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 to rest—to be used for showering, gift shop, or phone calls.
Each different activity will require costume changes from work to eating, to class, or to meditation clothes. I’ll be doing heavy trekking to the storage room to accommodate all the required costume changes. This does not even account for weather changes. Abbey climate in June necessitates more wardrobe changes than an elaborate Broadway musical.
What have I gotten myself into?
No time to consider such trifles now. I must hurry up to relax into meditation.
As I hightail it up to the temple, the cloisters are filled with monks scurrying to new locations. I have no idea how difficult navigation will be as I walk up the incline for each activity and costume change.
No dawdling on the path is allowed. Silence is preferred, with necessary conversation kept at whisper pitch. Leisurely strolls filled with polite chitchat about weather, meals, and such do not exist. Abbey time is to be spent going within and staying centered.
If you pass another on the path, you can offer gassho to acknowledge contact. That’s it. No talking, smiling, indicating, or performing. Just hello and goodbye.
A vague sense of loneliness and fear begins to creep up within me. No time to think of that now. I bravely embrace Scarlett O’Hara’s philosophy of thinking about “it” tomorrow.
However, my tomorrow arrives quite ahead of schedule.
I hurry to the temple, bowing at two shrines on the way. Depositing my cowboy boots alongside a neatly placed lineup of healthy hiking sandals, I swing open the heavy iron-handled door to enter the temple.
Inside it is cold, dark, and damp compared to the bright, airy sunlight I’ve just run through. I can barely make out the other trainees seated along the periphery. All are lined up and seated, facing white walls. Reverend Kincaid had advised, “When in doubt, just follow the practice of others and you’ll catch on.” A tall, lanky, bearded man in a white skirt directly ahead of me bows to the room, bows to the fifty-foot Buddha statue, and then quietly walks to the other side
