Genevieve

"One of my favorite things is experiencing the origins of my friends through their eyes. Another is sharing my own with my dearest and deepest too. This sharing is a favorite memory. Paul Ricoeur writes that, “Memory is no longer the narrative of external adventures stretching along episodic time. It is itself the spiral movement that, through anecdotes and episodes, brings us back to the almost motionless constellation of potentialities that the narrative retrieves. The end of the story is what equates the present with the past, the actual with the potential.”  - Genevieve

Esalen

Silent Meditation Retreat (x)
by  Sasha Bronner

Part I: My Fear Of Going Completely Batshit Crazy

The hardest part of living with an undiagnosed and often difficult to manage immune disorder is the war it has waged between my mind and my body. What started as a small rash of hives at age 22 slowly blossomed into a dark and prickly garden of endless referrals, specialists, misdiagnoses, pills, needles, IVs, full-body scans and more questions than answers. Six years of feeling like my body had turned against me created a separation within myself that is hard to pinpoint. It's sort of like having a dollhouse inside your body and closing off three rooms because there are bad things inside of them. 

I got used to walking around that house, but it was unsettling to see the rooms sealed off -- knowing that at any moment, or on any morning, those doors could be blown wide open and I would wake up with welts all over my body or crippling shooting pain in my knees or such deep exhaustion that I sometimes couldn't get out of bed. 

The list of doctors in my phone grew steadily, as did my list of prescription drugs. Popping cocktails of bright, multi-colored tablets became routine as I tried eliminating everything from gluten to caffeine, sugar, dairy and alcohol. I carried my disorder with me through three jobs, three apartments and three relationships. The side effects of the medications were vast and deep. Depression and a constant, free-floating sense of unease cloaked my clothing during the day and pushed up against me at night when I slept. It ran down my legs and into the drain like soap when I showered. Trying to determine what drug was causing what reaction or what circumstance was causing what emotion became an endless maze -- a nauseating brain teaser that I longed to quit but also needed to solve. 

 

Consequently, maintaining sanity was my biggest concern going into a five-day silent meditation retreat at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, California. It was the end of 2013 and I found myself exhausted, burnt out and looking for peace. Having never meditated before (I don't count the hour-long class while studying abroad in England at age 21 where I instantly fell asleep to the sound of a train passing by), I worried about what repeated meditation and prolonged silence would stir up within my psyche. A month before going, I told an ex that I was most scared of my own intensity, and he told me that that was exactly why I should go. 

Part II: Searching For Quiet 

Revealing to people that I was going to be silent for five days inspired all sorts of responses. They were even more baffled when I clarified that I would do so alone, over New Year's Eve and my birthday. The decision to go came almost out of a fever dream. I don't remember when the idea came to me and I don't remember deciding to do it. It's like I always meant to go, forgot about it and then suddenly remembered. A minor case of curable amnesia. Even after calling Esalen and being placed on a waitlist because the retreat was full, I didn't bat an eye. I saw a missed call from a Monterey area code the very next day and listened, with glee, to a voicemail saying that I was in. I always knew I was going. I am pretty certain I don't believe in god and my relationship with spirituality is one I would characterize as celibate, but the magnetic force pulling me to Esalen is one I can only describe as calm and real. 

 

The Esalen Institute is a beautiful place tucked deep into the jagged cliffs off Highway One in Big Sur. The constant sound of waves crashing was the soundtrack to the five days I spent there. I had no phone, no music and no books. My meditation class met for two-hour blocks, three times a day. I napped outside in the breeze in the afternoons and ate meals alone, bundled in a puffy jacket and beanie, staring out at the grays, blues and shimmering shapes in the ocean. I soaked in the fragrant hot springs at night, floating weightless, naked, staring up at the blackest sky with the brightest stars. I sat and watched small tiny lights curve around the bend of Highway One periodically, night travelers passing through, their headlights flashing like Morse code and then vanishing as quickly as they came. Our meditation teacher explained the mind's tendency to wander and said that pulling it back is just like flexing a muscle; the equivalent of doing a bicep curl for a body builder. He encouraged us to focus and refocus on the in and out of our breathing, and sometimes I would keep count of my breaths just to stay awake. Other times I would drift into a trance that I could feel in my bones as both heavy and light -- like I was being pushed into the ground from my sternum and lifted up at the same time -- until he rang a little bell and signaled our return to reality. I felt deeply isolated and also deeply happy. That's not to say I didn't struggle. In morning meditation, I fell asleep often and then would silently scold myself for not being better. In walking meditation, I cursed my teacher for moving too slowly. In sunset meditation, I started seeing bright, flashing neon shapes pulsating out of the sun and peered around at others to see if I was the only one imagining things. I had such a persistent headache that I had to slip a note to a classmate pleading for Advil. 

