Picking Up the Pieces: Becoming a Greater Whole

Chapter 1

The Emperor

ESCAPE TO HAWAII. LEAVE your troubles behind. That's my game plan. I'll be attending a Buddhist darshan, an Eastern brand of spiritual retreat. It's Denise's idea. She believes that it will help heal my shattered heart. A tall order, I say. Still, eight days among caring spiritual people in a lush, tranquil setting? Sure, why not? So I pass on the same spiel to my massage therapist friend, Susan, who is doing some soul-searching of her own. She, too, is pondering the end of her marriage, though her circumstances are far different from mine. Denise is happily married, lucky lady. She is simply on a mission for truth and has found this Buddhist group intriguing. And thus, here we are, a trio of middle-aged New Agers on a quest for enlightenment.

We are sardined into our seats aboard one of those planes that has a middle row, five-wide. Denise is long and leggy; she must feel even more pinched than I do. I wonder, how do big, tall men manage? The airline's aim is plainly to maximize profits, not provide passenger comfort. We chat excitedly at first, looking forward to a grand adventure. As the hours pass we eventually quiet down. The engines drone on. The hypnotic blue water stretches endlessly below us. My companions are able to catch a nap. No sleep for me, though. I don't like being alone with my thoughts. Dave would have loved this! Our earlier trip to Hawaii was the high point of our lives. How could we sink from that high to this low in only two years time? I swallow the lump in my throat. A movie begins, a welcome distraction, though it's one I've already seen.

The girls are awake now and yawning. We check our watches. I break out my Tarot cards, the Voyager version. Hey let's do a reading on the darshan, I suggest. Denise is the one who turned me on to the Tarot. She thought it would add a new dimension to my readings, and it has. She could be doing readings, too. But she insists it's not her path. She’s into ET's and especially crystals and stones, and lately, this Buddhist outfit.

I shuffle the cards, then close my eyes and concentrate while I ask the question: What is the energy around the upcoming darshan? The first three cards indicate meditation, sorrow, and learning. Those all seem to fit my process and what might be likely to occur at the darshan. But the outcome card, the Emperor, leaves us scratching our heads. Denise frowns as we puzzle over what this might mean. It doesn't make any sense. The Emperor is about patriarchal achievement and earthly conquests of wealth and power. It's not a spiritual card.

We land in Honolulu and make our way through a labyrinth of baggage carousels and walkways to find the escalators to the shuttle bus area. The airport sprawls in every direction; it is practically a whole city in itself. Eventually we are delivered to our assigned gate area. I find my carry-on luggage. It feels like it weighs a hundred pounds and my back and feet are complaining loudly. It's about 80° and humid. I should be enjoying this beautiful, balmy place, but I'm wishing now I'd worn less clothing.

There are still a couple of hours to kill, so we browse through tourist shops and grab a bite to eat in the open-air restaurant. The entire place appears to be open-air. There’s a roof to keep the rain off, but only partial outside walls with trees and shrubs growing through them. Open-air buildings would certainly not cut it back home in Oregon, except in the warmest of summer months. As we have our lunch, tiny birds charm us by landing at our feet to claim every crumb that falls.

Finally we are airborne once more for our final destination of the Big Island. The ocean is vivid azure blue at the shore’s edge as Honolulu falls away beneath us. I remember this from our trip to Kauai two years before. It was an idyllic vacation with just the three of us, since by then Adam had already left home. We snorkeled and swam and took in the magic of the place. We even did one of those helicopter tours, which made Katie and me both queasy. Unfortunately, I had to use my airsick bag. But Dave loved to fly. It gave him a feeling of freedom, something that was so lacking in his life. He had even owned an ultralight airplane and had taken flying lessons, soloing at 10,000 feet. Well, Dave, you sure have your freedom now.

At long last, we land at the Hilo airport, anxious to meet the monks who will be our hosts. But no one has come for us. We sit guarding our suitcases for the next several hours. Still, no monks in sight. We try placing phone calls and only get an answering machine. This is a fine welcome. Has there been an emergency, or are they totally inept? For the kind of money we each shelled out for this gig, one would think they could do better than this.

