Fairy Tale Blues (39 page)

Then I remembered my new training: cling to nothing, everything changes, all living things suffer, have compassion. I looked up, and the stinker was watching me from a branch with his little seed-shaped eyes, my mushroom in his paws.

“Hell, you can have it. Don't want you to starve.” Then I quickly glanced around to see if anyone caught me breaking silence. With a squirrel.

The bell rang for sitting meditation and I sent the squirrel
metta,
which is Pali for “loving kindness,” and headed for the lodge. Back on my cushion, I thought of how this began. Three weeks ago I overheard some people in the store talking about a Vipassana retreat and it actually rang my bells—to make a bad retreat pun. This is it, I said to myself. Ten days of being alone, in silence, no distractions, getting it all figured out, just thinking about my life.

First thing I learned was that we were not supposed to be thinking at all. That was not meditation. If I'd gotten it right, meditation was sitting in stillness, as if “beside a river,” Luke told us. “A river of thought, sensation, emotion.” Focus on the breath, let the river flow by, do not engage in it. Vipassana, another Pali word meaning “insight meditation,” was a form of Buddhism that emphasized a kind of intuitive knowing, a thing I could find handy right now. So here I was: knees kinked, feet tucked into my crotch, back ramrod straight, hands curled on my thighs, head racing with menus, conversations with Annie, stories from my past that ran on circular tapes, just repeating themselves over and over. Little things surfaced and I got pissed off at total strangers from the past; somebody who boisterously called for their money back at the end of their vacation after skiing in our brand-new gear, bought when they first arrived. Then I got furious at the credit card companies that backed up bums like that, plus charged
our store
extra when their own cheap cards wore out and
we
had to manually punch the numbers in. I sat here on my cushion, my zafu, steamed at these people. I got hot and antsy, and everything itched as I argued in my head, knowing I was right, and they were wrong.

Breathe, for God's sake. Shut up and breathe. Just let it all go: the cheap bum, the credit card company. Let it go.

 

I shocked myself during my personal interview with Luke Trapper, our teacher. I told him about letting my mom die when I was a kid. I choked up, too. And this, after he told the whole circle that others were trained to help with our stories; he could help us with our meditation.

Luke and I were alone in the small library of the hunting club, each on straight chairs angled toward each other. Beside us on a round table sat a lit candle, a box of tissues and a clock. Luke scheduled individual time with each participant. He listened to my story with soft eyes.

“Stuff like this comes up when we sit with ourselves. It's important work. Let it come,” he said.

“My wife left,” I blurted. Geez, was I going to tell him the size of my underwear? “She loves me, but she left. I don't know how this is connected, but I think it is.”

Luke said, “Your story is more than a difficult memory; the enormity of the grief impressed you as a young four-year-old boy with such force that the pattern of behavior—falling asleep in one form or another—likely has formed a template for your life.”

Luke checked my eyes with this comment and saw the affirmation in them. It was true. In fact, right then, instead of talking about this more, I felt a strong urge to space out.

Luke went on. “Notice this desire to disconnect. Acknowledge it. And when the memory of your mother's death arises, accept the emotions that arise with it. Be aware of how your body feels and give attention to the desire to escape the feelings. If you'd like to stop this memory from chasing you, this is a good, safe place to let it catch you.”

I said, “For a guy who claims not to know how to work with our stories, you're sure working with mine.”

“There are many ways we fall asleep,” Luke said. “We over-schedule, watch a lot of TV, play computer games, read spy novels—my personal favorite,” he said, and laughed. “Some eat too much, drink too much. You could say our culture more than any other excels in offering a vast array of avenues to avoid waking up. None of these things are bad or wrong, but the use of them in order to avoid life is damaging.”

He suggested, since I had acknowledged this pattern in my life, that I give it a little bow of honor and return to just sitting with the awareness of it. Any other kind of work was for later, for inquiry, for the inner work of getting to know myself. A retreat was for gaining intuitive insight from the quiet mind.

