From Bagels to Buddha. Judi Hollis
treatment professionals, understanding how frightened incoming patients might be, we make sure they know they are entering a place where we know them, see them, and will take good care of them. Reverend Kincaid signals none of that. Instead of offering any reassuring politeness, he moves as if our mission is already written—that I am supposed to be there and that we are performing functions already prescribed and expected. There is no need to comment. He never really makes eye contact with me, but rather eyes my luggage. Helping me drag the two heavy valises down to the arrivals cottage, he never reminds me that the brochure recommends “bring only one bag.”
After sitting down for my formal introduction in the arrivals cottage, he asks, “Do you have any questions?”
I beam from the edge of my seat in all exuberance, shrugging. “No, not really. I’m so happy and excited to be here.”
Inhaling deeply, he reminds me that abbey rules prohibit makeup or perfumes.
I apologize. “Oh, this is all leftovers from the trip up here. I’ll be clean as a whistle as soon as I get to my room. I’ll change clothes, kick off the cowboy boots, and wash off all the perfume.”
His voice seems to boom gently, but ominously, “Yooooouuuuuu hhhhhaaaaaaaaaaavvve noooooooooo rrroooooooooommmmm.”
I let it pass.
He turns me over to Reverend Muldoon, whose head sprouts strawberry-blonde stubble. As she gives me a tour of the grounds, she explains gassho, which is a formal bowing with hands folded firmly and flatly, thumbs together toward chest, fingers heavenward. “You will practice gassho respectfully, acknowledging those people, places, or things appreciated.”
She doesn’t really know who I am. I’ve been around spirituality camps for years. I know gassho. I’ve been observing Dürer’s famous “praying hands” plastered just above the Serenity Prayer on greeting cards or dangling as lockets and charms around the necks of countless twelve-step members.
She demonstrates a few of the required and suggested opportunities for bowing. “You will bow entering and leaving certain buildings. Eating halls and bathrooms are cause for special bowing in gratitude. Without question, you will bow entering and leaving the temple, and definitely when facing the large Buddha statue, along with a number of other shrines around the property. Just follow the practice of other trainees. They will model for you correct behaviors. Buddhism is about being respectful to every living thing and trying to do no harm.
“In our processions, the lead monk carries a walking stick topped by a small bell that tinkles slightly. This is to warn bugs on the path to move aside, so as not to be trampled by the oncoming slippers.
“Everyone works and has purpose here at the abbey. Even little children are assigned the job of sweeping bugs gently off the path. If any bug meets an inadvertent early demise, funeral services are performed immediately.”
Geez, I wonder if she knows I massacred a lowly cockroach last week.
“As part of being respectful to all living things, our living code, called “precepts,” recommends that we remain mindful and pay attention and have consciousness about what we do and what effects our actions create. At the same time, we strive to proceed in an unselfconscious manner, losing ourselves in action. Life must be lived as a meditation. In meditation, we are to neither hold on nor push away, taking a gentle, neutral stance. We also try to behave in a way that will not embarrass or offend ourselves or others.
“For example,” she continues, now facing me with direct eye contact, “Your blouse, although quite acceptable in your world, might be a bit low-cut for our standards here at the abbey. We do not call attention to anything that would disturb the meditative practice of others.”
Boy, her smock seems awfully lightweight, and when she stands in the sun it looks like she wears no underwear.
Instead of casting these pearls, I quickly assure her, “As soon as I get to my room, I’ll change into something more appropriate.”
“Yooooouuuuuu hhhhhaaaaaaaaaaavvve noooooooooo rrroooooooooommmmm,” she says, echoing Kincaid, as she leads me back to the guest cottage where bags are neatly stowed.
This “no room” line has a menacing echo to it.
Still, I let it pass.
As we arrive at the guest cottage, Reverend Muldoon further explains, “Your bags will be stored in the luggage room for the duration of your stay. You will have personal space in the bathhouse to store any articles of immediate need.”
She shows me my personal space: three shelves, each measuring four inches by six inches.
My name is emblazoned smartly above each cigar-box- sized cubicle. It is immediately and abundantly clear that I’ll be making numerous treks from luggage room to bathhouse. But where will I sleep?
No time for that.
Being such a novice, I’m taken to Reverend Penelope for meditation instruction.
“You mean you are brand-new and you’ve come in the middle of a three-week retreat?” she asks, intimating it might be difficult for me.
“Well, this was the only time I could get away,” I answer importantly, “and I wanted to fully immerse myself in the experience. I work in the field.”
By now I seem to be embarrassing myself with every word. My “field” might just be a pasture where I’m already knee-deep in cow pies.
Glad she doesn’t ask for an explanation, I continue jabbering. “I feel like a sponge soaking everything up for the first time.”
“Ah, we call that ‘beginner’s mind,’ which makes you quite receptive, and you will learn a great deal.”
I’m now bug-eyed as Penelope proceeds with her lessons. In some twelve-step programs, “beginner’s mind” is referred to as “newcomer eyes.” They resemble a deer caught in headlights. Lending me a meditation skirt, as there is no time to unpack my own, she shows me the suggested meditative practice. “The round pillow, zafu, is often used to facilitate sitting in the lotus position: legs folded upon each other so that one’s spine is fully supported and free for consciousness to enter or leave the body. Some find the meditation stool easier and others sit straight on an elevated backless bench.”
She demonstrates all options.
“Which is best?” I inquire.
“None is best. It’s just important to find what works for you.”
I figure, Anyone worth her salt should pull a lotus.
Determined to become expert with my first attempt at meditation, I go for the zafu. Penelope asks me to get in position so she can help me find the proper breathing and muscle tone. I quickly hop onto the zafu, but find that my folded knees don’t touch the floor.
Penelope, ever so kindly, suggests that I try using the stool. “It allows leaning back in a kneeling position.” More Christian than Buddhist, I think. I decide to shut up and listen as I surmise I’ve already flunked Meditation 101.
I absentmindedly accept the stool and don’t even wait to notice how it feels. I just know I won’t resort to any elevated cop-out. I want total immersion. No matter what coach, I won’t be benched.
“You’ll have time after dinner to unpack a few things,” Reverend Penelope instructs as she directs me to the temple where meditation is due to begin.
Now my head races, recalling explanations in the Guest Information brochure.
Wow, a lot of each day is spent staring blankly at a bare white wall. I might have bitten off more than even a well-heeled compulsive overeater can swallow.
Panic arises as I realize I might find difficulty sitting for a full week of zazen meditation. My mind races quickly, remembering the schedule Kincaid sent. There will be six meditation sessions each day separated by three different work assignments, one or two classes, and two quiet reading periods. There will also be two brief chances