Prologue
This was one big fucking mistake.
The last four days have easily been the longest of my life. And I see six more of the same flowing out in front of me like molasses.
“Breathe deep.” Chloe’s serene voice breaks into my thoughts.
Eyes closed, I obey, pulling in a long, slow, deep breath. I’ve taken in so much air in the last few days, I should be a balloon by now. The retreat brochure promised cleansing of the soul, cultivation of self-awareness, and expansion of the spirit. I’m four days in, and I still don’t know what the hell any of that means, but I’m beginning to realize what I need isn’t serenity, but rather an exorcism of my pleaser personality.
If I ever do this again—highly doubtful—I’ll be looking for a retreat with seminars like “How to escape the expectations of your overachieving parents” and “Fuck what anyone else thinks of you” and “How to say ‘thanks, but no thanks’ to the misplaced demands of others.”
And, hey, maybe I ought to just create that retreat myself. I can’t be the only person suffocating beneath the weight of my parents’ hopes and dreams. Right?
“And release.” Chloe’s directive makes me realize I’m no longer following along. But this is supposed to be “an individual journey of the spirit,” and my spirit is ready to get the hell off this freaking island.
The earlier breeze has developed into a definite wind. It’s warm and wet, heavy with tropical moisture and the scent of the sea. That, at least, does bring relaxation. But the lush palm fronds topping the hundred-foot trees batter together, transitioning from an irritated kerfuffle to a pissed-off rant. I wonder if I’m absorbing the palms’ negative energy and instantly drop down a rabbit hole of contemplation on the theory of humans and trees connecting spiritually.
I shake off that bizarre thought and pull my focus back to the meditation. I’m already stuck here; may as well hunt peace, awareness, and enlightenment down like dogs and drag the little bastards into the light, kicking and screaming.
“Breathe in.” Chloe’s voice is calm, but I seriously can’t focus with all the racket above my head.
I crack one eyelid and survey the group without moving. Chloe, one of the retreat’s spiritual instructors, is the kind of woman other women love to hate—beautiful, strong, smart. I know everyone has their own issues, and no one’s life is as perfect as it seems from the outside looking in, but Chloe couldn’t appear any more gifted or together.
She sits directly across from me, her blonde hair up in a messy bun like ninety percent of the other three dozen women on this retreat, her slim legs bent and tucked, resembling a pretzel.
My mind takes a detour, to the pretzel vendor who sets up shop on the corner I pass every day on my walk to work in Los Angeles. A memory of the yeasty scent and salty taste floods my senses. I’d kill for a belly full of gluten right now.
“Breathe out.”
I side-eye the empty pillow on my right. Still no KT. I, along with seven other women in the circle, emulate Chloe’s posture, spine straight, shoulders down, chin up, hands resting at the bend of the knees, palms to the sky. The other twenty-eight women participating in this spiritual retreat broke up into small groups like this one and scattered throughout the resort. We are seaside on a bluff set back from the South Pacific.
“Bring up an image of the person with whom you’ve been harboring resentment,” Chloe says.
My parents come to mind instantly. And, yeah, that makes guilt flash, quick and hot. They bring up a lot of mixed emotions.
“Accept any feelings coming up,” she says. “Just breathe into the feeling and let it go.”
I really should give this meditation my all. It’s an attachment release visualization I’ve been looking forward to. I desperately want to slice through the web of expectations my parents started spinning around me the moment I was born, layers and layers of expectations for everything from achievement to manners. But I also want to distract myself from the work, because, no joke, it’s hard AF.
My gaze is drawn by the sea. The waves have doubled in size in the last twenty minutes, and the wind slams the sea against the island’s cliff walls.
Unease stirs in the pit of my stomach. The mantra I learned here, “your intuition is your guardian angel whispering in your ear,” pops to mind, but that idea makes me wonder if all my problems aren’t self-inflicted. My issues are a crazy complicated mess from years spent striving for acceptance from my parents. True unconditional love I’ve never received. The work I’ve done here has brought up a dozen thorny problems I know can’t be solved in this short retreat, and I’m beginning to think I’m going to need therapy after this. Or, I guess I should say, more therapy.
The wind gusts, pulling my hair from my messy bun and throwing it across my face. It’s annoying as hell, and I have no idea how the other women manage to ignore it. I use both hands to pull the strands back and openly look around the circle. Everyone appears deep in meditation as Chloe guides the visualization of allowing your unhealthy attachments to dissolve.
I can’t stop looking at the ocean, willing KT to appear. I saw her head toward the water earlier this morning carrying scuba gear. I don’t know the woman any more than I do anyone else on the retreat. She is quietly intense, and despite her athletic female figure and sweet, pixie-like looks, she strikes me as someone who would identify well with men and fit in as just another one of the guys. For a reason I can’t quite identify, she is the first person I would look to for direction in a disaster, which might be why her absence is bothering me.
Another gust whips off the ocean, and the trunks of the palm trees lining the tide pools bow.
“As you see this person sitting across from you,” Chloe says, apparently utterly unconcerned with the uptick in the storm, “collect all your frustration, anger, and hurt into a glowing orange ball.” A long pause allows the image to form in the mind. “Now offer that sizzling globe up to your inner guide.”