All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [64]
With nothing else to do, I spend a lot of time in the sessions doing the lovingkindness meditation. At first, after giving myself some cursory kindness, I quickly move on to others. But as I have so many long hours to meditate, I might as well pause and give myself a little more time to say May I be safe, May I be happy, May I be healthy, May I live in ease, May I love and be loved. The longer I say these things to myself, the more I feel my heart cracking open. This is such an unusual voice for me. Usually I say You’re so stupid, You make foolish mistakes, You can’t be trusted, You blew it, You’re such a bitch sometimes, You’re middle-aged and chubby, even with all that fucking exercise you do, You swear too much, and You’re never going to be loved. No wonder I so often feel frantic to escape from myself.
So I sit there offering myself lovingkindness, over and over, luxuriating in it, basking in a sense of well-being. Then when I turn to offer lovingkindness to other people in my life, it’s bathed in more golden happy intention. I start with people who are easy, who love me, whom I’m grateful for, people like my parents and sisters, Maya and Cecilia, Sandra, Giovanna, and Kathy; my guy friends; all the people at the writers’ collective where I work. I realize, going through my friends with my wishes, how I am grateful to have so many (especially since the meditation session is so long). I offer lovingkindness to people in difficult straits, the sex-trafficked women in Italy, women coffee workers I met in Nicaragua. I work my way to neutral people, like the people on the retreat, and then move on to difficult people. I start with my roommate in the Guatemalan pants, and when I’m feeling compassionate for her, I tackle a few mismatched relationships and bad dates—they probably didn’t mean to be so difficult or harsh. Finally I offer it up to my ex-husband and, in the end, to the Samoan surfer, who did, after all, apologize. May he be safe from sharks. Or at least recover from being tossed around and severely bitten.
On the last day we break the silence, and people begin talking to one another about their experience. The guy I developed a silent crush on, fantasizing about his boyfriend potential—an interesting-looking dark-haired man with silver streaks in his hair—turns out not to have a very nice voice or manner, which tells you something about crushes and projection in general and why it’s often a good idea not to act right away on your lustful impulses. I leave the chattering group, unable to handle all that human noise or to ask the others their names, where they live, what they do, or how long they’ve been meditating. I fold my things and leave the retreat center quietly, saying a few words of appreciation to the people I spent the week mopping floors with in the kitchen, people who had done that dirty job efficiently, cheerfully, and well.
Then I get into my car, put the top down, and drive through the redwoods to Point Reyes National Seashore. It is early, so I go on a hike, climbing up Mount Wittenberg to the place where you can look out at the whole peninsula, the westernmost spot in the continental United States, which is edging up the San Andreas Fault at something like six inches per year. This is the spot where I sat several years ago and watched a mountain lion on a hill directly across from me, with a safe valley between us, and knew he was watching me, too. A special spot. Beyond the wildflowers and ferns and rolling stands of pine trees are the long beach, rocky cliffs, and lighthouse in the distance. I feel a contented sense that as much as I love to travel, as much as I am always searching for something somewhere else, there is no place I like being better in the world than in Point Reyes. I feel no urgency to be anywhere else.
On the way out of the park I stop in a small shop in Inverness, to dip back into human company. I look at some pretty things without a desire to buy them and greet