There’s no sense in spinning stories in my head. There are no answers to be had in this moment.
“Jennifer, come on inside.”
I open my eyes and turn to see Trudy greeting me with a smile, her hair lightly frizzed with an airy bounce.
I pop up from my seat. “I’m so sorry—I literally lost my mind and completely lost track of time. Did I miss our session?”
She continues smiling as she holds the screen door open for me. Her presence is gentle. Delicate, but strong. Her voice is light.
“Well, the schedule’s a bit off. I didn’t write down who was to see me when, so I’m kind of winging it here. But it’s all just fine. You’re here now. I’m so glad you made it.”
I step inside, and she sits down on a folding chair in the center of the room. I take the seat facing her. Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep breath and exhale a huge sigh of relief.
It all worked out. I’m OK. Everything’s OK.
“So, you literally went out of your mind then? You took my advice!”
I open my eyes and see her face beaming back at me.
“Well, yes, I suppose…I don’t think I just went out of my mind, though. I feel like I totally lost it.” I start tearing up.
She passes me a box of tissues, and the tears start flowing.
“I think it’s one of my biggest hurdles in my practice—being OK with losing my mind. Because see what happens when I do?”
“Ah, well there’s a difference between losing our minds and stepping outside of them, isn’t there?”
I consider this for a beat and then chuckle to myself. “Ha—you’re right. I guess I didn’t actually lose it.”
“And everything’s fine as it is right now, isn’t it?”
I take a moment to consider this. Taking in the fact that everything is, indeed, fine in this moment.
“Yes…yes it is.” I say, acknowledging the truth of the statement. “But I still have a huge fear of letting go of my mind—even of just briefly stepping outside it.”
She leans in, her face a gentle balance of comfort and concern. “Do you have any idea why you’re so afraid?”
I relay my experience during Howie’s guided meditation, when I found such a profound stillness in my body that I no longer felt my form. I also tell her about the rush of energy that shot up through my body and made me feel as if I were about to “take off.”
“That’s beautiful,” she says, resting lightly back in her chair.
“Yes, I suppose,” I say. “But it reminds me of these recurring, out-of-body experiences I had as a child that terrified me.”
“And you remembered these experiences during the meditation?”
“Yes. I think there’s part of me that’s terrified to fully let my mind go because those experiences used to be so frightening. I just remember this vast, dark nothingness…this void. And I feel like I need help moving past this now. I want to be able to fully let go. I have such incredible dreams sometimes in which I’m formless—they’re always so exhilarating and beautiful. Never frightening.”
More tears. I reach over to the tissue box and grab another one.
“You’ll be able to get there. You’re capable. It will happen. You just need to feel safe enough to do it. You’re going to have a very deep practice, you know. You’re just in the beginning.” She extends another tissue toward me.
I take the tissue and look down at it, realizing our time is winding down. “Do you think this is something you might be able to help me work through?”
“Well, I don’t take on private students. But I do teach at Insight LA on Sunday mornings when I’m in town. We can speak there after, if you’d like. And if you want to leave a note for me on the bulletin board while you’re still here, you can. I’ll respond before I leave. Loving kindness is a good practice for creating safety for you, by the way.”
“Yes. I practice it regularly, and it’s amazing.”
I stand up. Wipe the last tears from my eyes.
“Thank you so much. It’s actually my fortieth birthday today, and being here is the best present I could have ever given myself.”
“Well, isn’t that wonderful that you did this for yourself. Happy birthday, dear!”
She stands up and gives me a gentle hug before opening the screen door to show me out.
Roger, from our small group, is waiting outside, and as we pass each other, I catch a quick glimpse of his baby blues before turning back to Trudy.
“Thank you, again.”
Making my way toward the meditation hall, my heart floods with relief. Feeling so grateful. So alive. Yet another lesson in learning how to let go. Another lesson in self-compassion.
(Smiling. Smiling.)
—
Back at the meditation hall, I write Trudy a short note, thanking her for our meeting and asking if she can recommend any books or other resources to help me face my fear of fully letting go.
