encouraging. Beth Lewis’s new boss on the West Coast, where she moved after leaving Alladin Films, claimed she was a perfect employee. Beth herself was calm and unshakable in her assertion that Mr. Tyler had no reason other than a personal one to pass her over.
Since there’s nothing I can do about that problem now, I put it to the back of my mind and follow a row of slightly scraggly trees that line a grassy entranceway. I wouldn’t quite call it a lawn—brown patches seem to outnumber green ones, and the clumps of crabgrass outnumber everything. But pretty wildflowers dot the landscape and I see a glistening pond off in the distance.
Turning in the other direction, I spot three people and I hurriedly walk over to them.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you know where I could find the main house?”
The two women abruptly pull back and walk briskly away. Is my onion breath really that bad? The man doesn’t answer me either, but he pauses briefly and jerks his head to the left.
“I’m looking for the main house,” I repeat.
He jerks his head twice to the left. Either he has a mild case of Tourette’s or he’s trying to tell me something. Probably the latter, because he motions for me to follow him, which I do. We arrive at a large stone house and go inside to a bright, welcoming room. Two dozen people are scattered around, all barefoot and dressed in loose-fitting pants. Some are in little groups, holding hands, and everyone is sitting cross-legged on thin tatami mats. At least I think that’s what they’re called. Or maybe I’m confused and tatami is that sashimi I like.
For several moments, I stand bewildered, not sure what to do. Then someone catches my eye and glances toward an empty mat. When I don’t move, he raises his hand slightly and makes a small gesture for me to sit down.
Okay, this is the Heavenly Spirit Retreat Center. Good guess says I’ve wandered into a meditation session. I slip off my pumps and plop onto a mat, glad that my skirt is pleated but wishing I hadn’t worn panty hose. In fact, I often wish I wasn’t wearing panty hose.
The woman next to me has her fingers tented together in a prayer-like position. Her eyes are closed and she has a peaceful expression on her face. The man on my left has his hands on his knees and is staring unblinkingly at his toes. I notice that both of my neighbors have perfectly squared shoulders and straight backs. I don’t know what this meditating stuff does for your soul, but it certainly seems to improve your posture.
The room is silent and nobody moves. I decide to close my own eyes and concentrate on a happy memory. Let’s see. There was my wedding day. Nope, take that off the happy memories list. Maybe the April afternoon strolling along the Seine in Paris? No, the man holding my hand was Bill. Something good that happened with the kids? A picture comes into my mind of Emily and Adam at the zoo when they were toddlers. Adam is jumping up and down to imitate the orangutans and Emily is mimicking their funny faces. I try not to laugh out loud. Then I remember Emily entertaining the monkeys with cartwheels, and a giggle escapes. It’s just a little one, but it ricochets around the silent room like a gunshot. I look up, humiliated, but to my surprise, nobody has even batted an eyelash. Literally. What concentration. If you harnessed all the focused energy in this room, you could probably light up San Francisco for a week.
I have a feeling that I’m not supposed to be thinking about monkeys, gunshots, or California’s energy crisis. Plus, my foot has fallen asleep and pins and needles are running up my leg. But they’re nothing compared to the tingle I feel a moment later.
A gong sounds and suddenly the mood around me intensifies. There’s a stir in the room as my fellow retreaters begin to hum. Quickly the hum builds to a drone and the drone to a chant:
om om om
. The buzz rings out like a chiming bell—or maybe a test of the Emergency
Since there’s nothing I can do about that problem now, I put it to the back of my mind and follow a row of slightly scraggly trees that line a grassy entranceway. I wouldn’t quite call it a lawn—brown patches seem to outnumber green ones, and the clumps of crabgrass outnumber everything. But pretty wildflowers dot the landscape and I see a glistening pond off in the distance.
Turning in the other direction, I spot three people and I hurriedly walk over to them.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you know where I could find the main house?”
The two women abruptly pull back and walk briskly away. Is my onion breath really that bad? The man doesn’t answer me either, but he pauses briefly and jerks his head to the left.
“I’m looking for the main house,” I repeat.
He jerks his head twice to the left. Either he has a mild case of Tourette’s or he’s trying to tell me something. Probably the latter, because he motions for me to follow him, which I do. We arrive at a large stone house and go inside to a bright, welcoming room. Two dozen people are scattered around, all barefoot and dressed in loose-fitting pants. Some are in little groups, holding hands, and everyone is sitting cross-legged on thin tatami mats. At least I think that’s what they’re called. Or maybe I’m confused and tatami is that sashimi I like.
For several moments, I stand bewildered, not sure what to do. Then someone catches my eye and glances toward an empty mat. When I don’t move, he raises his hand slightly and makes a small gesture for me to sit down.
Okay, this is the Heavenly Spirit Retreat Center. Good guess says I’ve wandered into a meditation session. I slip off my pumps and plop onto a mat, glad that my skirt is pleated but wishing I hadn’t worn panty hose. In fact, I often wish I wasn’t wearing panty hose.
The woman next to me has her fingers tented together in a prayer-like position. Her eyes are closed and she has a peaceful expression on her face. The man on my left has his hands on his knees and is staring unblinkingly at his toes. I notice that both of my neighbors have perfectly squared shoulders and straight backs. I don’t know what this meditating stuff does for your soul, but it certainly seems to improve your posture.
The room is silent and nobody moves. I decide to close my own eyes and concentrate on a happy memory. Let’s see. There was my wedding day. Nope, take that off the happy memories list. Maybe the April afternoon strolling along the Seine in Paris? No, the man holding my hand was Bill. Something good that happened with the kids? A picture comes into my mind of Emily and Adam at the zoo when they were toddlers. Adam is jumping up and down to imitate the orangutans and Emily is mimicking their funny faces. I try not to laugh out loud. Then I remember Emily entertaining the monkeys with cartwheels, and a giggle escapes. It’s just a little one, but it ricochets around the silent room like a gunshot. I look up, humiliated, but to my surprise, nobody has even batted an eyelash. Literally. What concentration. If you harnessed all the focused energy in this room, you could probably light up San Francisco for a week.
I have a feeling that I’m not supposed to be thinking about monkeys, gunshots, or California’s energy crisis. Plus, my foot has fallen asleep and pins and needles are running up my leg. But they’re nothing compared to the tingle I feel a moment later.
A gong sounds and suddenly the mood around me intensifies. There’s a stir in the room as my fellow retreaters begin to hum. Quickly the hum builds to a drone and the drone to a chant:
om om om
. The buzz rings out like a chiming bell—or maybe a test of the Emergency
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