped me. I forced myself to close my eyes again. I imagined Tank, his soft paw patting my cheek in the morning. My breath calmed a little.
Tank. Health. Strength. Ease.
“Now include yourself.”
I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
I sat as still as I could, stretched tight as the skin on a drum. I hoped no one here knew how to play
sgom rgyab
. If anyone read my mind, all they’d find was resistance.
Allow, allow.
Like a rogue wave, my father’s stern, unyielding presence invaded my space, as vivid as if he were standing in front of me, glowering.
Now I knew with absolute certainty what, or who, was blocking my connection with Yeshe and Lobsang. More important, with myself.
What are you running away from?
The same thing I’d always been running away from. The same thing I had to turn and face, if I was ever to be free.
I slipped past still meditators as they sent out silent waves of safety, waves of ease. I hoped some of their blessings adhered to me—I was going to need all the protection I could get.
As I paused at the door, Heather slowly turned her head in my direction, as if pulled by an invisible string. She met my eyes, hers questioning.
I have to go. I’m sorry.
Again, she touched her hand to her heart. Then she closed her eyes. This time I was the one who tasted a sweet stream of loving-kindness, sent like a benediction from the front row.
I was home by 5:00
P.M
., and by 6:30 I had somehow, impossibly, landed a cheap seat on Thai Airways, the red-eye to Delhi, via Bangkok. When all the lights turned green like this, I knew I was taking the right actions. In Delhi I’d make the short hop to Dharamshala on Kingfisher. That put me in the belly of the beast around 1:00
P.M
. on Sunday. Twenty-four hours, door-to-door, all made possible by the wonders of the Internet. I booked my return for Tuesday, which after another 20-plus hours of flying would get me back here on . . . Tuesday. I suffered a brief spasm of panic before remembering my U.S. passport was valid—when I’d turned 25 and could claim my mother Valerie’s estate, I’d had to make a quick trip to Paris to clear up a Trust issue. Trust issues and my mother. Nothing new there.
All told, this impulsive venture would cost 25 percent of my Julius wages, and four days of my life in travel alone, plus and minus the day I crisscrossed time zones. Was I crazy to do this? Yes. Was I doing it anyway? Yes again. Sitting in meditation at the retreat, I had somehow slipped past the invisible net of denial inside, and now the sonar alarm was sounding from deep within. In the past, I have ignored such messages, whether they were tickles or slams, at my own peril. If I ignored this one, I might drown.
I packed next to nothing—a change of clothes, two extra T-shirts, a traveler’s First Aid kit, my laptop and Kindle, the autopsy report, the bagged contents of Charlie’s lockbox, and the tattered screenplay,
Loving Hagar
.
Tank was hiding under the bed, his fresh tuna water untouched. I pulled him into my arms and walked outside to the deck. We stood there for a few minutes, his weight warm against my chest.
I’m sorry, but I have to do this. I’ll be home soon, I promise.
Tank wriggled free, polished my ankles with a quick fur-swipe, and ran inside to his food dish. That meant he still wasn’t thrilled, but he accepted my explanation.
I called Mike, waking him up. He agreed to be on cat-duty while I was gone. I cleaned Tank’s box, loaded a second bowl with crunchy treats, and I was out the door by 8:00
P.M
. With only one small carry-on, I made it through security in plenty of time to board my flight. At 11:20
P.M
., I was wedged in a middle seat between two strangers, happy to be on board at all. Despite flying steerage, I had quite a bit of legroom. An exquisite flight attendant with honeyed skin and a jet-black bun, an orchid tucked behind one ear, delivered a blanket and pillow to me. She was trim, dressed in an elegant pink Thai silk suit, bisected by a vibrant purple sash.
Not purple. Violet. The Seventh Ray. The color of new beginnings.