a noticeable New York accent. I sense his hesitancy.
“What brings you to call us? What is your experience with Buddhism or meditation?”
“Well, Reverend Kincaid, sir, I became a therapist to figure out why I ate. Some of the things I learned were so depressing that I ate over them. Though I believe I am a gifted therapist, I find my relationship with food is best when I stop trying to figure it out and instead consult my stillness within. I eventually found that spiritual principles helped me more than intellect.
“So I found your brochure and I am drawn to this ‘Life of the Buddha’ retreat. It says here in your brochure, ‘The Buddha lived a daily life facing unjust criticism, envy, mistakes in judgment, and exhaustion.’ Well, both the Buddha and I have similar struggles,” I pompously state.
“But why Buddhism?” “Well, I’ve been following Baba Ram Dass since the 1960s.”
I wonder if Reverend Kincaid knows that Ram Dass is a spiritual leader who dropped acid with Timothy Leary, gave up his name of Richard Alpert along with the status of Harvard professor, and dedicated himself to traveling to and from India while transforming America’s youth.
“Ram Dass taught us to let go and consult our own souls for direction, but he also advised us to live spiritual principles in everyday life. Just because we commune with the Gods and Goddesses is no reason not to know our postal zip code.”
Pleading into the receiver, I beg Reverend Kincaid to let me sign up. “I know it’s a three-week workshop, but I can only get away for the last week. I’m sure I can catch up.”
As usual, I wanted special permission, offering, “My case is different. I deserve special consideration.”
Reverend Kincaid responds kindly, “I appreciate your interest, but I suggest you first attend an introductory workshop. Or perhaps you would benefit more from the beginner’s week-long retreat that focuses on basic teachings and practice.”
Doesn’t he understand? I can’t get away so easily. I’m booked!
“It will be too much for you to plop into the third week of training with no background. Others already there will be way ahead of you and it will be difficult for you to catch up.”
He concludes with “Let me send you our informational packet for you to consider what’s in store.”
When the “Guest Information” packet arrives, I read it over hurriedly along with the “Introduction to Soto Zen” and immediately call again. In my zeal, I dismiss the brochure’s caution that in the beginning attendees “experience some difficulty with specific aspects of training.”
Not applicable to me.
As he answers my call, Reverend Kincaid returns once again to his initial query about how I’d received the brochure. “We just don’t have an extensive mailing list,” he sniffs.
I know he senses the absence of incense in my voice.
“Have you ever meditated before?” he grills.
Knowing my answer may now disqualify me, I quickly lie, “I have meditated intermittently, and have a deep spiritual consciousness.” I hope he won’t ask me what that means. I can’t honestly say.
My quick lie sounds good to me. My “meditations” are often brief interludes when I space out watching cars pass by my window or while I’m looking out at waves breaking on the shore.
More often, however, I spend meditation time in “monkey mind,” busy with planning, manipulating, decorating, investigating, arguing, justifying, or daydreaming. No matter how brief or unfocused these episodes, I am sure they qualify me to be on some imagined meditation checklist. Determined as I am to get accepted, my further entreaties to Reverend Kincaid mimic the best college fullback’s melodrama:
“Let me at ’em, coach.”
“Just this once for the Buddha!”
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.