Finally the monks arrive, dressed in saffron and crimson robes, looking harried and disorganized. They have evidently chosen to wait until everyone's flight lands—some of the attendees are coming from as far away as England and Ireland—so they could collect us all in one load. The problem is that there's no van large enough to accommodate everyone and their luggage. So, we get delayed even more while they try to figure it out. And then they want to borrow someone's credit card to rent an extra van! I make sure they front me the cash, then give them mine just to get us out of there. But this also means that I'm designated to drive one of the two vans they are renting. Jeez what have I gotten myself into?

By the time we leave the Hilo airport it is well after sunset and we miss the sites along the hour’s drive to the temple. I’m tired and cranky, but would still rather drive than be a passenger. Besides airsickness, I'm prone to car sickness as well. Susan is sitting directly behind me and rubs my shoulders sympathetically. It's great having a massage therapist as a friend. And she's a Reiki healer, too.

Things brighten once we’re settled in at the temple, which is beautiful in a simplistic, spartan sort of way. Most of the floors are bare, polished wood. We leave our shoes on a mat at the door. The doorways and several of the walls are decorated with beautiful handmade cloth tankas and altar scarves that are made in India. Tibetan bells and other sacred objects are also displayed on long tables in the meeting room. All our for sale to the darshan guests. I peek at the price tag and decide it’s too rich for my blood.

A nice meal is waiting for us. The monks are friendly; clearly, they are kind and good human beings. We decide that they have their heads in the clouds and are just inept at business, not to mention that no one wants to make a decision without running it past him, the Big Guy, the one who heads this organization and who is billed as an Ascended Master Extraordinaire. All we get are rave reviews from these monks. We hear he is flying in from India, where he has established an order. He has rescued people from squalor and given them food, shelter, lodging, and spirituality. He is Caucasian, born in this country and later converting to Buddhism. We are told he has been able to integrate the two cultures. Unlike many religions that are divisive, he stands for unification among people. We are curious to meet him.

There's a stereo playing with speakers piped into all the hallways, including one just outside our dorm room door. Tibetan Buddhist style chanting, toning and bells drone on. It's rather hypnotic. Maybe it will help us sleep because a child size wooden bunks and two-inch mattresses certainly won't be conducive. Denise takes one look at the sleeping quarters and tells the monks, You've got to be kidding. There's no way I can fit myself into one of those. So they find her a room by herself next to the meeting room. The bed is still small, no doubt designed by and for shorter, smaller framed Asian people. As much as I love Denise, I selfishly think, at least I won't have to listen to her snoring. Sleep is a precarious thing for me these days.

The next morning we are awakened by loud calls of peacocks and other birds that roam the temple grounds. It sounds like a jungle, and with all the lush plants and tall trees around us, I guess it is. It’s easy to choose what to wear. It will be white, one of the rules of this darshan. I wear knit cotton pants and an oversize pocket T-shirt, feeling like I belong in a hospital corridor. Susan has on a lacy cotton skirt and short-sleeved blouse, and Denise wears shorts and a gauze top. We’re not allowed to wear any jewelry, and Denise laments her naked finger minus her wedding ring. I also miss mine. There is a dent on my finger where it used to be.

Susan stopped wearing her wedding ring a few weeks ago, too. She's pretty certain her marriage is ending, but she needs this time away to think. As she will soon find out, this trip will cost her her marriage for sure. Wasting money, even her own money, on travel is something her husband, Bob, can't fathom. He isn't a bad guy, really. He and Susan are just miles apart in what they want out of life. He typically does it a man's way, some might say, an unenlightened man’s way—work hard; stick it out at the job you hate; save for retirement. He expects Susan to fall in line with his agenda. He is cranky and curmudgeonly, taking perverse pleasure in his misery. This reminds me of some of Dave's ways as well. Susan and I have often remarked that we both married Archie Bunker, minus the bigotry.

The aroma of delicious breakfast draws us to the cafeteria. We all comment how good the food is. We begin to get acquainted with some of the other guests and learn where they are from. There is a heavy-set older woman and her tall, open-faced friend, both from Minnesota. There are two men, one tall and one short, from Liverpool, and a very attractive lady from Dublin. We meet a married couple, an Asian woman, and a nice looking man from Texas. There is also a young guy with a shaved head, who is, well, strange. He stares too long and smiles too widely, which means he's either socially inept or not quite all there. Counting us, there are a total of 15 guests.