  

I didn't have a big "ah-ha!" moment that I can use as the headline for this essay. I didn't have a breakdown and I didn't deflate with loneliness on New Year's Eve or on my 29th birthday, even though I was absolutely alone. I commemorated the changing of the New Year by laying on my back in the darkness at the edge of the pool, drawing imaginary lines between the stars in the sky and counting the seconds between waves crashing. My alarm chimed quietly, as if not to disturb me, at midnight. It was 2014. I didn't miss the parties or the candles or the shouting and the hollering. I fell in love with every moment of quiet that I found in Big Sur. 

 

Quiet didn't come as the result of a dramatic breakthrough like I expected it to. It just was. I didn't feel any of the despair, anxiety, rage or sadness that have colored my twenties as I dipped in and out of good health. Being quiet didn't aggravate any of the emotions swirling within me. It actually quieted them down. The act of exaggerated silence filled me with the purest sense of calm I have ever felt. The retreat only lasted five days, and I'm no longer silent. But I am quieter. I still take pills in the morning and at night, but I'm taking less and less of them. The medical bracelet on my wrist feels less permanent and more temporary. Talking and laughing and reading and music still make me feel alive. But so does silence. It can feel scary and it can feel dark for a few moments when I try to fall asleep at night, thinking about all of the unknowns at age 29, and 39 and 49. So I turn on a noise machine and fall asleep to the sound of crashing waves, and I imagine floating weightless, staring up at the brightest stars in that infinite black sky.

The Jabberwock

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

   The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

   The frumious Bandersnatch!”

Day 19:  Whenever I’m practicing progressive relaxation or sitting meditation ..an image of the Jabberwock comes to mind. I frequently remind myself to unclench my jaw and loosen my grip. Noticing change and allowing things to pass without grasping, biting or otherwise judging them as they go. Principles of Vipassana meditation I picked up at a workshop many years ago [link].

Rapture

Diane pays homage to the power of the pumpkin

proprioceptive entry

Cleansing my palate by sucking on a lemony-flavored ricola and washing it down with warm water. Asking myself what’s worth writing about ..weighing the alternatives like I usually do ..obsessing about what others might think. What sounds cool is the big question. Like the characters in a Tom Wolfe novel ..constantly imagining the impression I leave with others ..and like those characters ..getting it wrong most of the time. When I think I look cool I probably come across more like an egotistical jerk. Now I’m reminding myself to behave in a more yielding manner, which is a topic for another time. Stop. Now I’m struggling with a short list of topics to write about ..rehab ..people of interest to me ..my own ‘explanatory style’ ..what do I mean by explanatory style ..? Looking at the narrative I use to explain what’s been happening in my life. Like when I blow off practice or a social event ..is it because I’m lazy, timid, neurotic? Slack by nature? Are these the reasons I have this gnawing feeling of discontentment ..? And are these the reasons I’ll be forever doomed to feelings of discontentment ..?

Proprioceptive writing is a practice I learned at an Esalen workshop~> [ link ]

memory chain

Listening to The Stones singing Lady Jane ..one word after another ..bringing up memories one after another ..until I’m following them like stepping-stones. I’m back in college where I found sanctuary after the recklessness of high school. Taking refuge in a library ..finding solace in the words of William James and Alan Watts ..informing me I wasn’t as crazy as I thought. Days spend discussing the latest books by John Fowles and Kurt Vonnegut Jr. ..finding out who got into grad school and how. Nobody I knew wanted this to end. Playing ‘go’ in the courtyard until classes looked like a grid of black and white stones. Crowding around professors like reporters chasing clues. Spending Sunday discussing philosophy with a faculty adviser until late at night. Continuing at Hamburger Henrys’ until Monday morning and the beginning of a new cycle. I felt like an explorer with helmet and miner’s lamp ..nerd that I am.