“Just sit with this,” Luke said again.

So I sat with it.

Did I mention that we sat nine times a day? Annie would not believe this.

 

Things went pretty well the second half of the retreat. Except one morning I woke with the old song “Delta Dawn” in my head and couldn't get rid of it all day: “Del-ta-ah Dawn, what's that—hum-hum—you got on?”

I didn't even know the words, but I started making some up during the day. Hour after hour, singing in my head and making rhymes. Finally, I remembered to notice my breathing and the tune passed on.

Hard to describe but the last couple days of the retreat something inside me felt more . . . maybe the word was “organized.” That was the only label that explained the calmness and orderliness inside my mind. It was as if a landslide had occurred years ago, early in my life, blocking the path ahead. During the retreat, boulders and stones, sand and dirt, broken trees and bruised plants incrementally moved on down the mountainside, eventually rolling into the river I sat beside, watching. A narrow path at my feet was cleared. The ease in my mind and body brought relief and gratitude.

Most of all I moved through my days with a new spaciousness in my head. My chest felt full, in a nice way, a soft swirl of feeling. Didn't know what that was about.

So head empty, heart full, I was still pretty sure I was the overgrown ski bum I had always been. Yet by the end of the retreat, I'd come a long way from that first weekend. The last day I teared up like every other person when my turn came to hold the talking stick, actually an elk antler, decorated with a turquoise stone, feathers and wrapped with rawhide. This was Jackson Hole, after all—got to get the cowboy-and-Indian thing in. That was closing council and we were to pass the talking stick and say a few things, if we liked, about our experience.

One guy said he was going to pay for two spots next time so he could eat twice as much food; he thought it was so delicious. Another said he kept expecting our teacher Luke to detach, create some distance between himself and the rest of us, but—here the fellow choked up and had to regain his voice—Luke never did, was always right there, available. I choked up then, too. That was a typical guy's experience with other men, especially leaders of any kind, including fathers—detachment. The Kleenex box got passed around the circle on that one.

I was relieved to hear one woman talk about how much she sometimes wanted to jump up halfway through a sit and snatch the gong to end it. I was embarrassed to confess how much of my own time was spent imagining the same thing.

But for me—and I said this out loud—it was being left on my own with people all around but no one to impress, no reason to act in any special way, no approval to seek, no need to make a story to explain anything. Me. Without a story. Now that was a new experience.

One more thing left to do. Call Lola, and make another damn appointment.

Annie

 

 

“J
ess, you're finally back. Your phone message said you'd be gone on a retreat for a while. It was a
long
while.” Not that it mattered. The store was closed now in mid-April until summer season began in mid-May, and Jess had warned me that he might go out of town.

“I know. Should have signed up for a weekend, but I signed up for two weekends . . . including the week in between them.”

“You were on a retreat for ten days?”

“And nights.”

“What kind of retreat? A ski retreat?”

“This is what helped me stay there the whole time, looking forward to telling you this—wish I could see your face. It was a Buddhist retreat.”

I was aghast. “Buddhist?” I said it again, louder: “Buddhist?

What made you do such a thing?”

“I thought they said ‘nudist'—ten days, no clothes, naked women, sign me up.”

I laughed. “You did not. Tell me.”

“Hard to explain. Somebody came into the store—you know, like they always do—wanting to tack up posters. I read it, told the woman I'd sign up. A whim. I don't know what the hell got into me. Thought it'd be good. You know, a pretty place, somebody else cooks. There are talks in the evening, company around.”

“And?”

“It was all that. It was held in Granite Creek Canyon, in the lodge near the hot springs. The food was great, the talks were exceptional . . . but it was a silent retreat for all-day meditation.”

“You meditated?”

“For ten days.”

He sounded proud and . . . forlorn. I got the giggles. Jess joined me, and the laughter accelerated as we both held the image of Jess sitting in meditation day after long day.

