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 not.
He just seems focused on getting the job done. Boy, at my centers we’re a lot friendlier. As trained 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
