The Perils of Pauline (23 page)

Every time Olympia sees her downing a marshmallow sandwich, she flips out and wants one too. It’s hard to shop for kids who are engaged in a tag team of food dislikes: Jack hates onions, potatoes, and spinach; Serenity hates peas, asparagus, and yams; and Olympia hates everything else in the vegetable world. There is no meal they will all eat readily except for mini marshmallow sandwiches. Since Serenity is in charge for the weekend I better buy several bags. Shae can cook a mean roast so I toss in short ribs and a bag of carrots. You never know.

I am driving, so I pick up Michael and we head out. It’s a four hour trip to the ashram so we can at least talk on the way and get it all out of our systems.

First thing, Michael falls asleep. I drive along in silence. It’s good practice, I suppose.

After a while, I feel sleepy. I poke Michael and tell him he has to take over the wheel. We switch places and, as I lay my head back on the headrest, Michael asks, “Did you get a chance to read over the guidelines?”

I rummage for the retreat information in my tote bag. The guidelines are clear:
Upon entry to the retreat grounds, please refrain from talking at any and all times. Reading, writing, journaling, or use of the telephone is disquieting and may be a barrier to your stillness practice. Following these recommendations carefully and mindfully will allow you to be in community with others in a supportive, respectful way.

“What if there’s an emergency?”

“In that case they will inform us.”

“What if I get sick? Or what if I need something. Like toilet paper?”

“If it’s necessary, you can write a note to the retreat organizer. And it’s a shared bathroom. Don’t worry. There will be lots of toilet paper.”

“That’s good to know. But what if I’m at dinner and I want someone to pass the salt?”

“Do you really need the salt?” Michael looks at me intently. “You realize you can’t talk at all for the whole weekend. No please, no thank you, no pass the salt.”

“It sounds like you don’t think I can do this.”

Michael looks back at the road. “I didn’t say that. It’s … difficult the first time. No communication means just that: no communication. That includes hand gestures or any other type of body language. Even eye contact is discouraged.”

Fine. My eyeballs will remain fixed on the floor all weekend. I won’t say this to Michael but this sounds like a reverse staring contest. I was always good at those as a kid.

Michael glances at me and then he actually reads my mind: “Don’t think of it as a contest. It’s about clearing your mind. It’s surprising
what you might hear if you stop talking long enough to listen to your inner voice.”

My inner voice is yammering: “I’ll show you, Michael. I can own them at this New Age shutting up competition.”

As promised by the posted schedule, a bonging sound awakes me. I check my watch: 5:00 a.m. Why does spirituality have to start so early? Everywhere I go, there’s a hot-wired insomniac running the show. It’s tempting to close my eyes again for a few more minutes. Too bad the bong alarm system doesn’t have a snooze button. I better throw off the covers now before I fall back to sleep. We are starting with a silent yoga session in the main hall.

In the communal women’s bathroom, I wait my turn for the shower while staring at the floor. I check the stall for toilet paper before I go in. I remain in the moment as I brush my teeth, thoroughly enjoying the sensation of the mint toothpaste and the sound of the water trickling from the taps. For this moment, there’s nothing else but the breath and a section of dental floss around my fingers. Turns out anyone can be a Zen master while picking at her teeth.

My silent sun salutation is slow to rise this morning. I jackknife my hips into downward dog as everyone else lightly hops forward into a forward fold. I make it to forward fold at the same time everyone else rises for mountain pose. It’s all because I can’t see the leader at the front of the room. I decide to copy the girl beside me. Big mistake. Evidently she’s made of liquid steel. She moves effortlessly through the poses. Her full cobra is a powerful statement and when she shifts into downward dog her long blonde braid curls around her shoulders attractively. My cobra wants to slither under a rock and, during downward dog, my unsecured hair flips in front of my eyes and into my mouth. Michael is behind us. I wonder if he’s noticing how the braid girl can tuck her knees neatly behind her ears during plow posture?

After yoga, we go into the meditation hall for our first session before breaking for breakfast. The yoga has woken up my stomach.
Within minutes of sitting, my stomach starts to growl. I tell it to go back to sleep, but it doesn’t want to. My brain, however, does. I keep drifting off only to jerk awake as my head rebounds off one shoulder or the other.