Note: A wonderful way to follow the memory chain and find writing material (or just shed light on things) can be found in ‘Felt Sense’ by Sondra Perl ~>[link]

Dreamwork

I remember the dream I had just before I woke up this morning, so I wrote it down ..remembering to take ownership of the different parts of the dream.

The dream: I’m laying on top of a low stone wall ..wearing a charcoal gray Hickey-Freeman suit and waiting for my interviewer to arrive. A fashionably dressed businesswoman, also in charcoal gray, comes out to get me. We walk through rooms full of tall, black high-tech equipment and into her glass office. I have my single-page resume and a head full of job stories ..when suddenly I recognize her as someone I used to work with; a handsomely-attractive business director. I ask myself whether I’m here for the job or the woman (a question I used to ask myself before work). It’s been so long she doesn’t recognize me and I’d kind of like to keep it that way ~Flash~ I’m outside on a residential street, playing frisbee with two former colleagues, while she leans patiently on a parked car, holding my resume and watches. One of my former colleagues shouts “Hey Bill, I got the pictures back from the ski trip last week!” and I look over to see if my cover’s been blown. She’s shaking her head in her hand.

Dreamwork: I am the stone wall ..older but perhaps more solid than before. I am the gray suit ..deceptively conservative. I am the interviewer ..patient and inquisitive, assured I’m going to hire myself ..(?) I am the frisbee ..outdoors and free. I’d be more comfortable on a beach but the street will do. I am the interviewer ..watching myself patiently while I play ..wondering just how serious I am about this whole job thing. I am the co-worker ..possibly trying to sabotage this whole job thing. I am the interviewer ..shaking my head and wondering if I’ll ever grow up.

A blurb about dreamwork can be found here ~>Fritz Perls

Dreamwork

I had a vivid dream last night. This morning I hear the echo of Fritz Perls going: “Make sure you take ownership of the different parts of your dream.”

The dream: I pull off of the 605 freeway ..park in a gravely construction yard and walk toward a trailer-office. Inside, there’s a guy in his twenties, dressed like a hiker, carrying a gun in a holster. He’s asking the clerk behind the counter for directions .. saying he wants to see more of California ..he turns to me and asks for a ride. I reply (telepathically) “No ..because of the gun that you are carrying.” He relies (telepathically) “Yes you will ..because of the gun that I am carrying.” I concede, thinking “Hey, I’ll make it a trip to Big Sur.” As we head down the 605 freeway, toward the coast ..he asks me why we aren’t heading up the 605, and toward the I5. I say (verbally this time) “Hey ..you want to see California, right ..not just another freeway.” He sits back with a satisfied look on his face. As I’m on that long swooping connector-road at the end of the 605, heading into Long Beach ..we hit traffic and come to a halt. He looks nervous and asks what we’re stopping for. I tell him I’ll go have a look and get out of the car ..surprised that he doesn’t object. Underneath the overpass, I walk into another trailer-office, where a surveillance-team is huddled around a computer. It’s somehow apparent to me that they’re tracking my carjacker, and I feel relieved ..telling them he’s right above us. I climb back into the car, the undercover cops are somewhere behind, and without a word, my carjacker flies out the passenger door ..on a surfboard. As he hovers above the traffic, I ask the cop how he does that. He looks at me and says “we don’t know” and I feel surprised, wondering how come they don’t know that if they’ve had him under surveillance.

Dreamwork: I am the car ..I am the gravely construction yard ..mechanical and characterless. I am the young man ..I am the gun ..calm and controlling. I am the surfboard .. flying unfettered. I am the surveillance-team ..secretly tracking my impulses. I am the cop ..confused and un-comprehending. I am the question ..asking myself how come I don’t know these things about myself. I raise my head up from the desk, and think: “I just might take that trip to Big Sur after all.”

