A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

Richard has no idea what Anhil is saying, he's trying to decipher: "Do you mean 'stereotypical'?"

"Yes, that's what I just said. How was your brother?"

"Fine. Right now, my son, Ben, is driving to Los Angeles."

"You couldn't send him a plane ticket?"

"He wanted to drive. And this afternoon I am leaving for a silent retreat."

Anhil shakes his head. "Americans try on the spiritual life of others like they don't have any of their own."

"I'm actually looking forward to it. And then, when I come back, I go to Malibu. I rented a house on the ocean — absolutely everything in it is white."

"I know the house."

"How could you know the house?"

"I saw it on television. White carpet, white pots and pans. It's owned by the mayor. He's going to tear it down and build something bigger."

"I'm not sure it's the same house," Richard says, assuming there's more than one white house on the beach in Malibu.

"He bought it for his girlfriends; then he got elected and can't have any girlfriends. So now he's going to tear it down and build something for his wife. America has two kinds of politicians — one has sex, the other has war — which do you like?"

Richard doesn't answer.

"I can drive you to your silence."

"That's OK, I'll take a taxi."

"Take my Toyota; no one will think anything of you. And I will take care of your car, I will use it like my own."

"OK, great. I will."

Anhil laughs. "You're a funny man — going to meditation, moving to Malibu."

"What are you getting at?"

"You're stuck."

CHECKING IN. He cannot wait to not talk. He imagines that the silence will be easy, that it is a fantastic way to be with people, low-pressure, no need to make conversation.

The lobby smells of incense and steamed broccoli. There are signs everywhere: "Be mindful of the quiet." "Pay phone accepts quarters only." "Receptionist has limited ability to make change."

The people are speaking too calmly. They are speaking in hushed, practiced voices. He looks around; it is like a communal mental hospital, a low-rent cooperative insane asylum. It is as though he is going under, submitting himself for some sort of procedure, a small surgery that requires general anesthesia — that's how he thinks of the silence, anesthetic. He is simultaneously holding on, trying to prepare himself for something terrifying, and wanting to let go of everything.

They are asking him questions, handing him various-colored forms to read and sign: "Name. Address. Emergency contact. Any medications? Under a physician's treatment? Underlying medical conditions? Blood sugar or blood pressure issues? Anything we should know about you? Religious or spiritual background? Meditation history? Are you interested in bodywork while you're here?

"Please read and initial the following: We are a sex, drug, and alcohol free institution — any violation of that and you will be asked to leave. We ask that you wear no perfumes, or scents of any kind, and that while here you use an unscented soap. No shoes in the meditation hall. We ask that you not bring reading or writing materials, part of respecting the silent retreat is a commitment to not practicing those things during the period of the retreat."

The woman checking him in hands him a map and takes out a yellow highlighter. "We are here." She makes an "X." "The meditation hall is here." Another "X."

He overhears another retreatant checking in; it's a little like seeing who's going to be on the trip with you, like boarding the Titanic. "A single room," she says. "I asked for a single room. I have a history of abuse; there should be a letter from my doctor on file. I can't sleep in a room with a stranger."

"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.