I pin my note to the bulletin board and then decide to continue taking the rest of the day fairly easy. I attend all the sitting meditations but decide to explore the resort grounds during walking periods.
Strolling through the desert’s vast landscape, I reflect on how far I’ve traveled over the past forty years, contemplating the many hardships I’ve faced and managed to overcome: losing my mother to cancer when we were both so young; being in—and then finding the strength to leave—an abusive relationship; overcoming a ten-year-long dependency on prescription medication, marijuana, and alcohol.
For the first time in my life, I actually feel no regret. No pity for myself for any of the “Shit” I’ve been through. No blame. No shame. Pain has been my biggest teacher. I am—literally—walking this very path now because of it.
Mindfulness is my way of life. There’s no going back.
—
It’s 8:45 p.m. The evening’s talk with Wes Nisker has just ended, an entertaining and enlightening address, weaving Buddhist philosophy with everything from quantum physics to the latest scientific theories about the big bang, the nature of the universe, and the evolution of life itself.
I’m sitting on my cushion, surrounded by a plethora of scattered personal objects butting dangerously up against the implied boundaries of my fellow practitioners’ meditation spaces. Said personal objects include:
two sweatshirts
two blankets
three cushions (of various sizes)
a water bottle
my journal
three pens
countless balled-up (snot-and-tear-filled) tissues
Glancing down, I recognize the scene to be a rather unusual one—the predictably buttoned-up, orderly, and tidy “me” seems to be on hiatus.
LOOK AT THIS MESS; MY CRAP’S SPRAWLED OUT EVERYWHERE WITH NO REGARD FOR ANYONE ELSE. I MUST LOOK LIKE SUCH AN ASSHOLE.
I start feeling uncomfortable about “letting myself go,” focusing on how it seems to be manifesting less in the “spiritual” sense and more in the “I’m turning into a self-centered slob” kinda way.
(Self-Judging. Self-Judging.)
I’m about to stand up and start straightening my things when I see a hand holding a note slide under my face.
The note’s yellow. I register the hand to be a woman’s. And all I read is “Please…” before I launch straight into “worry” mode. My mind starts reeling, and a rush of adrenaline shoots up from the center of my stomach, grabbing hold of my chest.
SHIT! SOMEONE’S PISSED. THEY’RE PASSING ME A NOTE TO TELL ME I DID SOMETHING WRONG.
A split second later, I hear a woman’s voice and look up to see Trudy’s smiling face leaning down above me.
“Please stop by my apartment right after this, like in three minutes. OK?”
She releases the note in my hand as I nod in response. I’m feeling a slight sense of relief. And definite confusion.
Cue more racing thoughts as Trudy darts off. But I’m not worrying as much this time as I am fantasizing.
WHY DO
ES SHE WANT TO SEE ME? I BET SHE HAS ADVICE FOR ME ABOUT HOW TO DEAL WITH MY FEAR…MAYBE SHE THOUGHT IT’D BE EASIER TO TELL ME INSTEAD OF WRITE A NOTE BACK TO ME…OR MAYBE SHE CHANGED HER MIND ABOUT TAKING ON PRIVATE STUDENTS BECAUSE SHE RECOGNIZES HOW DEDICATED I AM!
(Fantasizing. Fantasizing.)
Racing to gather my things, I rush outside, slip on my sandals, and scoot off through the cactus garden’s dimly lit pathway toward Trudy’s cabin, my mind still spinning fantastical stories.
But, just as I reach her screen door, I stop suddenly.
Looking inside, I see the familiar cascades of my roommate’s fiery red hair. She’s seated with her back to me. And Trudy’s sitting in front of her.
WHAT’S HAPPENING? WHY IS MY ROOMMATE IN THERE? I THOUGHT TRUDY WANTED TO TALK TO ME.
My Shit festering, I just stand there, nervously nibbling on my nails. Unsure what to do, I can feel my mind trying to guess all the possible things that could be happening. But I quickly stop myself and take a few deep breaths.