A blurb about dreamwork can be found here ~>Fritz Perls

Esalen journal

I’m having breakfast while listening to Tania, a work-scholar from Russia, tell me about her mediation practice. She is drop-dead gorgeous ..with a beautiful accent. I don’t remember a thing she said ..but I do remember the way she repeatedly waved her hand, in kind of a circular motion, to describe how her thoughts go ‘off-track’ while she’s meditating. I believe I told her that mine do too ..but I can’t be sure. Now I' m laughing at something another work-scholar just said. Referring to ‘seminarians’ (like me), he goes: “ ..slap your money down ..turn your life around.” Work-study people live and work here for part of the year, while we (the seminarians) drop by occasionally for therapeutic retreats. I mingle with the work-study people ..even get stoned with them ..and because of my hair and overall appearance, I sometimes get mistaken for one ..so I hear where they’re coming from. Gail, an attractive seminarian from Benedict canyon, took it as an insult ..as if he were saying that we’re stupid enough to believe a trip to Esalen is a life-changing event. I can tell she’s hurt and I try to explain how the work-scholar people often feel like second-class citizens ..cleaning rooms, gardening, that sort of thing. I mean, when you really look at it, we seminarians do tend to socialize primarily amongst ourselves. I’m saying all this stuff until I find out what’s really bothering her ..she came up here looking for a date ..and she thought she was actually having one ..a really good one .. with an attorney from LA (and conveniently close to Benedict canyon no less). But he left last night with a much younger girl he met at the baths. She’s been sitting here chain-smoking for almost two hours. I take this as a sign that it’s time for me to head to the mediation hall and just sit and breathe until it’s time to leave this afternoon.

Workshop

Soo is from Singapore. She tells us that it is not part of her culture to express feelings and opinions so open and freely. Since they’re ‘insubstantial’ and not ‘factual’ ..they’re easy to contradict ..and that makes her feel afraid of looking foolish all the time. She says this workshop was good for her .. hard, but good. Helped her feel that it’s OK to open up. The instructor says that feeling unhurried to speak makes you more receptive to what other people are saying. Artful response I’m thinking. After workshop, Kitty tells me that the instructor feels like the workshop was a failure. I go “..really, she told you that ?” (I certainly didn’t feel like it was a failure) “No” she says “.. but you heard her .. she said she may not give this workshop again.” Yeah, I heard her say that ..but I took it to mean that she was moving on ..and letting us know she’ll be doing something different in the future. I’m suddenly reminded of what Soo said ..opinions are easy to contradict. However, I don’t think that contradictions are so bad ..we often express opinions to solicit other people’s point of view and see if what we think has any validity ..I guess that way we don’t have to wait around until all the ‘facts’ are in. But, hey .. that’s just my opinion.

It’s a friggin’ cold and foggy day! I’m heading directly to the hot springs after lunch.

Esalen journal

I took the white-knuckle coastal road to Big Sur last night ..in and out of the blinding fingers of fog. It was freezing but I had the top down anyway ..as well as a hooded-sweatshirt on, plus leather jacket, goggles and gloves ..and the heater cranked way up. This morning I get up, look out the window and see sun shine and blue sky ..I have no idea how long it’ll last. Conditions change so fast. I walk down to the lodge as monarch butterflies and hummingbirds zip by. I sit at the table and eat breakfast (oatmeal, yogurt and figs) with Judy, a therapist from Santa Barbara. She compliments me on my copper jewelry ..says it’s good for cleansing my bioenergy (?) She introduces me to Jon, who is also from Santa Barbara. He fixes old Volvos and sells them to college students real cheap. “It’s high volume” he says. He ought to know ..he’s been the main supplier of wheels to students at UCSB for over 18 years. He has raised a family and already put one daughter through college this way, and I’m thinking ..how admirable this guy is.

Re-entry

Time expands ..and I expand with it ~ breathing deeper ~ thinking clearer ~ speaking freer and listening longer ~ until a scheduled event approaches ~ like workshop time ~ meal time ~ or checkout time ~ then time compresses ~ and my breath becomes shallow ~ my mind races ~ my throat constricts ~ and I feel cramped and awkward ~ well, not anymore ~ I tell myself “fuck workshops ..meals ..and checkout” ~ I’ve never been jailed for truancy ~ gone hungry ~ or been charged an extra day for hanging out too long ~ I go to the round house ~ where there’s a different meditation guide ~ I listen closely ~ he reminds me of my own zen instructor ~ I follow what he says ~ I lean my upper body back and forth ~ feeling heaviness and tension in my abdomen and hips ~ then upright until I feel lightness ~ I lean my head back and forth ~ feeling heaviness turn into lightness ~ I feel my breath rise up ~ and lift my shoulders ~ next, I notice how my attention is like a flashlight ~ shining on my thoughts ~ although it is not my thoughts ~ shining on the space around me ~ although it is not the space ~ shining on the sound of his voice or the stream ~ although it is not the voice or the stream ~ ~ I play with the flashlight for a while ~ then gently bringing it back to the present moment ~ as the session ends ~ and I re-enter ordinary consciousness ~ the guide suggests that I pay attention to my ‘inner narrative’ ~ noticing the way I narrate my day.

