Sweden, or Hong Kong to come to the Mecca of eating disorder treatment, HOPE House, Hollywood. I empathized with their disappointment and fear of facing themselves and their lives. I understand now exactly what was going on. After all, I am a therapist. Even so, I still want out.
I remember there were those few crazed patients who ran off in the middle of the night, then called us next day from hotel rooms, pleading to return to treatment. I now clearly understand what they meant when they cried, “I don’t know why I ran. I just had to get away.” The open-door policies of Shasta Abbey and HOPE House are both a blessing and an equal curse. I’d welcome more restrictions to limit my choices.
I’d like to be bound and gagged to enlightenment, please.
When morning comes, I hurry out to the north woods of the abbey, hoping to question myself one more time to finally come to some decision. Each minute I vacillate. One second I have firm resolve to stick it out, trusting in possible future benefits; then, in an instant, I reverse course, clamoring, “Who needs this? This is a real waste of time. This place works for some displaced sixties hippies, but what do their choices have to do with my life?”
Reverend Kincaid meets up with me on the path. I look in his eyes and start to cry. “I want to stay. I just don’t think I can.”
He answers simply, “Anyone can. You first need to resolve if you want to. If you want to, then you can. Just do your best. That’s all anyone can do. In Buddhism we say, ‘begin at once and do your best.’”
Such clarity.
His simple statement bores softly into my heart as the pine needles rustle a bit in the still morning calm. My crying stops as I face him and myself.
Of course, what else could I do but my best? What else can anyone do? Who cares, anyway? Who’s watching or evaluating? Judge Judi’s the only judge in the room. No one else notices. No one cares. This experience is totally for me.
But I just want my own room, a little privacy, a little chance to think or write alone. I want, I want, I want . . . a chance to hear Bessie Smith’s bluesy wail.
Ladies who sing the blues know how to fight. So do I. Why don’t these monks try to fight to convince me to stay? Battling is easy. I already have good arguments: Didn’t they see how ill-prepared I was and how it was all their fault? I know whom to blame. If they would have just told me about all this bowing.
My self-justification looms up with “It’s their disorganization that worries me.”
I want control. I want to handle it. I want a guarantee. I want ice cream. I want to know that I won’t change and this place will not affect me. I want. I want. I want.
I recall how much I’d looked forward to this week with such enthusiasm and excitement.
Couldn’t I recapture some of that spirit of adventure, go ahead and accept their structure, but not necessarily lose myself? Can’t I hold on to some of my discerning eye and maintain perspective? Why not make the most of it? I can stop feeling so responsible, blaming myself for “choosing” to be here. Hell, I don’t even know how or why I’d received the brochure.
As the initial wave of fear begins to subside, I feel such love from these monks. I’m clearly not afraid of them or their rules; I’m afraid of me. What might I learn about me? I have met the enemy and she looks like me.
With no one to fight, the answer comes slowly but clearly.
I face Reverend Kincaid with no tears, just a straight stare of confidence and a determined tone in my voice. “I’ll stay.”
I’ll apply the same principle that has kept my food in order for many years: “One day at a time.” If it becomes unbearable, I’ll just pack up and move on. Just for today, I can take it. I am willing to stay for one full day.
Countdown begins . . .
My first morning. I arrive early at the bare-bones dining hall. All trainees line up alongside steel tables surrounded by folding chairs. A soft bell sounds and pandemonium ensues. Chairs screeching along the flagstone floor disturb my early-morning stupor. Once we’re all seated, the din subsides as bowls are passed with silent gasshos.
Breakfast is cardboard.
Tears keep streaming down my cheeks while I chew laboriously, staring blankly. Who cares about food at a time like this? Meals at the abbey are eaten in silence with accompanying rituals and prayers, and, of course, bows. In this environment of love and honesty, openness and respect, all I can do is cry.
Stop crying.
Finish up.
Bow to your plate.
Scrape leftovers into the “compost” can.
Bow to it.
Scurry over to the “job assignments” monk.
Bow to him.
He finds my name on his clipboard and says, “Construction. Go see Reverend Joel.”
After perfunctory introductions, Reverend Joel walks me over to a ditch and describes my task. I’m ditchdigger for the maintenance department.
“Dig down past these electrical wires to find where the water pipe makes an ‘L’ turn. When you find that, ask me for further instructions.”
Thank Buddha I’m assigned a loner job. I need time to think. Since only minimal talking is allowed during work periods anyway, it doesn’t much matter. Work is supposed to be done as a form of meditation.
Reverend Joel gives not one second to demonstration, but hands me the pickaxe and shovel, and smiles with a slight bow and a whispered “get to work.” I try the shovel first, and the damn ground is hardened clay.
No wonder he left without demonstration.
I grab the pickaxe, raise it up over my back, and swing with all my might. Clunk! It hits the ground and sends shock waves up my arms and down my back. It’s a bit titillating. I swing again and crash into the hardened soil. With each swing, I breathe in a great gulp of air and blow out what seems like endless waves of emotional pain. It is exhilarating and cathartic. Hardened bedrock within me dislodges as my ditch widens.
Finally, I have loosened enough earth to begin shoveling. A rhythm develops as I crouch down, shovel in, lift, and hurl the dirt. I’m Paul Bunyan, swinging and puffing and breathing in the pine scent as I blow out great stores of repressed energy.
I can’t stay with the flow of my body for long, as my head resumes its worrying.
Great that I brought those rubber gloves. I had no idea I’d be doing such difficult physical labor.
I get instant calluses anyway.
If I develop too many muscles, will my rings still fit? I’ve planned well, but still, what will I do if a nail breaks?
But can’t complain.
Can’t talk.
Alternating