In…
Out…
In…
Out…
I have no idea what’s happening, so I should just take a step back. Let go of all the stories. I’ll get more information soon. I’ve been in this position before. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.
I turn to face the cool desert night. Enveloped by the sound of crickets chirping all around me. Tiny points of light twinkling above. And within moments, I hear:
“Jennifer, just a minute!”
Trudy darts out the screen door and heads toward the back of her car, parked a few feet away from me. She opens the trunk, reaches in and grabs something. Then darts over to me and puts it in my hands.
I’m holding onto it before I’m even clear what it is.
“Happy birthday, Jennifer. Forty’s a big one!”
I look down to see a small potted yellow rose bush in my hands. Covered in glitter.
I’m stunned. Confused. Slightly disappointed that my fantasy hadn’t turned into a reality. Yet, at the same time, so completely touched by her gesture.
“Thank you.” My hand touches my heart. I don’t know what else to say. My mind’s still trying to wrap itself around what just happened.
She gives me a hug. Then another smile. And then she disappears back into her cabin as quickly as she appeared.
Trudy bought me a birthday present. She went out and actually bought me a birthday present.
Tears start rolling down my cheeks as my mind lets go of trying to comprehend what happened and allows my body to simply feel touched by Trudy’s thoughtfulness.
Standing there, holding the tiny pot of roses in my hand, I turn and start walking back toward the meditation hall for the final sit of the evening—the final sit of my birthday.
Making my way through the cactus garden, I pause for a few moments to gaze up into the sky. Listening to the crickets chirping. Watching the stars twinkling. Wes’s talk from earlier echoing in my head.
Contemplating the mystery of life in this vast universe, I finally start feeling like I’m finding my place in it all.
Best. Birthday. Ever.
Saturday, May 11
Day Eight
I wake up before the tingsha bells to notice my throat’s feeling significantly worse. The sharp, stabbing pain is more severe when I swallow. But, instead of focusing on the discomfort and magnifying it in my mind, I choose to do my best to withstand it—or stand with it—this time.
OK, this totally sucks. But it is what it is. Wishing I felt differently isn’t going to help me right now. The pain will shift over time. Take it moment to moment. Try not to focus on it.
Taking it slowly, I quietly get dressed, careful not to wake my roommate. And then I head out to the dining hall to grab a cup of hot tea before the 6:00 a.m. meditation.
Walking in the brisk morning air, bundled up in two layers of hoodies, I arrive at the hall to find a throng of fellow early risers standing out on the patio waiting for the sunrise. Eager to catch the show, I quickly pour myself a steaming mug of tea and head out to join them.
Mesmerized, we all stand separate. But together. Sharing the silence. Admiring the sky’s brilliant bursts of peach and dusty rose as we sip from our cafeteria mugs. The reverence feels palpable. The sun’s sliver of golden light warms our hearts as it peeks up from behind the mountainous horizon, rising higher and higher into the desert’s morning sky.
DING. DING…
The morning bell breaks the reverie. And I join the scattered crowd as we start walking toward the meditation hall.
Inside the hall’s foyer, I check the bulletin board to see that Trudy left me an answer to my note about how to handle my fear of fully letting go. Eager to see her response, I unpin the small yellow paper and read it as I head into the hall and take my seat.
Read the passage on “The Dark Night of the Soul” in Jack Kornfield’s book, A Path with Heart.
—Trudy
I chuckle silently to myself.
That’s one of the books I’ve been reading for my UCLA program. How perfect.
DING…
The meditation bell signals the beginning of our morning sit. I tuck Trudy’s note into my journal, close my eyes and settle. But despite my attempt to sit with the pain in my throat, my meditation feels labored and interminable.
I do my best to just let myself “be” with my discomfort, acknowledging it without bearing down on it. I redirect my attention back to my breath every time I start wishing I was feeling better. But it isn’t easy.