I stay mindful of my inner narrative for as long as I can ~ I notice that it’s like a dialogue ~ I create a mental ‘instance’ of myself ~ that says “let’s go to the baths ..let’s go to the lodge ..look at the surface of that ocean” I create another ‘instance’ of myself ~ a critic ~ going “it’s too late for the baths ..too crowded in the lodge ..and the ocean looks like sludge” ~ the first ‘instance’ of myself goes “no, don’t say that ..it looks calm and peaceful” ~ sometimes I notice that the dialogue isn’t with me but with someone else ~ that's scary ~ I still create a mental ‘instance’ of myself ~ but an instance of somebody else as the critic ~ someone like my dad ~ my physical therapist ~ or some other authority figure ~ and we get into these arguments ~ like “it isn’t too expensive ..yes it is ..no it isn’t” ~ or ~ “I’m not wasting my time ..yes you are ..no I’m not” ~ and on and on ~ I’m reminded of a technique used in Gestalt therapy that might help settle matters ~ the way it works is that I retell the narrative ~ from the perspective of each person in the narrative ~ so, for instance ~ I become my dad ~ and tell myself what he is trying to tell me ~ with the idea that each person I create in the dialogue is really an aspect of myself ~ and a voice that I need to reclaim ~ in order to stop my mind from quarreling ~ and maybe get some peace around here.

Esalen

I’m floating in a pool of hot water ~ gazing out across the surface where the edge seems to blend seamlessly into ocean water ~ I lift my gaze, look out over the ocean and see the horizon ~ where a sunset is turning the sky burnt orange and ultraviolet ~ I’m feeling no pain ~ thinking “there’s some things no one can explain” ~ when suddenly somebody says “hey, you’re from Santa Barbara ..aren‘t you?” I roll over ~ turn around ~ and there’s a boy ~ no older that 20 ~ who, I swear, I’ve never seen before ~ he goes “you’ve been here for a while ..haven’t you ?” “ummm, yea, kinda’ ..I left and came back” “you were in Santa Cruz ..right?” “uh huh ..” and I’m thinking I’m about to be told my astrological forecast or something ~ he goes “you work in an academic field ..don’t you ?” “Yeah, sorta ..” and he goes “See, I remember” ~ me, I have no clue ~ but I recognize the accent ~ “you’re from Boston ..aren‘t you ?“ “yes I am ..” “south side ..right?” “yea ..how did you know ?” Now I feel like I caught up (!?) and he goes “what’s your field again ..?” “umm, cognitive psychology” immediately realizing I said to much ~ “what’s that ?” “umm, study of how people process information” hoping that clears it up ~ “exactly how do people process information ..?” I detect a faint trace of sarcasm ~ “uhh, different ways ..” not sure I want to go any further ~ he says “isn’t that the problem, you dice it up like that ..and lose sight of the big picture” ~ seeing that he wants to have a serious discussion ~ I gather up my wits and say “I agree ..we’re just chipping away at it ..I’m not sure we’ll ever get the big picture ..not in my lifetime anyway” ~ and I start to chuckle ~ “no no no no no no ..you do get the big picture when you stop analyzing it that way ..don’t you think we all share the same mind ?” first, I think of Jung’s principle of ‘collective unconscious’ ..then Buddhist principles of ‘interdependence’ ~ and go “you’re right ..I believe we share a higher consciousness ..just kinda’ hard to approach it intellectually” ~ and I think ~ now maybe if we both shut up and watch the sunset we’ll catch a glimpse of it ~ and he goes “no no no no no no .. doesn’t matter how you approach it ..we are all instruments of God ..and when we speak his word ..we all share his presence.” Now I’m thinking of a tactful way to escape ~ I really don’t want to spend my last night at Esalen like this ~ I go “hey man, I gotta’ go see if there’s any dinner left” and he goes “yeah, me too.”

