Don't Drink the Kool-Aid

Warning! My writing is much like my meditation- a basket full of puppies who can't stay in the same place and run yipping and slipping to all corners of the room to chew on things and sniff around for thrills and spills. SO if you find you just can't stay with me, my apologies and by all means, please go read something more rewarding, like Pride and Prejudice or the Sexual Politics of Meat.

So there I was, sitting in front of an empty bookcase in a Zen center. I am in pretty desperate need of spiritual connection or something of the sort. I just know that what I got now ain’t working and it’s time to shake things up a bit. Fear and anxiety have become too familiar and now always know where to find me. I want to feel some sort of connection to spirit again.

I found this Zen center online and their web site says you can just show up, so that’s what I did. When I arrived a greeter guy took my backpack and showed me where to stash my stuff. As he reached for my water bottle, I had a sudden urge to clutch it to my chest. My purple Sigg water bottle, it turns out, is something of a security blanket (or “blanklet,” as my daughter would say). But I resisted my urge and let him stow my trappings of yuppiedom away, safely out of sight.

Back to the empty bookcase. So greeter guy takes me to the prop area so I can choose what I want to sit on during meditation. Being the competitive person I am, (I get it from my dad, who gets it from his mom- oh just accept it, it’s not an insult) I immediately offered to simply sit on the floor. Out of the kindness of his heart, greeter guy saw through this tactic and suggested I use a pillow and a blanket. He also hands me an index card with about five lines of text on it and tells me that they will be chanting this at the end. I glance at the words and try not to feel disappointed in the form and word choice. Man, am I judgmental or what? I place the card at the foot of my cushion, so I can read it when we chant.

OK, now back to the empty bookcase. So he leads me into the meditation room, points me to a place in the corner, and explains that we’ll be facing different directions at different times. So I sit down with my face no more than 10 inches from this big, built-in, mahogany bookcase, which is empty.

I was trying to be all Zen and not look for reason or meaning in everything, you know, just quiet the mind, but when faced with a blank bookcase and 10 minutes before the meditation practice is set to start, what would you do?

A blank bookcase. At first I thought maybe it was saying to me, “Look at all the books you’ve written. NOT!” or maybe, “Here lies the sum of your accomplishments.” Ouch. But against my more cynical self (who really doesn’t get much of a chance around here), I went with, “This is for you to fill with your experience as you embark on this spiritual journey. You have only just begun and you have so many stories to write. And they will all be true.” Of course, it also occurred to me that the bookcase was empty because, if it had been full, I would have been distracted by thoughts along the lines of, “Who’s still reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance? Haven’t we moved on to I Am That?”

A bell started ringing and a gong, or maybe it was a gong and then a bell. Then silence, at least inside the room. Outside, it’s still over 80 degrees at 7:15 p.m. and everyone and their dog is outside hootin’ and hollerin’ and the gang bangers are driving by with their blasters thumping out Kanye West talking about how when she leaves your ass, she’s gonna leave with half. And little girls are running up and down the street, their sandals clacking loudly on the sidewalk, like Buddhist monks hitting those clappers to begin a new chant.

And for some odd reason, I feel bliss. I don’t mind the noise, in fact, it’s fine. It works. I have been feeling so burnt out by the city, by congestion and smog and noise and mean drivers (myself sometimes included) and lines and concrete but in that moment, I am down with it. It’s just life.

I sit, facing the empty bookcase, not knowing if my eyes are supposed to be opened or closed. I choose closed, but sometimes, when I do get swept up in the vortex of energy swirling around inside, I open them to see the comforting dark brown emptiness of those smooth, entirely dust-free shelves.

I try to quiet my mind and focus on my breath and feel how tight my stomach is. I like to keep my insides tucked up under my rib cage when I’m anxious or stressed. And there they stay for quite a while, even after the main reason for stress should be gone. There’s a weight on my chest as I try to breathe smoothly and easily. Normally, I’m pretty hard on myself when I’m not able to do something perfectly, but this time I just keep reminding myself that this is the first time I’ve meditated in a very long time. I feel like being kind to myself and that kindness seems to radiate outward as I sit in stillness.

