All this is before lunch.
In the afternoon, there is a walking meditation. They walk in a circle, round and round, very slowly. He is glad to be outside, to be in the air. The sunlight is very bright, glary. He squints; sometimes he closes his eyes for a few steps. It's like a bad prison movie where all the inmates are walking, shuffling chained together; if one falls, they all fall; if one falls, he is shot by the guards. He looks around; some of the people are in really bad shape, muttering, chanting to themselves.
Transforming suffering — maybe this makes it worse, wallowing in it, how do you transform anything, you tolerate it, you accept it, but what if it is intolerable?
He walks a little faster and then, knocking into someone, catches himself and slows down.
THE THIRD evening talk is "The Talk About the Dog." It has to be to some degree a play on words, "dog"/"God." It is a talk about joy, about pleasure, about the irritation of the flea, the pleasure of scratching, the lure of the bone, the compulsion to bury it, the tug of the collar, the master's pull, the freedom to run, to fetch the ball and bring it back to the master. Joseph speaks of the relationship between master and disciple, between student and teacher, which culminates with the teacher's withdrawing his attention, causing the student — the dog — to suffer from separation/abandonment, a kind of crisis of parenthood, that wears him down so that he is able to experience what is the aloneness that is reality and then transcend the limits of his ego, his need/desire to become one with the master.
The story of the dog is hopeful, but the story of the master and disciple feels like a manipulation, a head game, something Richard wants none of. He feels himself bracing, tightening, holding himself against it.
"What can you give someone without their seeing?" Joseph asks. "How do you give to someone next to you — without their knowing? Do you make yourself smaller on your cushion so that they have more room? Do you try and breathe happily, gently, so that they are not offended? Do you try to smell pleasant? Do you give off the feeling that you are glad to have been seated next to them?"
RICHARD FARTS. At every meal, he's been eating brown rice and lentils; he's convinced himself that it tastes meaty, like beef. He eats the brown rice and the raw vegetables, and yogurt for dessert, and he is farting all the time, uncontrollably. Because it's otherwise silent, everyone can hear; because they're meditating, they can't move away; and because of the silence, he can't apologize. It happens again while Joseph is speaking.
"When you feel yourself frustrated or angry, ask what the other person wants or needs, direct positive thought outward," Joseph says.
After the evening talk, Richard passes a man mopping the halls. Is he a person on retreat, working for room and board — on scholarship, they call it — or is he just a regular worker, a janitor? He nods at the man, the man nods back. "Joints for sale," the man says softly. "I've got joints."
He lies in bed thinking of Ben — Ben on his journey, his adventure. What would Ben think of him here? What would Ben think of joints for sale?
THE FOURTH DAY, he is exhausted from sitting, from getting up early, from the bad food. He feels the weight of his chest with every breath, he feels his lungs, his ribs, his skin lifting up and sinking down. He thinks of his brother: how nice it was to see him, but why would the brother and his wife invite the ex-wife on a vacation? Maybe it was the brother who turned Ben against him. Maybe not, maybe they were just trying to be nice, to be there when Richard wasn't? He thinks of his parents. He thinks of the night he was in the hospital, wondering if he would die. He tells himself that if he lives through the retreat he will make better plans. He will make funeral arrangements for himself, so that no one ever has to do it. If he died right now what would they do? Someone would call someone, and arrangements would be made. His parents would bring him home to Brooklyn, to the cemetery in Queens where his grandparents are buried, or maybe they would bring him to Florida and have him interred in a Boca mausoleum. His father's family used to talk about their plots — how many plots they had. Whatever it was, it was never enough. Richard will buy a place out here, a plot for himself. He will buy a plot for himself, and a couple of extras as well, in case anyone wants to join him.
Why is his mind doing this? His mind is a bottomless pit, a deep dark cavern, an open throat with fibers like cilia, like tentacles, like an octopus's arms, strong, dangerous, voiceless.
"I don't want to die," he screams.
Did he really scream, or just imagine the scream?
IN THE AFTERNOON it rains, it pours out of season. The sky is black, there is no light, they light candles in the meditation hall, they do a walking meditation inside. And they sit — for hours. Richard falls asleep while he is sitting; the sound of his snoring wakes him up.
THE RAIN CONTINUES into the night. Richard is awake — his schedule is upside down. He wanders the halls; the scent of French fries pulls him to the reception area. The security guard, a young girl, is there with a cheeseburger and fries.
"I'm not one of them," she says when he walks up. "You can talk to me."
"Those smell good," he says.
"Have some."
He sits in the office with her, watching a small black-and-white television with the sound turned off. "I'm not perfect," she says. "I don't even try. What do they expect me to do at three in the morning, read a book?"
He nods.
"Are you doing all right?" she asks.
"My first retreat," he says.
"You seem like you're doing fine. Sometimes people come apart — they don't know who they are, why they're here. We have a special blanket we use, like a straitjacket, but more comforting. It's called a binding blanket. We put them in that and try and talk them down. There's a special number for me to call and a team of people come and help. I've only had it happen once. Kind of dramatic — a woman thought a spaceship was coming to pick her up. Do you want a cup of tea?"
"No thanks. I think I'll try and go back to bed. Nice meeting you."
"Sleep well," she says.
And he does.
THERE IS A MAN who cries every day, who begins to weep during the morning meditation and doesn't quit. His weep turns to a wail, and escalates. Richard knows he's supposed to be compassionate, to care about the crying man, but the man is ruining it for all of them. Why doesn't he stop, why doesn't someone stop him, why doesn't he get up and leave the room, why is it so upsetting, why does it make him hate the man?
And why does no one get up and attempt to comfort the man? Is it against the rules? Why don't they all stop what they're doing and go to the man? Would they hate him less if they could comfort him, if they knew what was wrong with him? Does his crying embarrass them because they know it could happen to them, because they know how deep the pain is, because they are all afraid that they could start crying and never stop too?
And finally the man, gasping, practically retching, chokes back the crying.
AT LUNCH there's a sign up on the dining-room door — "If you're having stomach trouble, look here for help." Below it a basket of remedies — Pepto-Bismol, Kaopectate, Imodium, various herbal remedies, teas…
A virulent virus has let loose in the community — there are signs everywhere: "Practice good hygiene." "Be mindful and wash your hands frequently." "We have ordered softer toilet paper."
By midafternoon there are lots of comments scribbled on the sign — "Free colonic." "Do you meditate while you go?" "Meditation causes dis-ease." "Joseph goes poop too." "Are the squirts part of the practice?" Who writes this stuff and when do they do it? Does anyone see them? And where are they getting their pencils and pens?