Back to Esalen

On the road through Monterey ~ I’ve got the top down ~ sunscreen on ~ listening to Goo Goo Dolls, Hendrix and Petty ~ passing fields of artichoke and brussel sprouts ~ passing hidden surf spots. In Big Sur ~ on a twisted road ~ high above the ocean ~ sunlight shines through the pines ~ the Dead play rambling tunes ~ that flow like the scenery ~ changing around every turn ~ I arrive at Esalen ~ passing through a redwood portal ~ and follow a path leading down to the baths ~ Chloe greets me there ~ takes me up to the solarium ~ and gives me a massage that turns my body into jello ~ when she asks how I’m doing ~ I try to speak ~ but haven’t stopped drooling.

Esalen (day twelve)

I pop a couple of chewable vitamin-C in my mouth ~ walk down to the lodge for breakfast ~ have a dish of yogurt, figs and granola ~ then go outside to sit and watch the mist rise. I meet Meinolf, a Child Psychologist from Germany and I tell him a little about my studies in childhood reading ~ he tells me how often children mis-interpret what adults tell them ~ to a child, the phrase ‘how many times do I have to tell you to be quiet’ often comes across as: ‘you’re too small, noisy and bothersome to have anything useful to say’ ~ which can take a toll on their self-worth. His job is not to correct the adults, he says, but to help children interpret it better. Afterwards, we go to the round house where James Baraz is leading a group meditation ~ he gives us a fairly simple question to meditate: “What people or places incline us toward happiness” ~ since my usual practice does not involve question answering, I just sit still and watch my thoughts go by ~ things like what’s happening this afternoon ~ my plans for Santa Cruz and San Jose ~ I begin to noticing the natural cycle of my thoughts ~ rising ~ dissolving ~ and vanishing into nowhere ~ until I begin asking myself which one’s are important ~ then it becomes more like ~ rising .. persisting .. persisting .. persisting ..until I remind myself to let go. The bell rings ~ James looks around the room and asks if anyone wants to share their experience ~ I go: “I was thinking about what you said before about happiness ~ and sometimes ~ for me anyway~ happiness comes when I least expect it ~ even when things don’t go the way I plan.” ~ suddenly, it feels like everyone in the room is staring at me in horror ..like I just contradicted the leader ..or missed the point of the session ~ I blurt out: “yesterday, for instance ~ I had reservations for a massage ~ I was soaking in the springs waiting for the massage ~ expecting a massage ~ really wanting a massage ~ then I learned that there would be no massage (due to a scheduling mix-up) ~ my first reaction was surprise ~ then major disappointment ~ I don’t think I got angry ~ but I did take a moment to process this information ~ and decided to go back and soak some more ~ while sitting in the baths ~ I got to watch a spectacular sunset ~ have an interesting conversation with a group of people from Toronto ~ and have one of the most soothing nights in the springs ~ didn’t even care if I missed dinner.” I expect James to say something like: “that’s one way to do it ..not making yourself unhappy ..” instead, he says: “that shows an advanced level of awareness ..thank you Lee ..!” then he gives me a thumbs-up sign. The gesture is lost on me. ~ I slump back on my pillow and say: “not really, I’m just a beginner” ~ Meinolf and I have lunch together ~ he tells me that he feels like one of the dyslexic kids I was talking about before ~ speaking English all day is wearing out his ‘phonological system’ ~ he says he can imagine what kids must go through trying to keep up with adult conversation ~ I laugh and tell him: “that shows an advanced level of awareness ..” and give him the thumbs-up ~ he’s in on the joke and laughs ~ I’m going to miss him, I tell myself, as he disappears down the path to the baths. I finish packing and disappear up the road to Santa Cruz.

Esalen (day eleven)

I wake up grumbling ~ I intentionally slept in so my new roommate could use the bathroom first ~ it’s almost 8:30 am and he’s still in there ~ I get up ~ pop a couple chewable vitamin C ~ and head down to the lodge for breakfast ~ I eat a bowl of yogurt ~ figs ~ granola ~ and sit outside sipping coffee ~ figuring that there was no reason to grumble ~ I’d be sitting here sipping coffee either way ~ I love watching the way the morning sun catches the mist rising off the water ~ it's definitely Indian summer ~ the ocean is calm and undisturbed ~ I take my off shirt and go ‘that’s what I want to feel’.

