Around five o’clock, Steve Stahl wrestled a six-foot-long didgeridoo out the screen door of the Center, took a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks, and blew a series of long, deep-toned, peritoneum-tingling hawaughhhs that resounded the length and breadth of Braxton Hot Springs. Then he rejoined Skip, Pender, Dr. Oliver, and Candace, who were watching from the glass-enclosed second story as the trainees converged on the building, strolling down the dirt road or climbing the lightly wooded slope leading up from the campground in the woods behind the Center. They were all dressed in comfortable-looking cotton meditation outfits similar to those worn by Oliver and his aides, and carried coats and sweaters over their arms.
Laughing and chattering, the trainees climbed the open-treaded spiral staircase to the second floor, where sage and sandalwood incense burned in bowls and a small boom box played a CD of ethereal Steve Reich space music. Fat, round meditation pillows known as zafus were already arranged in a circle; the atmosphere was intense, charged with nervous energy as the trainees took their places.
“Namaste,” said Dr. Oliver, seating himself cross-legged on a white zafu with an incense bowl and a small silver bell in front of it. His meditation pajamas were white, Steve and Candace wore royal blue, and the ten trainees were dressed in pale orange.
“Namaste,” the others echoed, lightly pressing their palms and fingers together in a prayerful mudra.
“It’s so good to see your shining faces. Let’s take a few calming breaths, taking in peace through the nostrils, letting out ego through the mouth. Eyes shut? Here we go…”
Pender had seated himself next to Oliver. Skip was sitting directly across the circle, his good leg folded and his withered leg outstretched, with the toe of his built-up shoe pointing straight up. He opened his eyes after a few seconds, caught Pender looking back at him, and winked.
After the breathing exercise, Oliver introduced the newcomers to the group, then asked the trainees to introduce themselves. First up was Beryl, an elderly, bird-boned woman, her face as wrinkled as a dried apple. Juana was a buxom Argentinean in her mid-forties, with a round brown face and a toasty smile. Then came Michael, a pale, thirtyish commodities trader, and next to him was a man named Jonah, wearing dark-rimmed glasses he was constantly adjusting.
In addition to the four single trainees, there were three couples. George Speaks, a Native American college professor with a broad Eskimo-looking face and a long black braid, was seated next to his wife, Layla, who had sleepy eyes and a soft Southern accent. Elaine and Marty, both lawyers, had pronounced New York accents. Tom and Mitch were a fit and handsome gay couple in their mid-thirties.
When they’d finished, Oliver thanked the group. “Good job, everyone,” he said, sounding a little like a kindergarten teacher. “And now, unless anybody has any last-minute questions or concerns…?” His eyes traveled clockwise around the circle. “Yes, Beryl?”
“I’m not sure I can do this, Dr. O,” she said, wringing her bony hands nervously. “I–I thought I could, but I’m…well, I’m scared. That’s the plain truth of it: I’m scared.”
“Okay, I get that,” Oliver responded mildly. “And the first thing I need you to understand is that nobody here is going to force you to do anything you’re not ready to do. But may I ask you a question?”
“Please.”
“Which ‘I’ is it that’s scared?” Air quotes around the pronoun. “Is it the ‘I’ that thinks it’s still a helpless infant, dependent on others for its very survival? Or is it the ‘I’ who’s a full-grown, capable, adult human being who for over seventy years has succeeded in handling anything and everything the universe has seen fit to throw at her with such admirable grace and courage?”
The answer came in the form of a shy, pleased schoolgirlish smile.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Oliver, beaming. “Now who’s ready to let go and let God?”
A chorus of assent: “Me!” “Yay!” “I am!” “Ya-hoo!”
“Al-hum-dilly-la!” Oliver clapped his hands together sharply, then rose, picked up his zafu, crossed the circle, helped Beryl to her feet, and offered her his arm. Together they started down the spiral staircase, with the others following. Skip and Pender trailed behind.
“Locked and loaded?” whispered Pender.
“Locked and loaded,” said Skip.
“And what don’t we do?”
“We don’t eat the crouton.”