Or maybe not. Maybe you can repeat from memory and be completely sincere. Maybe it’s sincere because he’s repeating truths he believes in.
‘I’m sorry but I’m seeing these really ugly visions all the time. Images of violence. Rape, killing. I don’t know where they come from. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Don’t fight the visions or try to stop them.’ I mouth the words as Harper speaks. ‘Don’t judge them or criticize yourself for having them. Take an objective note. Visions. Ugliness. Violence. Then return to the breath crossing your lip. Return to anapana meditation until your mind is calm. Work on your equanimity.’
‘I am sure that when I get home my wife and I will separate. I can’t think of anything else.’
It’s a bold, deep, desperate voice. It’s him! I open my eyes wide. I blink and focus.
It isn’t him. He isn’t in the queue.
Honey On A Razor’s Edge
OUTSIDE, I DON’T hurry to bed. I walk past the leader’s bungalow to the field. It’s getting dark and the hills have turned cold. The North Star is out. I like this moment, between evening and night. Others are walking the path that runs by the fence. Some you recognize, some you don’t. They walk slowly. There is the small white-haired woman who was moved away from the wall. She walks with her hands behind her back, head bowed. When we crave, we don’t crave the object we imagine we crave. I can’t remember which day Dasgupta says this. We are simply addicted to craving. Attached to attachment. We need to crave. If it wasn’t this object, it would be another. It will be another. So why not GH instead of Jonathan? Why not replace the artist with the diarist? If you can’t cure yourself, repeat. Plunge back into the sickness. I was so alive when I was sick.
I walk down to the bottom of the field and then beyond into the thicket where it’s darker. It smells good here among the bushes, it smells damp and earthy. The path that turns down to where the wall is broken seems well trodden. The twigs and brambles have been pushed back. Someone’s been skiving off to the pub. Actually, it’s pretty easy to hop over the wall here and hike a couple of miles to the Barley Mow. With a bit of luck you could hitch a lift. On Fridays they have live music. I don’t know what day of the week it is. I know it’s day seven. A blessings day. ‘Day seven is over, my friends, you have three more days to work.’ But I can’t remember what day this retreat started. A Friday, a Saturday? If they have live music I could borrow a guitar. I could ask to sing. The meditators do all the real work here, Harper says, after the metta. Serving is a holiday in comparison with sitting, the struggle of sitting. Our service is to make their meditation work possible. I would sing, ‘Better Off On My Own’. ‘That’s the one made me fall for you’, Jonathan said.
Now there’s someone behind me, in the dark. There’s a sound of scuffling leaves. But she’s stopped. She’s hurrying off. Must have seen me. I don’t turn to look. I don’t care who it is. Frankly I don’t understand why people come to a place like the Dasgupta and take the vows they do only to break them and sneak off to the Barley Mow. I did it myself at the beginning. There is no samādhi without sila, no concentration without the Five Precepts. There is no paññā without samādhi, no understanding without concentration. There is no nibbana without paññā, no bliss without understanding, without the wisdom of experience. ‘Why did you come on holiday if you don’t want to be here?’ Carl asked. Good question. He was getting frantic. ‘Why do you keep fooling around with those Frogs, Beth? They only want to get their hands in your pants.’ We had taken the guitars. He wanted to work out acoustic arrangements so we could do gigs without Zoë and Frank. Just us two. He wanted me to himself. He wanted to build a wall around me. It was too late. I wasn’t there to be built around. I lay all day on my back in the tent, texting texting texting, and got drunk in the evenings with Hervé and Philippe.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I told him. ‘About eleven weeks.’
Carl was thrilled.
HIT THE BRAKES BETH, Jonathan texted. FERRARIS ARE FOR SHOWING OFF, NOT DRIVING.
‘Morality is part of the law of nature,’ Harper always says, repeating Dasgupta’s manual of best answers to common questions. I hope Mi Nu doesn’t use it. Perhaps Mi Nu speaks in a whisper so that Harper won’t hear she’s saying things that are not in the book. ‘An unskilful action leads to suffering as sure as a cartwheel traces a line in the dust.’ I didn’t tell Jonathan I’d missed two periods. That would have been even more unskilful than getting pregnant in the first place. If I told Jonathan, I would lose him. I had already lost him. I never had him. I THINK THE DOCTOR IS IN LOVE WITH ME, I texted. HE HAS GIVEN ME AN AMULET. IT’S SOME WEIRD INSECT IN AMBER. HE SAYS YOU CAN’T DIE WITH THIS AMULET ROUND YOUR NECK.
I’M GLAD, BETH. I’M GLAD YOU’RE IN GOOD HANDS.
Meredith and Stephanie were doing yoga stretches. Forbidden. They should be asleep. Kristin was on her slats, reading the Bodhicaryavatara. There are not many books in the Dasgupta Institute library. A dozen? I tried to read it, twice. The miracle is I learned to pronounce the title. Marcia was on her bed giving advice about the stretches, advice about breathing, advice about Buddhism. Thank God we haven’t got Ines here as well.
I stood by the door. Kristin didn’t look up when I came in. The lamplight is barely bright enough to read by. I wanted to join the girls in their stretches, but couldn’t. I didn’t know whether to talk or to keep the Noble Silence. The others wouldn’t start speaking first. You don’t speak to someone who has left service to meditate. You don’t intrude.
I stood at the door. It would be nice to talk, but then I would be back in the world again. I would make fun of Stephanie, I would crack jokes for Meredith, I would try to impress Kristin, I would start to smell Marcia’s farts. When I’m silent, Beth is in the background. She hardly exists. If I come out of the silence, I won’t be able to stop myself. I couldn’t stop myself when I sent Jonathan those endless texts. I lost control. I totally lost control. It cost a fortune.
THE DOCTOR SAYS AS SOON AS I’M WELL HE’LL INVITE ME TO DINNER. HE’S QUITE NICE.
I’M GLAD, BETH. I’M GLAD.
‘Who are you texting?’ Carl asked. He never left my bedside. ‘Who do you have to keep texting all the time?’
It was ten. I would be up at four. Or maybe not. Maybe your days at the Dasgupta are over. A voice spoke those words in my head. I’d heard them before. Stephanie is shapelier than Meredith. She has neater knees and thighs, squarer, sharper shoulders. But Meredith is sexier, bouncier. When she reaches forward to grab her toes you can see the tops of her tits. They’re plump. When she crouches to stretch her back, her bum looks big and round. Marcia is watching. The girls sigh and murmur. Meredith giggles when she can’t hold a position. ‘When you have a position right you feel you could hold it for a hundred years,’ Marcia says, lying on her bed. ‘In fact, that’s how you know you’ve got it right.’ Says she who has to keep crossing and uncrossing her legs. Meredith’s eyes catch mine. She wants to know what I meant when I said I was in trouble. She wants gossip. Maybe she wants me.
Marcia has started to talk about yoga therapy for adolescents with behavioural problems. ‘Some judges include it in their closing recommendations. It helps the kids handle their anger. They feel more embodied.’
Is Marcia a cauliflower or a cabbage, Stephanie? And what is the smelliest, most shapeless vegetable you can think of? I’m about to burst out laughing. Why? Why can’t I be serious, like Kristin? Kristin is trying to make serious progress, reading Buddhist stuff in the dim light, looking for wisdom, trying to change. I should take off my mattress and sleep on the slats.