Now I’m sitting in the lodge after lunch ~ shaking off the frustration I feel after trying to explain to Kitty why Portia is not such a bitch ~ I wasn’t successful so I ended up telling her that I have the same difficulty as Portia trying to explain the work at the foundation ~ only Portia knows when to put on the breaks sooner than I ~ which makes her appear rattled and cagey ~ but, who wants to displace Esalen talking about work ~ I tell Kitty that I’d much rather hear about her painting workshop ~ now she thinks I’m a bitch ~ I conclude that it’s hard to put into words something you feel passionately about ~ at the same time you’re immersed in it ~ Portia is one of the co-founders of the foundation ~ and she’s not in it for the money.

Esalen (day nine)

Workshop: There’s a well known author, Jon Kabat-Zinn, leading the medtiation workshop this weekend ~and there’s 63 people ~ a camera crew ~ sound engineers ~ all packed into an enormous tent ~ “IT’S TOO BIG” ~ my brain screams ~ and I think: 1) This workshop is going to suck 2) what a waste of time and money 3) I should have gone to the baths instead ~ then I realize I’m reading from the same script as before ~ so I put it down and sit for a period of silent mediation ~ next, I hear Kabat-Zinn say “Anything I describe to you here is not meditation ~ it will only serve as ‘scaffolding’ ~ enabling you to reach a state of meditation ~ kind of like the scaffolding you need to view the frescoes on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel” ~ this makes sense to me ~ too often I feel like I’m caught up building scaffoldings.

Walking mediation: We’re out in the yard practicing ‘walking meditation’ ~ he breaks walking down into 4 stages 1) lifting the foot 2) moving the foot forward 3) placing the foot and 4) shifting the weight from one foot to the other ~ he tells us to try and be aware of each step like that ~ while I’m practicing, I notice that some steps occur simultaneously ~ so I combine ‘placing’and ‘shifting’ into one step ~ place/shift ~ then I notice that the more time I spend placing ~ before shifting my weight ~ the more balanced I feel when I walk ~ however, if I wait to long ~ it becomes placing ~ dragging ~ shifting ~ if that makes any sense ~ anyway, I feel this is useful stuff and continue ~ I notice my head moves from side to side a lot more than I’m ordinarily aware ~ not just up and down ~ and that this side to side motion pulls my eyes along with it ~ tricking me into thinking I’m veering off course ~ and causing my leg muscles to reflexively correct ~ which breaks my stride ~ throws me off-balance ~ and makes me stumble like a drunken sailor sometimes ~ I feel excited about this ‘brilliant’ observation ~ and want to rush out and immediately share it with my physical therapist ~ when I remind myself that I’m in the middle of walking meditation at Esalen ~ my physical therapist can definitely wait.

Esalen (day eight)

I’m sitting in the meditation hall ~ practicing a breathing exercise that helps me with my meditation practice ~ I breathe in ~ thoughts rise up ~ I hold my breath ~ thoughts dissolve ~ I breathe out ~ thoughts disappear ~ cleansing my mind ~ and leaving room for another cycle to begin ~ except now, it leaves a state of anticipation instead ~ I remember the lesson I learned about anticipation this week ~ and let go of that too ~ only a little too soon ~ before the next moment arrives ~ and I get a glimpse of the narrow bridge in-between ~ and watch, in terror, as it disappears ~ leaving a big empty space ~ like an abyss ~ opening up below ~ without anything for me to hold on to ~ I scream ~ and the next moment arrives to rescue me ~ filled with startled faces ~ someone asks if everything’s OK ~ but words escape me ~ I mumble something ~ bow ~ and walk out the hall ~ still shaking ~ I kneel on a rock ~ and plunge my head into a stream ~ I walk up to the gardener’s cabin ~ and tell Gabe to avoid the meditation hall after smoking that shit.

Esalen (day seven)