DING. DING…
My eyes pop open. It feels like I’ve been meditating for eons. My body, along with my throat, is seriously aching now, and all I want to do is collapse into a comfortable chair and rest.
So I decide to do just that.
Sitting at my favorite spot by the fountain, bare feet propped up on the cool slabs of flat rock, I close my eyes and feel the sun’s warm embrace. My body starts to soften. My mind unwinds. And within minutes, the soothing trickle of the water lulls me into a deep state of relaxation.
Then, just like that, I’m transported back to the babbling brook behind the house where I grew up in rural New Hampshire.
I’m standing there in the middle of the dense forest. Feeling so connected. So free.
Just me. The brook. The towering birch trees. The rocks. The moss. The wild flowers. The insects and the animals.
Each of us separate.
But together.
Sharing the silence.
—
It’s around 4:00 p.m. All the meditation instructors are seated at the front of the room. We have just finished the 3:30 sit. Despite taking it fairly easy, my throat’s still hurting, and I’m still feeling achy. Jack’s in the middle of explaining how the silence is about to be broken briefly to help prepare us for reintegrating into the “real” world.
And I’m noticing how much resistance I have to this idea.
SERIOUSLY? I ACTUALLY HAVE TO TALK TO THESE PEOPLE? IT’S BEEN SO NICE NOT HAVING TO INTERACT WITH ANYONE. I SO DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO DO THIS.
(Resistance. Resistance.)
We’re being instructed to turn to a person sitting next to us and, for the next three minutes, gently talk about anything that comes to mind as the other person listens without interrupting. And then we’ll switch.
OK, it’s only a six-minute exercise. I can do this.
I turn to face the woman behind me—thin, forty-something, with dirty-blond hair and a tanned, weathered face.
We smile awkwardly at each other for a few moments before she opens her mouth.
“You can go first,” she says.
I just sit there for a beat, staring back at her. Thinking:
I REALLY DON’T WANT TO TALK RIGHT NOW.
Then noting:
Wow, I’m completely attached to staying in the silence. Maybe I can let go of that and give this exercise a shot. This isn’t just about me.
I look down at my hands and try to colle
ct my thoughts for a few more beats. The only thing that comes to mind is how sick I’ve been feeling. So I share this with my partner—all the suffering I felt in the beginning of the retreat, how I started to feel better for a few days and how I’m starting to feel worse again but seem to be dealing with the pain much better.
And then I share about my fortieth birthday, and how happy I am that I gave this retreat experience to myself. As I’m sharing this, my heart swells and tears start flowing—tears of gratitude. Of relief. Of joy.
I grab a tissue from my pocket, noticing a pang of self-judgment and self-consciousness for crying in front of a complete stranger to whom I’ve been talking for a total of only three minutes.
DING. DING…
“OK, time to switch.” Jack attempts to hush the crowd as everyone around us keeps chatting away.
The room settles for a few moments before the hum of chatter starts rising again. I look up at my partner to see red eyes and tears rolling down her cheeks as she looks back at me.
I pass her one of my tissues. And a smile. She bows.
“Thank you for sharing; I’m so sorry to hear you’ve been in so much pain. And I’m so touched you gave this retreat to yourself for your birthday. My life began at forty.”
Despite my partner’s kind words, and the opportunity to connect with a compassionate soul, I find myself retreating back into myself.
As she continues talking, my body starts tensing up. My mind starts grabbing onto how much I don’t want to be doing this exercise. I do my best to remain present with her, but I don’t really want to be listening to her—or anyone—right now.
DING. DING…
“OK, time to stop,” Jack says, moving the bell aside.
I manage to eke out a smile to acknowledge my partner for sharing, and then quickly turn back to the comfort of staring at the back of everyone’s head.
The room’s loud buzz quiets to a low hum and eventual silence as Jack makes a few more announcements and then explains we can talk freely for the rest of the evening until the 9:00 p.m. sit, after which we’ll be back in silence until the final break midmorning tomorrow. He also encourages us to start making eye contact again.
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