From Bagels to Buddha. Judi Hollis
Challenged by my desire to get what I want when I want it, I set out to convince this monk I can make the grade.
That’s the only week I have free.
Doesn’t he realize what an important and busy person I am? My schedule is booked well over a year in advance. I appear regularly on all the national shows. As a recognized expert in counseling addicted families, I’m giving lectures and seminars throughout the country training medical professionals to treat bulimia, anorexia, and compulsive eating. Surely I needn’t beg to attend a workshop. And I have to work there, too? “Jewish psychologist begs Buddhist monk for chance to sell self into monastic slavery.” What is definitely wrong with this picture?
He should realize how lucky they are to have me. Why, if I like the place, I’ll recommend it to others. I could greatly improve their business.
I continue auditioning for this Queens-sounding monk whose title is “Guestmaster of the Abbey.” Respectfully, I work to enhance my cause, explaining my importance—a pioneering legend in my own mind.
“Reverend, sir, I created the nation’s first eating disorders unit. I’m author of the bestseller Fat Is a Family Affair. I direct thriving clinics in three states, and countless imitations are springing up all over the US. I teach people how their obsessions for excess food are really part of a larger hunger for a spiritual connection.”
I’m spiritual, by God!
I try impressing him with psychobabble. “You see, I know a lot about these matters. As a matter of fact, Carl Jung explained to Bill W, one of the cofounders of Alcoholics Anonymous, that understanding psychological causalities would not relieve spiritual hunger the way going inward and living spiritually could. He said addicts suffer ‘a hole in the soul.’ And that’s why I want to develop more spiritual practice.” I know he’ll agree to accept me; surely I have enough background to come in during the third week and catch up.
Instead of offering me the coveted “yes” right away, Reverend Kincaid responds softly, “I’ll send you further explanation of our practice and see if you feel you could benefit from it.”
Duly challenged, I set out to make it to the abbey. I operate from some inexplicable longing to fully immerse myself in meditation and contemplation (but only for one week). Why I choose this particular format is still a mystery. Why would an army brat who’d traveled the world long to be on a mountaintop in Northern California? Why here? Why now?
Reverend Kincaid grills me further. “You’ll notice that we have job assignments, known as samu, working meditation.”
“Oh, I know about such things. I’ve been training addiction counselors for decades, and I am a consultant to numerous treatment centers. At HOPE House, my own residential treatment center, new arrivals are given job responsibilities and are expected to produce and live up to their commitments. We’ve found that low self-esteem is quickly healed with successful completion of assigned tasks. I understand hard work. I won’t ‘wimp out’ on you. For now, I just want a chance to get away. I want to step down from my guru role and get out of the obligations of management. I don’t want to be the one with the answers. I want to be a newcomer—little know-nothing shmegegge.”
Assuring the Guestmaster of my willingness to meditate, my understanding of the concept of work as a meditative, therapeutic necessity, I still have to convince him I am spiritual.
“I’ve spent many years working with self-help groups; studied Gestalt and family therapy, psychodrama, psychosynthesis, transpersonal psychology, and est. I’ve made three sojourns throughout Southeast Asia and India, and I’ve even led retreats at Omega and Esalen institutes.”
Finally, Reverend Kincaid agrees to admit me to the third week of training without further objection. Little can he know how I will contrast with the other trainees at the abbey.
Okay, so I have hot pink nails and bright maroon hair. Cellophane hair colors are in. And, despite my appetite for spirituality, I still adore high fashion, glitzy bling-bling earrings, tight jeans, and a smattering of street talk. Why should I worry? Don’t monks believe in acceptance?
Winning the audition and finally getting my way, I forge ahead obsessively. After rearranging my schedule to get my hair permed before leaving, I begin worrying about my nails, so I pack rubber gloves. After all, my nail job costs almost as much as the entire week at this monastery.
In addition to my computer, CDs, and “nonscented” toiletries (as instructed), I separate out reading materials for the plane trips hither and yon. Abbey rules suggest reading only Buddhist literature while in residence. I have a healthy cache of magazines like Parade, Family Circle, and Drama-Logue for some escapist diversion going in and out of serenity city.
Thinking I’m getting away with something, I subvert abbey rules for moderate dress and no perfume or makeup by defiantly packing sexy lace underwear. I am still insisting on having it my way, making my decisions about what rules I will or will not follow.
I can’t go to the abbey without some trappings from home, so I pack CDs of old-time blues ladies wailing sexy songs. Despite whatever meditative brainwashing these monks might shower on me by day, I intend to retreat to my room at night under the canopy of raunchy blues to strut and grind the night away.
Of course, as ever, my major problem is “What to wear?” Abbey literature is quite specific. Meditation sessions of up to three hours require a long, full skirt of subdued color, so as not to disturb the meditative practice of others.
Their brochure suggests bringing various weights of blouses and sweaters, considering the highly unpredictable weather on the mountain. “Baggy jeans for work detail” are no problem, as are sleeping bag, toiletries, proper shoes, and heavy jacket. But no matter what I draw out of my closet, each item shines in bright neon compared to the quiet subtlety of Kincaid’s voice. My bright pinks, golds, oranges, and whites have been carefully selected to complement a perennial Southern California tan. “Subtle” is a word foreign to the “casual, nonprofessional” section of my closet.
I make one especially frantic call quizzing Kincaid. “Are flowers okay?”
That same lilting, slightly East Coast voice responds, “Why of course, as long as it’s not something terribly loud and garish, such as Hawaiian prints.”
Okay, back on the hanger goes my favorite purple, yellow, green, and gold Anne Pinkerton jungle print.
Doesn’t he understand that I live a bicoastal life, mostly in Manhattan Beach, California? We dress to play, not to pray.
I finally give in and buy a khaki-green full skirt, which matches a khaki sweater, and then I throw in my beige Western cowgirl skirt. I know that without the boots I’ll pass for spiritual rather than honky-tonk—cheap and superficial.
Prepared for all options, I’m quite proud when I manage to cram all into two “small” valises and a sleeping bag pouch. Only on the plane trip up do I reread the brochure to find “only one suitcase” is allowed. Dead in the water, I resolve to make it through a less-than-perfect week.
And that’s how I finally arrive—late and inappropriate.
•••
Ambling toward the chain-link fence is Reverend Kincaid, all towering six feet of him. I’m surprised. Aren’t monks supposed to be shorter and more gnomelike? His long brown robes and cape rustle toward me. His head looks funny. Shaved, but hair is partially grown out. I’ll later learn he’s preparing for a “home visit.” His large, round, brown eyes look away as he offers no gratuitous welcoming smile or greeting.
Doesn’t he know who I am?
He swings aside the rickety gate, dragging its rollers just enough for me and my bags to get through. This light, wobbly gate, easily moved to allow quick entry, doesn’t at all foretell the heaviness I’ll push against later. This man, whose gentle voice so scared me on the phone and who quietly, carefully, and repeatedly warned me, finally appears in the flesh. I’m so excited.
He’s