Some have attended darshans before, but most of us are first-timers. Denise had been to one on the mainland the previous year that was put out by this same organization. As it turned out, she was the only one who showed. So she had spent a lot of time playing Devil's Advocate with the monk in charge, a young guy in his twenties by the name of Melvin. Denise is not one of those La-la New Agers. She questions everything and takes nothing at face value. It is what I love about her, besides her wacky sense of humor and outspokenness. She has a big voice and it's hard to keep her quiet. Melvin tried, but she has grown children who are older than he. At that first darshan he had difficulty exerting any authority over her and eventually gave up, at least that time. This is supposed to be a silent darshan, too. Melvin is in charge so Denise is assuming it will be like her first experience. She is wrong.

They impose the silence rule at the end of the first day. We have been there less than 24 hours when it goes into effect. We haven't had a chance to log in people's names yet, and can only remember them by where they are from. The rule is that you do not speak to anyone except the monks, and then, only when absolutely necessary, like if the temple is burning down. Talking will only be allowed during the question-and-answer sessions and when HE comes to give instruction, but not amongst each other. We must break old habits such as saying, please, and thank you. We are even to avoid eye contact and to stay within our own space as much as possible.

All of this seems rather daunting, but the reasoning behind it makes some sense. Many of us distract ourselves with endless chatter and social activity. When forced to turn attention inward, unaddressed emotional issues surface. The group energy of the darshan accentuates this, where individuals tend to trigger each other. A silent darshan forces people to look within themselves for unfinished business and their own answers, and to clear old baggage. Okay, I guess I can see that. But Melvin says a very odd thing when asked: So what does one do with those emotions once they've come up?

We don't even go there, he replies.

So if you don't go there, where do you go? And what happens to the emotion? Does it just sit there, or does it go away by itself? He isn't able to clarify these questions to our satisfaction.

At first there is a level of serenity. The grounds themselves are beautiful and lush. There are banana trees and many other kinds of tropical fruits growing along the sides of the road. We fall into a rhythm born of structure. We have breakfast, followed by morning meditation, followed by lunch, then afternoon meditation, after which comes dinner and evening instruction. For these sessions the guests all assemble in the large meeting room with a thick green carpet and floor cushions. That is the extent of our comfort. We don't have to sit cross-legged in eastern pretzel position. But we have no back supports. There are limits to positions that allow blood flow to all the limbs.

One other thing that is supposed to enhance the energy of the meditations: We are each issued pyramid frames to wear on our heads! They are made of copper and gold and are supposed to keep our crown chakras open for the knowledge we're absorbing. We feel silly, especially when they encourage us to wear these around the grounds as well. Many devotees even wear the pyramid hats on the public road during their walks into the Hawaiian Countryside—which looks ridiculous! The white-robed cult people from outer space. Egads! What have I gotten myself into?

After dinner we are back on the floor for evening instruction, during which time we are given a book to read and study. It is a system for helping understand personality and soul destiny, similar to astrology. This seems an odd use of our time. After all, we could read the book anytime, at home. It turns out Denise already has, in addition to mastering a far more advanced book on the same subject. She does not look pleased.

And so the second full day passes. We are speechless, or mostly. We have managed a few whispers when the monks’ backs are turned. Melvin is still in charge and we begin to wonder when the Big Guy is going to show. Meanwhile, Melvin, who Denise found to be such a sweetheart at the earlier darshan, is irritating this time. He is taking his job a little too seriously. When he passes around drinks and several of us slip and say, thank you, he snaps at us, No thank you’s! Denise gives him a withering look and his ears turn red.

Another night passes on the hard bunks, listening to the chanting and bells recordings that play night and day, nonstop. They have turned up the volume and it is no longer soothing. I wake disgruntled, and by the looks of the other guests, I'm not the only one. This is getting old.

