*********
I WOKE UP EARLY the next morning. It was still dark but my body was wide awake and so I got up and made coffee. I then sat on a bench seat at the window to watch the sun come up. After the sky was fully bright, I did some reading and praying and journaling, and then I got dressed. I had an appointment at 9:00 with Ann Jackson at the guest house.
At times it was hard to remember Ann Jackson was a nun. She didn't wear a habit; she was dressed in jeans and running shoes. She was incredibly worldly and didn't seem to mind when I threw the words "fuck" and "shit" into our conversation. Hell, I think she might have repeated them.
"What brings you here, Mark?" she asked.
How could I explain all the crazy shit that brought me here? I had two choices: underexplain, or overexplain. Something about Ann Jackson made me do the latter. I spewed words; as Lindsey Lohan's character says in Mean Girls, I had word vomit. I talked and talked, and I recall jumping from one thing to another, as if the death of my mother when I was 18 were somehow connected to my semi-spiritual relationship with the game of baseball. Ten or fifteen minutes I must have talked. Ann Jackson listened.
"It is clear," she said during a break, "that you put a lot of thought into things. Do you think sometimes you overthink things?"
"Absolutely," I said. "That is a huge flaw of mine."
"Try not to use the word 'flaw'. Try to think of it as a characteristic--neither good nor bad. Neutral. Now," she continued, "without thinking too much, what do you want when you leave here?"
"For shit to get back to normal. To stop worrying so goddamn much. To enjoy being alive again and not feel guilty about it."
"Have you felt that way before?"
"Absolutely," I said. "Sometimes, you know, life just feels like everything's clicking. And I know it can't be that way all the time, but right now, it just feels like I am constantly pushing uphill, and if take a break and fall asleep, which is all I want to do, I wake up at the bottom of the hill again."
"When you feel good--what's that like? Tell me about it."
"Well...I don't know. Like, I smile. And I'm funny. And I don't worry about every little thing I do. And I don't judge other people, or myself. I just roll with it."
"Try to define wellness," she said, "in positive terms. You keep saying what you don't have when you're well. Tell me about what you do have."
"Well...I don't know. I mean, I guess I laugh. I joke. I watch sports."
Ann Jackson listened. "Have you ever felt," she said, "when you're feeling this way--feeling good--that you have an energy, and that that energy could radiate around an entire football field?"
I thought about that. "Yes," I said. "That's exactly right. It's a connection between myself and the world and other people."
"Is that energy less right right now?"
Again, I thought. "Yes. To use your football field analogy, it's going only, like, three yards away from me right now."
Ann Jackson stood up. "I'm going to give you a book. If you want to take a look at it while you're here, or even take it with you, great. If it's not your thing, no worries." She handed me the book. "This book talks about your seven chakras. It's an ancient Eastern term used to describe the seven energy centers of the body. Many people have found that by exercising and becoming aware of their chakras, they are able to improve the energy levels within and around them."
It was becoming clearer and clearer that Ann Jackson was no dogmatic Catholic nun.
"Some would say," she smiled as if reading my thoughts, "that this kind of stuff is heretical, or blasphemous, or just plain loony tunes. But you know, to each their own. I, myself, have found great comfort in it."
We continued to talk. At the conclusion of our time, we arranged to meet on Saturday morning before I left, and then she asked me two questions:
"Can I give you a hug?"
"Of course," I said, and we embraced for five or ten seconds. As we separated, she asked:
"Can I pray for you?"
"Of course," I said. "I kinda need all the help I can get right now."
"Mark," she said. "I can feel your energy. You are hurting, yes; but you are stronger than you know. God has great things in store for you."
I smiled. "Thank you," I said.
**********
I HAD A BEATIFUL DAY, eating, resting, walking the grounds, walking the Labyrinth while some deer watched me, viewing the sun set. It was nice weather for January 2. After the sun set, I ate and showered, and then sat down in the recliner with Ann Jackson's book.
It was written by some British psychiatrist in the 1980's, who said she had "finally broken free from the artificial barriers between Western and spiritual medicine", and now felt free "helping patients with what I had known as a little girl--that I had a special energy, and if I had I had it, everyone had it." The chakras were "the seven energy centers of our body--the Root, Sacral, Solar Plexus, Heart, Throat, Third Eye, and Crown." Each chakra was influential in certain areas of your life--for example, the Sacral Chakra was decisive in your sexual well-being. "For each chakra," the author wrote, "I have included exercises and meditations to develop yourself."
A quick glance at the end of each chapter showed me that each meditation took a minimum of one hour, and that furthermore, you would need a certain "colored stone" and a "bowl of purified water" for each one.
"Typical hippie ass mumbo jumbo," I thought. Who, in the real world, can set aside an hour several times a week to play around with some stones and chant about their chakra?
I really liked Ann Jackson, and I really respected her. I didn't think any less of her after looking at this book. But she was right: it wasn't everybody's cup of tea. It certainly wasn't mine.
I threw the chakra book back on the table and picked up the Sandford novel. Despite having woken early, I wasn't tired. The book was good and I read and read, purposely ignoring the clock. I didn't think about the chakras anymore, either.
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