by Rebekah Shardy

As darkness fell we heard a scraping noise outside that Molly surmised was some kind of call to meditation. It was soon followed by a somber gong. We gathered at the temple, a perfect rectangular Japanese building with paper walls and blonde wooden floors.

The altar within was not as ostentatious as the humblest Catholic altar, and instead of pews, we sat on ‘shelves’ that ran around the perimeter of the room. Each butt had a red pillow on which to painfully perch, like a hen on its nest. We were instructed to turn around – our faces to the wall – as we meditated in silence.

Almost silence. Occasionally, a belly would gurgle. There would be a sigh or deep swallow – you could actually hear someone swallow across the room, it was that quiet. The crickets had begun their din outside and once – in a great while – a jet snored overhead. You, yourself, could not sleep, even if your eyes were closed. First, your butt and legs ached too much to relax. I dreaded standing up, knowing the entire lower half of my body had gone numb. Second, Uncle Fester with a Big Stick was wandering the room, ready to rap the head of the first slumbering acolyte.

Mercifully, every 30 minutes, the same man would have us stand up, make a line, and follow him as he ran – yes, literally ran – outside and around the porch of the temple. We did this several times, I think, to ensure that no one would die of a blood clot. It was hard not to laugh out loud at the way we looked, devoutly slapping our bare feet on the dusty boards in earnest laps to nowhere. So Zen.

Now to bed. I suppose meditation might affect people differently. For me, it did seem to stir some ancient sadness for which I cannot begin to account. I am lying awake in the darkness, mulling over this, when I hear the padding feet of a man running through the outside halls while he claps two wooden boards. I fall asleep to hear it once more about a half hour later: the Buddhist equivalent of a snooze button.

The next thing I know, Molly has dressed and wants to know if I am coming to breakfast with her. We’ve both missed morning meditation. “What’s wrong with your eye?” she gasps.

With her backseat loaded with 100 cigars of wild sage, bundled with red string and cooking in the summer heat, a patrol car pulls Molly over for speeding. He’s making eyes at her (of course) until he notices the queer but familiar aroma emanating from her Honda. “Is that marijuana I smell?”

It’s a sight, all right. My right eye is swollen three times its normal size and is red and rather hideous. I know that I will drive those Buddhists crazy, having to sit wordlessly over their groats or quinoa or whatever esoteric grain they eat, stifling their disgust and curiosity at the woman-transformed-into-Igor at their table.

I try to jest. “Maybe I’ll go after all. I’ll just tell them that after meditation we had a fist fight and you gave me this shiner.” Ultimately, I choose the down comforter over granola or enlightenment. (CONTINUE...)