At first the meals were excellent, but we notice that now there is more and more cauliflower being added to every meal, including breakfast. As if we weren't comfortable enough, now we're eating highly gas-producing foods. We are also given vitamin drinks each day, which could be cleaning out our digestive systems. Whatever the reason, there are pained expressions on many faces as we hit the floor for more meditation and study sessions. The younger lady from Minnesota gets up and walks out for frequent restroom breaks, but does not always descend the stairs to the restrooms. We realize she is going out into the hallway to politely break wind, some of which wafts in behind her when she re-enters the room!

This isn't our only physical challenge. We are sitting on a volcano on this island. The earth is moving beneath our feet and the energy is BIG. The legend of Pele is not just legend. We feel the stir in our bodies and for two of us it triggers menses. Oh joy. Denise is not thrilled. She is already through menopause, or so she thought. She hasn't had a period in over a year—until now. Susan is in the middle of menopause when bleeding is not uncommon. Also not convenient, given that we must wear only white. I'm behind her in the cafeteria line. Susan, my dear, I whisper, You need to go check the back of your skirt. She quietly thanks me and backs out of the room as discreetly as possible to go remedy the situation.

Finally on the afternoon of the third day, the Big Guy makes an appearance. All are assembled in the meditation room when he makes his grand entrance. He is fair-haired and freckled, and absolutely ponderous! He stands at probably six-foot-seven, and is built like a linebacker. His body type contrasts markedly with his costume of full Buddhist regalia, saffron and crimson robes—and tennis shoes, no doubt size 16. So this is the guy that everyone has been raving about. He ambles his way through the rows of bodies on the floor to a small altar that has been set up for him up front. On it are various bells, vials, and a curious looking object with points that stand up. It resembles a pagoda and is done in the same saffron and crimson cloth.

All eyes are on this man, who proves to be a charming speaker. At first he talks sweetly about spreading peace. He preaches about being kind to one another in our day-to-day lives; having patience with people who are frustrated or mean; answering rudeness with kindness. It's a spiritual message, though a basic one. It’s the Golden Rule; turning the other cheek; a Sunday school lesson.

Then he takes a vial from his altar and dabs some oil to his forehead, then passes it around the room for us to do the same. It is Sandalwood. Aromatherapy, this is something I've done in my psychic development classes, though I prefer Lavender, which is more conducive to opening intuition.

The Big Guy continues talking while all the guests listen with rapt attention. There is no denying his personal charisma. He shares stories about his life, amusing incidents that make us laugh. And it does feel good to laugh—something we haven't done in the last 48 hours. At the same time I wonder if we are enjoying it simply because it contrasts from the boring routine we've had up to this point. After all, if you withhold someone's food for two days, even a celery stick is going to taste pretty good at first.

He begins to weave in more of his views. Not all of them strike a positive cord. For one thing he advocates avoiding all psychic phenomena. His thought is that this taps into the lower astral realm, which is not a place of light. It's filled with emotionalism, confusion, appetites, etc. Okay, I do agree that such a place exists, that there are varying levels of awareness beyond this one. The lower astral realm is not a whole lot different from places of lower consciousness that exist in our physical world, such as porno shops, prisons, and gambling casinos. But his ideology and mine part company when he lumps all psychic things into one label, bad. I do psychic healing. The angelic realm can be accessed psychically, and that can hardly be called lower astral.

Next, the Big Guy begins knocking Reiki healing. I glance over at Susan, whose eyebrows go up. He is taking issue with all the money that is charged for Reiki practitioners to earn their degrees and become Masters. Though I can't disagree with some of what he says, not all Reiki teachers are greedy, as he is suggesting. There is no missing the irony when I think of how much we’ve paid to be sitting on this hard floor listening to him. Like this darshan is free?

Ms. Minnesota is asking questions and by the spellbound look on her face, she is lapping up his answers. The Big Guy smiles broadly and patiently expounds. It's an ego-gratifying experience playing teacher, something I've had to watch to keep in check myself. I wonder, does he keep his ego in check? Some things he says would indicate otherwise. He speaks of being telepathic. How is that substantially different from being psychic? He mentions going to a movie theater and how he can focus his energy on any one person in the place and in minutes, make them sweat. So what's the point of that? Then he takes the tall cloth pagoda looking thing from his altar and carefully places it on his head, and we realize it's a crown. Immediately I think of the Tarot reading Denise and I did on the airplane. From across the room we make perfect eye contact and mentally scream in unison: It's the emperor!!! Who is telepathic now? It's very hard not to laugh.