I startle to the sound of a bong and realize I’ve been sound asleep with my chin resting on my chest. As I stand up, trying to rub the crick out of the back of my neck, it strikes me that I’ve probably been snoring. I turn to ask Michael. It hits me now: There’s no talking.

Luckily the breakfast is buffet style and I’ve no need to ask anyone to pass me the salt. I follow Michael to a table and sit beside him. Michael shifts his chair to make room for me. By shifting his chair an inch, he might as well have yelled good morning. I keep my eyes focused on my plate. The sound of chewing is amplified. It has dawned on me that I have a bad habit of scraping my plate with my utensils. This is very illuminating.

After a short break we go back to the main hall for the next session of meditation. This time I resolve to stay awake. I choose a cushion beside Michael and sit.

And sit. And sit and sit and sit until the muscles in my upper back and shoulders are burning. My butt is sore. My right foot is going to sleep. I wiggle my toes surreptitiously and clench and unclench my thigh muscles only to feel the painful tingling spreading into my calf. I try shifting, ever so slightly, the position of the leg. This helps for about a minute and then the tingling resumes but now it’s in my knee and the toes on my left foot are feeling weird.

I’m supposed to be stilling my mind but all I can think about is my throbbing legs. What will happen if I don’t move my legs? If the blood is prevented from circulating, could I get a blood clot? I should’ve chosen to sit on one of the benches at the back of the room. I twitch each leg an inch and continue wiggling, clenching, and unclenching my butt muscles to force the blood down to my toes. I can’t stretch the leg straight out in front of me or I will poke braid girl in the butt.

Braid girl has remained wigglefree and clenchless for 30 minutes now. Her thick blonde braid falls straight down her back complementing her ramrod straight spine. I feel a stab of jealousy. The thick
braid, the perfect posture, the cute yoga pants that show off her tiny waist. This girl won’t ever have to ripple her butt cheeks to prevent a deep vein thrombosis or sit on any loser’s bench at the back. She probably sits motionless for hours every morning in a forest glade surrounded by small, adoring birds and animals who follow her home afterwards to sing and dance while they do her laundry. Then she eats apples and chia seeds for lunch while standing on her head.

To shift my attention from my screaming muscles, I make up a mantra for myself: shut the fuck up, don’t think, shut the fuck up, don’t think. Very soothing actually. The meditation session finally ends and I have to wait for my blood flow to return before I can stand. I rub my legs vigorously to regain the circulation. One of the retreat organizers approaches me and quietly suggests I try the bench for meditation next time. I’ve been busted. Meanwhile Michael left in a hurry. I wonder if he’s mad at me for being so wiggly during meditation?

Once I manage to get the circulation restored in my legs, everyone drifts back in to the room and sits down for a lecture from the leader, Guru Greg. I shuffle to a spot on the bench. A woman with hoop earrings plunks down beside me, muttering. “Thank God I’m not the only one stuck back here.” I smile back at the whispering woman. I’m about to undertone something back to her when I see Michael glancing around to see where I went. I spit the smile from my lips as fast as I can and lower my gaze to the floor knowing I’ve been busted once again and it isn’t even lunchtime yet.

Now I get why Michael is so into this stuff. Guru Greg should be a standup comic he’s so funny. Laughing soundlessly makes me wet the bench. Greg praised all the beginners in the room. He made a special point of praising those of us who have chosen to sit on the bench saying we are honest and likely know ourselves better than those who strive in distracted discomfort on their cushions. We beginners are more open minded too as we haven’t had a chance to become rigid in our practice. He chuckled and said spirituality has nothing to do with
a fancy physical pose but has everything to do with the pose inside the head. One can sit still for hours while the mind gallops.

Then he launches into a discussion of something he calls the unwordable word: “What is behind a word? What is behind the world? Try to move beyond the word. Move beyond the world of form. Don’t get lost in translation from formless to form. Unword the world.”