I said, “But now how do you feel about having done that?” Instantly I regretted the question. This was the kind of thing Jess hated—
How do you feel ?
I started to rephrase it.

Jess butted in, “I feel good. I don't know why, but I feel good.”

“Oh, gosh.”

“And I'm making an appointment with Lola.”

“Oh, gosh.”

“You're a college student now. Expand your vocabulary.”

“But . . . Jess. Gosh.”

“I know.”

A Buddhist retreat. An appointment with Lola. I was spinning. I alternately swooned at this news of Jess grabbing hold of his life and addressing his problems, and laughed when picturing him sitting on a cushion on the floor with his legs curled.

I asked, “What was it like?”

“Meditation is all about awareness, paying attention to your mind. And my mind is like a new puppy sometimes, got to watch it every second. Or the puppy will pee on the carpet, chew the cherrywood table leg or hide my boot. Busy scampering all over, then suddenly it falls asleep. That's me in meditation.”

I laughed. But clearly something else had also happened for Jess. He was present with me; his defenses seemed at rest. We talked about the boys, the business and my classes. Seemed Jess was full of talk, as if having stored it up for ten days made it multiply and burst forth. Perfect for seeing Lola.

I mustn't expect anything, I kept reminding myself after we hung up. Yet I had reason to hope. Jess was trying to make changes. Not just talking about them, but taking action toward them. I warned myself not to alter my path because of his. If changes occurred, great. Whether they did or they didn't, I must live my life. And allow Jess to live his.

Then, as Lucille said, we could get together for dinner and have lovely conversations.

 

I arranged with several of my professors to work toward my degree in art therapy back home in Jackson Hole, online and during short campus sessions here in Hibiscus throughout the next school year. The college was making every effort to enable my independent study.

In Jackson Hole the main project for my art therapy degree was a program I had already begun to set up with St. John's Hospital. I had gained approval to offer art supplies and journals to patients, along with guidance from me during hospital room visits. First step was to set up a wheeled cart like the one they already used for offering patients DVDs and library books. My cart would hold sketchbooks, journals, watercolors, clay, yarn, card-making supplies. Besides earning me college credits, this project allowed me to begin my intended work of enhancing the healing process through creative energy. The hospital in Jackson Hole was supportive, and I looked forward to the work and imagined eventually pulling in artists and writers to volunteer their talents.

My creative toolbox had become more fully equipped with each skill I had been taught: encaustic, pastels, sand play. And in the next year or so of schooling, it would become fuller yet. Already I had begun picturing my life back in Jackson Hole after my final classes this spring. I intended to work part-time at TFS, and if my other two partners agreed, I'd stock a pet corner. Carry a line of collars and leashes, dog backpacks and especially my knitted sweaters. Customers had always spent time with our dogs, since they missed their own left at home. I thought those customers might like to take back a souvenir for their pets.

 

I walked Jeter and Bijou to the marina during the times Daniel—or, rather, Nick—and I had agreed upon for the possibility of returning Jeter, lunchtimes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It had been a month since our houseboat trip, and I no longer expected to see Daniel whenever I approached the pier where he had moored his boat. Still, I leashed Jeter, because the boat sat unsold and I was afraid the dog would try to board it. Today I intended to say goodbye to this place, as I was doing with all my favorite spots. Soon I would be returning home, and it looked like I'd be taking Jeter with me.

Stocker no longer sat on a picnic table wearing his wingtips and shorts, binoculars around his neck. The go-fast boat no longer sat riding the waves on the horizon. It was my habit to walk the length of the pier, past Nick's boat, to the Turtle Nest, where we had lunched together so often, then down onto the boardwalk and across the wide stretch of grassy park, dotted with Australian pines. As the dogs and I stepped off the boardwalk onto the grass, Jeter pricked up his ears, looked across the stretch of grass and trees to the parking lot, then looked pleadingly at me. I followed Jeter's look, my own heart pumping in rhythm to his excited tail wagging.