Day two and Jerry sat next to a sneezing, snorting man. 

How selfish can he be? If he’s sick, why doesn’t he go home. But no, there he sits in his stupid pose, infecting me with his germs. 

Just when he was able to quiet his negative thoughts, another snort triggered a new shipment.

For the next sit, he moved to the other side of the room. That failed to improve his mood. He wanted to scream waiting for the stupid gong to sound. Did someone forget? Surely 40 minutes is up; maybe Howie fell asleep; maybe he’s not paying attention; how long can I sit here; should I get up and leave; I should take care of myself, right? A should-I-or-shouldn’t-I wrestling match careened around Jerry’s mind and then, thank God, the gong rang, and he dashed out for lunch.

As he was working in the garden that afternoon, he spied three people sitting in the hot tub, one man and two women. The man was Howie Cohn! 

Howie had made it very clear that use of the hot tub was gender specific, in order to minimize unnecessary distractions. To see him flaunting this rule threw Jerry into a fury. Why should he be able to cavort with women? And why would he even want to? Isn’t this meditation crap supposed to take care of those cravings?

That night Jerry tossed about. Every pebble underneath his sleeping bag made itself known. He climbed out of his bag and sat in a half lotus. Meditation failed. His mind jabbered unfettered. With a sigh, as if with a colicky baby, he carried his racked body out of the tent, switched on the flashlight and meandered around the woods. 

Back in his tent, he journaled.

That asshole. I’m going to kill him. He lied; he lied. What a selfish shit. He’s playing us all. I’ve been duped, trying to be a good boy, and he’s out partying, laughing at us. He’s laughing at us! What a bunch of idiots we are falling for this silence crap while he takes our money. What a bunch of holy bullshit. 

Why am I so angry? 

He broke my trust. He lied to me. He can’t do that. I have to beat him up, the asshole. Must make this right; must get my revenge; must seek payback; he must pay for his crime.

The next day Jerry made an appointment to speak with Howie. After lunch, instead of working in the garden, he marched over to a little cabin nearby and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” came the voice from within.

Howie lounged in a chair near an open window. The sea breeze wafted in carrying a salty, seaweed smell. The rocking waters clattered on the smooth rocks below. He motioned toward a canvas chair.

“How is your meditation experience going?” he inquired with a smile. He shook his long, black hair, pulled it back and expertly rolled a rubber band up to hold his pony tail in place.

“Not so good. I’m experiencing anger.”

Howie nodded. “Yes, that’s your ego. It’s frightened that it’s losing control. And in its panic, lashing out at everything. Just observe. It will subside in time.”

“OK, I just gotta ask. Yesterday, I saw you in the hot tub with two women. That’s against the rules, your rules. Why did you do that?”

Howie’s eyes grew wide. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I saw you in the hot tub yesterday in blatant disregard of the rules.”

“I haven’t used the hot tub since I’ve been here, however I did see those same people, and, just so you know, they are not in our group. They are guests staying here. If you find them noisy, or doing anything that is disruptive, please report that to me. That is strictly forbidden.”

Jerry felt a world of relief. “I am so sorry,” he said and began to cry.

Howie waited, then said softy, “Can you continue?”

“Wow. I don’t know why it was so important to me, but it blew me into a rage. And I don’t know why I’m crying right now,” he choked out as tears ran down his face.

“Silence brings up deep issues. Your reaction to the hot tub may have more to do with something that happened to you long ago. Sit with it.” 

Returning to the garden, Jerry felt a hundred pounds lighter. He noticed so much more around him. Sounds were sharper: the crunch of pine needles under foot, the cawing of crows above. Colors intensified: the emerald leaves, the fuchsia dahlias.

He dropped to his knees and pulled weeds, carefully, noticing, breathing free, grateful. An inner peace infused him.

For the afternoon sit, his mind did not protest. The walking meditation continued the serenity. Each footstep fit itself into the ground, lifted itself up, swayed forward with the next step and situated itself back down again. His breathing flowed like a metronome.

The following morning during the 40 minute sit, he entered into a comfort zone unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was like certain mornings upon waking when each stretch sent a golden glow of pleasure throughout his body. He observed without reacting: the birds singing, the man on the other side of the room still coughing, the person next to him shifting his weight. Information streamed through his consciousness, and he was unbothered by it all.

He broke into a broad smile. This is home!

The gong sounded but he remained. He continued and continued and continued past lunch, past garden chores, till people wandered back in again for the afternoon sit. Only then, and that was two and a half hours into it, did he stop, and only because he needed to pee before the next sit.

***

I had a dream last night. I was in a mansion, my own. I knew it well, yet I discovered a door I had never seen before. I opened it. I entered a large room filled with light. In the center stood a gold grand piano. I sat down and played. And I was so happy to know I could come back to this room any time.

Eureka! I have found my divine home. April was right with that Shawshank Redemption thing. I had to crawl through shit to get here. Is there more? I hope not.

 

***

On the last day all gathered in a large circle inside the yurt. As Jerry was entering, he spotted a baby bird on the floor right at the corner of the entrance. Thank God no one had stepped on it, he thought. He squatted down and observed. The bird panted. Jerry picked it up. Its eyes burned with life. He cradled it, moved outside and set it down on the warm ground. As if nothing had happened, the bird righted itself, fluttered, and flew away. 

Howie smiled. “Congratulations. You made it. Soon we will return to our lives. Be gentle with yourselves. Readjustment to your normal busyness will take time. 

“I invite each of you to speak now. First your name then a reflection about this experience. If you choose not to speak, that is fine.”

 “I am Jerry Cradleman,” he croaked. “I found a baby bird just now. It looked hurt, but when I took it outside it flew away. That pretty well sums up my experience here, except I will be driving home.”

The others laughed.

After all had an opportunity to speak, and some chose not to, Howie said, “You are free to talk from this point on. There is one more meal before we leave. For individuals who prefer silence, there is a room upstairs. 

“Be filled with the eternal happiness of God.” He put his hands in prayer position before his heart. “Namaste,” he said and bowed to the group.

Jerry filled his lunch plate then parked himself at a smaller table next to a heavy set woman. They were small talking, smiling, when all of a sudden, as if walls inside his mind caved in, his consciousness flooded with commotion: the table of four laughing loud, other voices rambling on, a chair screeching, silverware clashing, dishes clattering. Overwhelmed, Jerry excused himself.

He headed upstairs and found a small vacant room. Wave upon wave of crying washed over him. How was he ever to achieve noble silence amidst this seething cauldron of life, everyone, everything crawling over each other to survive?

***

He stood on the ferry boat. The water slipped by at a moderate pace and the constant rumble from the engine below soothed his raw nerves. Yet when he motored off the boat onto the dock and out onto the highway he overloaded again: cars whirring by, traffic lights changing colors, horns honking. 

He pulled off the highway and followed a long strip of road. It led him to a beach and the ocean. There was a family playing: children running, a father flying a kite. He parked and turned off the engine.

He closed his eyes, quieted his mind and breathed, til he was home.