At first my mind gallops around the concept. Unword the world? The unwordable word? What does it all mean? What is that? When I look at the world from behind the world of form, problems are an illusion. All my worries dissolve into the mist of unwordable words. I get it now. My worries only exist inside my head. In reality, my worries are insignificant, meaningless. Michael’s guru says we should unword the world.

I can do that.

I mean, so what if Serenity is having a baby? Babies are lovely. Brand new beings of unwordable light. We have to welcome them into the world of form.

And so what if the bookstore is running in the red? It is what it is. A bookstore full of books made of … insignificant words. It will either work or it won’t. Hardly the end of the world.

And so what if Donald is in Calgary? So what if he’s having an affair with another woman? So what if I can’t decide what to do about Michael? These are only problems if I make them so.

I love sitting here on this bench in this tranquil space. I love everyone in this room now, even braid girl. She’s beautiful, a wondrous rainbow being. I want to hug her. Michael’s guru is fantastic. I can’t wait to share these revelations with Michael. I want to lie with him tonight and share unwordable words. The silence has spoken to me.

For the rest of the day, I drift in euphoria. In the afternoon, which turns out to be a mild day for late November, I take a walk around the grounds and revel in the silence of the unwordable forest. I stare at the gnarly bark on the trees and, pulling off my mitten, I reach out and finger the brown roughness. I am touching a tree! For maybe the first time in my life! I have an urge to hug the tree but there are
people around so I slip my hand back into my mitten and pat the tree in a loving sort of way.

I can’t wait for bedtime when I plan to slip into Michael’s room and share my bodily form with his on the broad plateau of silence. I want to spend the night wrapped up in his arms and then open up and feel his form press in wordless concord into mine.

As soon as the last bing-bong of lights out peals, I slipper down the hall and tap on Michael’s door. He cracks open the door. I have nothing on but a blanket and a smile. He still has his clothes on. And a frown.

I step into the room and close the door behind me. “I know I shouldn’t speak but I have to tell you how extraordinary this weekend has been for me. The unwordable word says it all. I had a huge revelation. I think I’ve reached a sort of turning point in my life.”

Michael heaves an unsilent sigh. He refuses to speak to me but his irritated expression clearly says, “Can’t this wait until the drive home?”

The form on form plan dissolves. I feel silly standing here naked under my blanket. I back out of the room and close the door extra quietly.

I return to my room feeling like a kid being sent to sit in a timeout. My bed feels cold and I’m shivering. I get up and put on socks and a hoodie. Why does Michael have to be so stuffy about this?

For the rest of the weekend it should be easy to maintain complete silence. Because I’m seriously pissed off.

I ignore the 5 a.m. bing-bong, the 6 a.m. bing-bong and the 7 a.m. bing-bong. In between bing-bongs, the only sound is the occasional rattle of my window frame from a gust of wintry wind. My cot is warm and cozy. My pillow is cool on my cheek. Now this is the kind of silent retreat I can get behind. I would stay tucked in bed except that it’s a long haul to lunchtime if I miss out on breakfast. I dress quickly and rush to table where I keep my eyes fastened on my plate and concentrate on mastication and swallowing.

Morning meditation on the bench slips by as my thoughts drift lazily through my mind. In the afternoon I peruse the notice board. There’s a sign-up sheet for a private interview with Greg so I add my name.

When my appointment time comes, I go and sit on a chair in his office. Greg is standing beside the window staring outside with a thoughtful expression. He turns to look at me, smiles, and waves me over to sit on a cushion. Quickly I take up my position. I rest my palms on my knees and then wonder if they should be in my lap. Do I keep my eyes lowered or what? Do I speak? I wish I had asked Michael about the proper procedure for private interviews.

Greg chuckles. “You’re taking this very seriously.” Then he reaches out and pats me on the head.

It’s the nicest feeling to be patted on the head by a little, bald, mirthful monk.

Greg spends the next few minutes arranging himself on his cushion and adjusting his sash. He scratches the back of his shoulder. “I’ve had trouble with eczema for years. I can’t get rid of it.”

Why is he telling me about his skin problems?

We sit in silence for another long minute while Greg scratches his other shoulder, and readjusts his sash. “Very itchy. Yes. Some things we can’t change. Whatever it is, better to accept it.”