A bell rings and everyone gets up to do the walking meditation. Again, I have no idea what I’m really supposed to be doing, so I just follow the woman in front of me until I realize she’s heading to the bathroom and then I veer off back into the main room. We are walking very slowly and I can’t tell if people have their eyes open or are doing some blind king fu magic with their third eye. Another bell and we’re suddenly moving faster around the room and out and back in. I follow greeter guy, who’s weaving a path between the cushions on the floor, which very much reminds me of walking the labyrinth at Grace Cathedral with my mother-in-law. In the moment, I think of her and feel gratitude for having known her (she died on December 24, 2004) and joy in her presence, but now, as I write, I feel the loss and my insides wander back up inside my ribs.

Which leads me to share what I’m searching for. Meaning. I need to believe that there’s some reason we’re all here and that the loss of loved ones that seems to extinguish all the light is not just plain old loss and the way things have to be. I can’t stand the idea that I’ll just slowly lose everyone who matters to me. That I might even lose some of those who are younger than me. Like my daughter. Or my husband.

SO I need to believe in something that ties it all together and makes it mean something. Kind of like Lebowski’s rug. It really tied the room together.

And if you know anything about Buddhism, you’re probably thinking, “She’s barking up the wrong tree if she wants to find meaning in death. The whole point is that there is no meaning. You just have to let go of your expectations and desires. Therein lies the suffering.”

Back at the Zen center, when the walking part is over, we all go back our places, bow a few times, and sit down facing into the center of the room. And the whole thing begins again. I sit quietly and breathe, but unlike the first zazen, now I am wriggly and can’t get comfortable. My right leg starts to burn, right along my knee and down the side of my calf and I can’t seem to find a position that feels good. The air is cooling down and my thoughts are quieting and the truth is, I still do feel good. Happy and relatively peaceful. Excited about embarking on this adventure.

A bell chimes and everyone bows and begins chanting. I realize that my index card is gone. It is nowhere to be found and so I simply sit in silence as everyone chants. The words are meaningful in and of themselves but just don’t, dare I say it, resonate with me. For me, chants require rhythm and flow. I want to be able to relish the sounds of the words and the shapes my mouth makes as it forms the words. I do so find pleasure in forming words.

After the chant, we all get up and bow and then prostrate ourselves in front of the altar and then get up and then get back down several times.

Then it’s time for tea and cookies. “That’s what I’m talking about!” I think, as we repair to the kitchen. I decide to use the bathroom first, not so much because I have to go, but because I feel like I need a moment of reflection before speaking and interacting.

I enter the kitchen and introduce myself to the six or so people there. A woman holding a pitcher smiles and says, “Would you like some herbal tea punch? It’s… minty.” As she pours it for me, she adds, “It’s an experiment.”

Why in heaven’s name would I drink something that has just been referred to as an experiment, from someone I don’t know, in a house I’ve never been to before? Because I’m a nice person and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings and she looks like a very nice lady, around my mom’s age and well, it’s frickin’ hot and I’m thirsty.

So I drank the kool-aid, so to speak. I had several sips. And she was right, it was… minty. It was so minty, it tasted like she’d dumped half a bottle of peppermint extract into the pitcher. At first, it just tasted refreshing, but then my throat began to tingle, the way mucous membranes and sensitive areas tingle when you get a little crazy and splash cologne in places it doesn’t belong.

I politely said good night and drank the entire contents of my water bottle as soon as I got to my car. When I got home, my husband asked how it went and I said, “Hold on, I have to eat some yogurt to coat my throat.” One large bowl of Greek yogurt and two pieces of heavily buttered toast later, I was able to share what I learned.

I know it sounds corny, but I learned that happiness really is inside me if I just shut my mouth and sit still for a moment and listen. But also-

Kindness need not extend to consumption of toxic herbal tea.

and

Bliss does not preclude stupidity. (And I refer here to my own bliss and stupidity and nobody else’s.)