Chapter 2

Misery in Paradise

THE EMPEROR LEAVES after his two-hour appearance, ending the amusing dialogue. We’re left wondering if and when he will show again, and personally, I'm beginning not to care. We continue our studies on the hard floor, and we wait for the lunch and dinner bell, like Pavlov's dog. Meal times are about the only thing to look forward to. By this time the silence rule is doing its job. It’s obvious that people's emotional stuff is coming up on them. I see the short guy from England crying in the cafeteria. Others look angry. They walk briskly down the road, as if trying to escape an inner demon. I am no exception. A tidal wave of grief has been rising within me and by the afternoon of the third day, it can be pushed down no longer. There's a flood of memories I can't control. They are not all bad ones. But the happiest bring the worst of the other kind. Like our wedding day. Three-year-old Adam, dressed in a suit and tie. Matching Smiles of hope and happiness on all our faces. He finally has a dad who will love him. And then the crushing news that at 19, Adam is addicted to crank. We’ve failed as parents! Once again I revisit our happy wedding scene, and then fast forward four years later to Katie’s birth. Her father and I cry for joy. She Squints in the bright lights of the delivery room, trying to focus on our faces. Meet your parents, Katie. But you only get 15 years with your dad.

Denise and Susan find me lying on my bunk, with a severe case of the emotional flu. Susan pats and rubs my back and Denise fetches a glass of water. This is good, my friends insist, in whispers, since they're not supposed to be talking to me. I need to let it out, they say. I've been in shock for the past five weeks, trying desperately to be strong for everyone else. There are no boxes of tissue in this spartan place, so they find me a roll of toilet paper. There is nothing more they can do for me at this point, nothing anyone can do. They will come back to check on me, they promise.

I am again touched by the love of my friends, which makes me sob all the more. They remind me of the nature programs I've seen about elephants, a matriarchal society where they take care of each other and their young ones. Aunties, they call them, who nurture each other's children as their own. It's the male elephants that are the rogues, that trumpet loudly and crash through the underbrush, coming around mainly for mating. Not all men are rogues, I know. Denise has a wonderful husband. I had a husband who was wonderful sometimes. I miss him and the future I thought we'd have. But mostly, now, I want to throttle him.

How could you have done it, Dave? How could you! Other men go through midlife crises and make fools of themselves. They might have an affair and get caught. They might also lose money in the stock market. They, too, might be clueless about their careers and feel stuck in the same rut you dug for yourself. But they don't take the coward's way out!

Unwelcome images of the worst night of my life replay over and over in my mind. I’m coming home from teaching class. Dave's car is in the driveway, but he's not around. I find the suicide note on his desk, then call 911 and frantically search again for him. Thank God it is the police who find him out in the garage, behind a bunch of boxes and other clutter. A young officer with braces on his teeth looks up when I try to follow him in. You don’t want to come in here, he says. Denise rushes over, God bless her. The coroner and a police chaplain arrive. I’ll never forget the bewildered look on my Mom's face. It’s a compounded loss for her, for us. My dad passed only two months before. Adam and his girlfriend show up. Both are white-faced. Katie is hysterical and we all try to calm her. Katie's best friend and her parents arrive to see if they can help. Everyone is crying except for me—I'm numb with shock—and Adam, who clenches his jaw with rage. Only three days before, during the intervention with the drug counselor, Dave had promised to build a good relationship with his son, the one they should have had all those years.

You destroyed more than yourself, Dave. Our marriage, our family, the life we built together for 19 years. You betrayed and then abandoned us all. With one selfish, stupid, and senseless act, with just one bullet. How could you?

Eventually I have to move. I cannot lie on this bunk forever. While everyone else is still in the meditation session I rise and wash my face. Hiding swollen eyes behind sunglasses, I go for a walk up the road above the temple. The hillside is steep, leading to farms on both sides of the road. Houses are few and far between here. A school bus unloads a couple of children and growls its way on up the hill. From this vantage point I can see the temple below, but we are far enough inland that I still can't see the ocean. Hawaii without the ocean is like marriage without the sex. Typical. I smile in spite of myself.