Massage: I lay down ~ shut my eyes ~ and on the back of my eyelids, I see images of ocean water moving between the rocks below ~ it’s more than just an ‘after-image’ ~ I’m right above the beach ~ and the images are moving with the sound of the water ~ strange ~ I lift my head and shake it from side to side ~ and watch other details of the bathhouse flash by ~ I figure it’ll fade shortly ~ and settle in for my massage ~ it was going wonderfully ~ then Chloe pushes in on the heel of my foot and suddenly I can see the outer edge of my heel ~ glowing ~ filled in with colored concentric circles ~ I stay focused on the image ~ it dissolves and in it’s place swirling colors appear ~ like someone taking an eyedropper of color dye and dropping some of it on the surface of dark water ~ creating glowing bubbles ~ on whichever side of my body Chloe is working ~ then, when she squeezes my foot ~ it feels like it goes on forever ~ I am shocked when she places her hands somewhere else ~ because it still feels like she’s squeezing my foot ~ and hard too ~ things continue this way until the massage ends ~ and I tell her how wonderful I feel ~ and that her massage is like a ‘synesthesia’ experience ~ she says she’s never heard of that before ~ I explain it’s like ‘hearing’ a color ~ or ‘seeing’ the music ~ only this time ~ I could ‘see’ the sensation of her hands pressing on me ~ and she goes “wow” ~ I figure it’s a term more familiar to folks in my ‘generation’ ~ so I tell her that I bet her older clients will know what I mean ~ and they’ll agree..!

Workshop: We’re sharing some of the things we wrote this week ~ previously we had only read in small groups ~ I read the piece I wrote about my trip up here (day one) ~ and the baths (day five) ~ then I got lazy and read an old entry from my blog ~ about my neighbor Aria ~ it was relevant though ~ it was one of the places I went to while going down the ‘memory chain’ ~ [waves ~ pelicans ~ Karla ~ Andy ~ Fred ~ Aria ~ car crash] ~ everyone seems to likes it ~ facts are sometimes stranger than fiction ~ then Randy reads a chapter from a book he’s writing ~ I like it a lot ~ sounds like a tale of American gothic ~ then Bill reads a piece about Lorraine ~ Wade ~ and himself ~ in a coca cabana in Havana ~ and I hear echoes of Ken Kesey and Jack Kerouac ~ which are my heroes as well ~ James reads a story about his autistic son Taylor ~ from Taylor’s point of view ~ as Taylor describes his father James ~ and I am moved.

Esalen (day six)

Following the memory chain (or going down the rabbit hole): I’m attending a writing workshop in a house overlooking the surf at Big Sur ..listening to waves crash below ~ from there, I follow a chain of mental impressions that leads me to images of pelicans dive-bombing for fish off the coast of Santa Barbara ~ next I hear the sound of Karla yelling “bombs away” ~ then comes the time I almost got hit by a pelican off the coast of Newport Beach ~ now I’m watching Andy (my dog) chasing birds on the beach ~ now I’m watching Andy chasing Fred through the garage ~ Fred is a pet rat I inherited from my neighbor Richelle when she moved away ~ next, I’m posting ~ “ADOPT FRED" ~ on Craig’s list, complete with pictures ~ now I’m receiving a flaming reply that says ~ THAT’S NOT A RAT ..THAT’S A MOUSE ~ with pictures of rats on the left and mice on the right ~ I can’t tell the difference ~ another reply tells me who I should contact at the Humane Society ~ I see Laura drawing a finger across her throat like a knife ~ a death sentence, huh ~ a five year old girl appears at the door with her mother ~ I see the expression of delight on her face as she takes Fred home ~ I feel a connection with that little girl somehow (?) ~ maybe because I imagine her giving Fred a new lease on life. I had no idea where this would lead when I first sat down to write.

Harmonic presence: I meet Randy and his wife Vicky for dinner at the lodge ~ we go to Huxley auditorium and watch a performance of ‘Harmonic presence” ~ mostly sonorous Tibetan chants ~ echoes of the big bang ~ they explain ~ a symphony in space ~ the speaker asks “where does the sound end and listening begin” ~ and I wonder if the sound ever ends ~ perhaps it’s playing still ~ makes me think of my own theory of sound ~ how rhythm is so important for mental health ~ the first song a child learns is the sound of it’s mother’s heart beat ~ like a metronome ~ preparing the childs brain for connecting events that occur over time ~ like speech ~ signaling where one word ends and the other begins.

Didgeridoo in the baths: Afterwards, we go to the baths and listen to the sound of a ‘didgeridoo’ ~ the sonorous wave vibrates down to my core ~ and transports me into space ~ makes me wonder if alien life forms are listening ~ then I imagine my brain waves traveling there too ~ joining the symphony of space ~ alpha ~ beta ~ theta ~ radiating through the universe ~ where aliens, with clever minds, can pick them up ~ and track the progress of human kind.

We are stardust ~ Billion year old carbon ~ We are golden ~ Caught in the devils bargain ~ And we've got to get ourselves ~ Back to the garden ~ Joni Mitchell