"The dining room is there," his person says, speaking a little louder, "and bathrooms are here and here. Your room is called Citrus and is down this hall. Your roommate is Wayne, and he has not yet arrived."
She hands him information sheets filled with mealtimes, lists of ingredients, for those with food allergies, wake-up times, a list of the talks and various activities. "If you have any questions please leave us a written note on the bulletin board and we will respond in kind. Welcome," she says. "Have a good retreat."
Map in one hand, suitcase in the other, he takes himself on a tour. The meditation building looks like a cross between the all-purpose room he remembers from elementary school and a lodge made out of Lincoln Logs. He finds the men's dormitory, the room marked "Citrus," and opens the door. It is a small, narrow room with two twin mattresses on plain wood frames, two nightstands, two straight-back chairs, and two metal lockers for closets. Utilitarian, not entirely clean, it is like a minimum-security prison, a detox facility. He makes his bed, puts away his clothing, and sits down with his welcome packet.
Does he still have Valium in his toilet kit? He's not going to be able to do this, not going to be able to get suddenly quiet. Already he's amazed at how loud the quiet is.
During dinner they make announcements: "Welcome. We're glad to have you with us, and while this meal is not held in strict silence, we ask that you limit your conversation, you begin to prepare yourself for the days ahead, to acclimate to the quiet. Feel free to introduce yourselves to each other — first names only. After dinner, we'll gather in the meditation hall for our first talk — if you have a cushion, bring it with you."
He is looking at everyone and trying not to look. He watches, scouting out the people who have clearly been here before, mesmerized by the woman who drizzles honey over everything on her plate. "I eat no sugar after today," she says, swirling the golden syrup in thick, ropy lines over her brown rice, her steamed broccoli, her tempeh. There is a man with a shaved head who seems to know everyone. He is either a leader or a super-smug advanced pupil who thinks everything is below him. He seems peaceful to the point of arrogance. His attitude is both alluring and annoying. The people around Richard eat in silence, so Richard eats in silence. He watches others talking, wishes he'd sat somewhere else, but focuses on what's before him, dry rice.
After dinner, he goes back to the room and gets the cushion Tad Ford gave him — if only they knew, he thinks, and then corrects himself. It doesn't matter if they know or not, it doesn't matter where the cushion came from, it is just a cushion, and the movie star is just a man, and Richard is just about to start five days in the deep-freeze.
"FIND A SPOT, everyone find a spot. There are dots on the floor, just pick a dot, any dot will do.
"Let us begin."
They bang the gong, light the incense, and sit quietly. The gong rings again, and they sit — waiting.
JOSEPH SPEAKS.
"Suffering is normal. Pain is normal, it is part of life. So why are we here? Why are we afraid of suffering? Why do we try and avoid suffering? Why do we think it is wrong to suffer? We medicate, we meditate, we are desperate not to suffer. What is suffering? What does suffering express — the depth of our feeling, our attachment, or desire for things we cannot possess, our ego, all that can drag us down? This week, at the beginning of our journey, we ask ourselves to be willing, able, to feel what it is we feel, not to push the feeling away, not to be overwhelmed by it, but to take note of it, to turn it over, to know it. What is its texture, the weight of our suffering? What is its meaning? Begin by touching it, by coming close to it, accepting it: Hello, suffering, I am here with you. I am beside you, one with you. I am you. I am suffering. Acknowledge what is — right now."
Joseph talks with an evangelical lilt to his voice. He talks, and they sit in silence, finding their pain, soaking it up. They sit until they are actually in pain from the sitting, and then there are more gongs, and slowly they bow, rise, and go off to bed.
The roommate is puffy, pale, pasty — Wayne. He does not talk, does nothing except unzip his duffel bag and take off his clothes, flashing his hairy bright-white ass in Richard's face. Richard turns out the light and sleeps face-to-the-wall. He's too old for this.
In the middle of the night, he wakes, not knowing if he is in Los Angeles in a hotel, in Brookline at his brother's house, or in a hospital somewhere. The sound of Wayne snoring is deep, sonorous, and Richard cannot get back to sleep. At 4:30 a.m., someone is up and down the hall, jingling bells. They rise, descend upon the bathroom — cold water, cold showers, rough towels — and then head into the meditation hall.
Someone has moved his cushion. This morning it is on the other side of the room; the shaved-head man, Mr. Happy Arrogance, is on his dot. Was it his dot? Is anything any of ours? If it was not his dot, then why did the man take it? Why did he covet the dot? Is Richard being punished, picked on? He takes it personally and vows revenge: he spends half the morning meditation mulling it over, trying to transform the movement of the cushion into something smaller, trying to make it not matter. Maybe whoever moved it thought it was someone else's? Maybe they thought they were doing him a favor, maybe they had no idea that it would matter to him? Maybe he should just go over there and shove the guy off his dot? The guy would have to know why, would have to feel bad about it. Maybe the guy is just so evolved that he doesn't care about anything, maybe all of this was a setup to prove to Richard how badly he needs to be doing this? Maybe it's just something to prove that anything can drive you crazy if you let it? He will not let it, he will not let it, and in not letting it he cannot let it go. Go, go go, he tells the thoughts, this is not helping me; like a hot potato, it goes back and forth.
If you sit with discomfort it will change.
Halfway into the session, he craves a donut. Not Anhil's donut, but an earlier donut, a donut from his youth. He remembers it perfectly, an orange cruller. A glazed frosting with flecks of orange rind in it — crisp, curled, but softly sweet. He is tasting the donut. Is it a coincidence that he remembers a donut, one of the few perfect moments from his childhood, and that he met Anhil — the old donut and the new donut?
He is starving. They break for breakfast. He eats a huge bowl of yogurt with a lot of honey on it, and raisins. It's delicious. So good, as though he hadn't eaten in a very long time.
Back in the meditation hall. He fixates on the other people; some of them are beautiful. He watches one woman's arms for a very long time, another man's back. He is watching how they hold themselves, graceful, elegant. And then something changes, he has no idea what, and he's looking around and everyone appears needy, pathetic, deformed. He suddenly hates Lusardi, thinking there's something malicious in his recommending this retreat. He closes his eyes.
If you sit with the discomfort it will change.
Into what?
There is a person somewhere in the room with a tickle in his throat, a person who half coughs, trying to clear his throat quietly, but it never works, and he half coughs again, and then, a few minutes later, again, and at a certain point Richard wants to scream, Fucking really cough, will you?
His legs are hurting, his ass from sitting, from being in one position. Last night Joseph said that, before giving in and changing your position, you should go inside the discomfort and ask yourself, Can you let go of it, can you get past it and stay where you are?
What will he do when he gets out of here? Will he be a better person? He didn't tell his family that he was going away, he didn't change his outgoing message. Should he call? Should he leave word?