The walk is helping some. As I take in the sights and smells and beauty of this place, ocean or not, inexplicably, something shifts within me. Images begin to form in my mind, this time of my future. It’s my wedding day, five or six years from now. I am dressed in a beautiful cream-colored dress with lots of flowing lace. Katie is my bridesmaid. I walk down the aisle on Adam’s arm. My brothers and other family members are there, and all of my wonderful friends. By this time Mom is gone, I know. But I have recovered from her loss, from all my losses. And I feel the love from everyone permeating the room. I'm beaming with happiness. I can't quite see the groom's face. But that's okay. There are some things we aren't meant to know in advance.

The scene gives me a ray of hope. I am only 43 years old. I do not want to spend the rest of my life alone. True, a traditional marriage is not the only path to happiness; a live-in mate might fill the bill just as well. But something to celebrate is pretty appealing at this point. I look at weddings as just that, a celebration of love and partnership.

I could be bitter if I were to allow it. I invested 19 years making my marriage and family priority number one. There is no denying that this is a terrible loss for me. I know that always and forever there will be some residual sadness come up—Dave's birthday, our wedding anniversary, the anniversary of his death, not to mention Christmas. My life will never be the same. Yet I recognize that there are others who have walked this path and survived it, even surpassed it. They are not the same, they are better. They possess deepened compassion and wisdom, a fuller life because they know what it is to be destroyed and to rise again, stronger, like the Phoenix out of the ashes.

There are those who use the depth of tragedy as a springboard for greatness, and I vow to be one of them. However, I'm under no illusion that the task will be easy. I am beginning a healing process that will take time and a lot of work. At the moment the picture that illustrates my life is bleak. I am standing in the rubble of what once was my world, with a shattered heart and broken spirit. There will be a lot of clearing and rebuilding to do between this dark and desolate before picture and the bright and shiny after I have just glimpsed in my future.

By evening I am becoming increasingly restless and annoyed. This place and its hands-off policy is not at all what I need right now. I've been through hell and I need to be taken care of, supported, and to be comforted, not ignored. I've rebounded from the depths of grief to becoming angry—and I'm not the only one. We're back to that insufferable Melvin, who is behaving like little Hitler. At one point he catches Denise talking in the hallway outside the dorm room and attempts to correct her. I was asking Susan for aTampax, okay? She growls back. Melvin blushes and turns away, tail tucked between his legs

After dinner we are at last free to take an evening walk. The three of us girls meet in the woods for a pow-wow. We have to be discreet, casually walking away from the temple grounds separately until we're out of earshot. And then we chatter like magpies!

Did you get a load of the way he sauntered in? Denise rolls her eyes, That schlumpy gait, and his immenseness. I was thinking to myself, oh my God, it's Baby Huey! This of course brings howls of laughter.

And he's got a huge ego to match. Susan chimes in.

Ya think? Denise chuckles, "And he didn't even show up for his own darshan until the third day. Is that a power play or what?

And those vitamin drinks. I wonder what they're putting in the Kool-Aid, Susan says, It could be any number of herbal or homeopathic formulas that cause people to be docile, or worse.

What kind of subliminal messages are in that piped-in music along with those chanting and bells? I say, Notice there's no women's voices, just men ‘singing’ if you want to call it that." It's true, the chanting and toning are all male.

Bells and balls! Denise coins the phrase, bringing more howls of laughter from all three of us. We glance around to see if there are any spies nearby, or Melvin, the truant officer. Fortunately, the coast is clear. We're acting like Junior High kids cutting PE class.

We continue to laugh and chatter, compare notes and question everything. It feels so good to do this. Separately, we've been doubting ourselves. But together we are united in the realization that the Enlightened Master is not all he's cracked up to be. Denise is putting it together now. We've got the true picture. The order established in India that rescued those poor, impoverished souls, is not altogether altruistic, as they would have us believe. The poor people take a vow to give up their possessions, which is no problem, since they have very little to begin with. But then in return for food, shelter, clothing,