by Trish Ryan
One day I decided to meditate—it seemed like a “filter out the garbage” thing to do. I set myself up on a comfy pillow in Kristen’s living room, determined to empty my mind. “Ommmmmm,” I chanted (like I’d seen monks do on the Discovery Channel), closing my eyes and trying to open myself to the light of the universe. I took deep breaths in and tried to follow them out. It didn’t feel like much was happening. After a few minutes, though, things got more interesting, but not at all in the way I’d anticipated. As I breathed in, a violent shiver surged through my body, and I was overwhelmed by the distinct sensation that someone was standing over me with a sledgehammer, about to crush my skull. I cringed in anticipation, sliding back off of my pillow and scooting around the corner into the dining room. Panting heavily, I didn’t dare look. What the hell was that? I thought angrily. The Dalai Lama never mentioned a guy with a hammer . . . I stood up and glanced back into the living room, which naturally, was empty. The sun shone in through the windows, my pillow lay abandoned on the floor.
A few days later I tried a guided meditation, sure that the soothing voice of a renowned spiritual expert drifting out from my CD player would keep any monsters at bay. I lay back on the floor as my guide described the gentle stream of mystical light and energy coursing through my body—starting in my toes, continuing up the backs of my calves, filling my thighs and hips and abdomen. At first, I felt the warmth of the gentle stream, but then it made me a little jumpy. My heart started beating faster, and by the time the gentle stream started toward my chest, I had the visceral sense that poison was seeping through my veins, like I was being executed by lethal injection. My whole body jerked, and I slammed my hand against the CD player, ejecting the disc and sending it skittering across the carpet. Breathing heavily, I considered something for the first time: that perhaps not all of the spiritual forces vying for space in my brain and body were good, that not every higher power had my best interests at heart. It occurred to me that at a practical level, empty your mind is actually a terrible suggestion. I felt like the kid on the camping trip who gets hungry and starts munching on random berries—sure, they might tide me over for a little while, but the odds were equally good that they’d kill me.
ONE MORNING I pulled on a giant fleece jacket that had belonged to my father, poured myself a cup of coffee, and went out to Kristen’s backyard. I sat by the pool in the brisk fall air, wondering, in the most matter-of-fact way possible, what would become of me. How did I get here? How did this happen? The cold wind blew over me, and slowly, the truth came:
I was not brave, I was scared. I had not, historically, made decisions as the strong woman I thought myself to be, but rather as an annoying, spoiled child who stomped away when life didn’t follow her plan. In my hysterical pursuit of marriage, I’d lost sight of reality: that when I married this man, I’d have to live with him, that along with his beautiful diamond ring came his demands, his expectations, and his maniacal insistence that my life operate on his terms. Surrendering to my desperation, I had abandoned years of training in faith, spirituality—even the simple knowledge that not every loud frog is really a prince. Yet even as I realized all of this, I wasn’t sure what to do differently, or even what to do next. So I made some bold decisions: “I will never get married again.” I declared, letting the words echo out across the yard. The idea of being bound to someone I couldn’t get away from—a situation I had once pursued with my entire existence—now terrified me. “I will never let a man have that kind of control over me,” I continued. “I will never entrust my life to someone else, and I will never bring children into this world that might tie me to a man and make it impossible to get away. I won’t do that, not ever.” I took a long sip from my now lukewarm mug of coffee and looked at the fallen leaves blowing by. Everything around me felt cold and hopeless and dead.
THE NEXT DAY I went to Wal-Mart. I wanted to find some music to lighten my desperate outlook, preferably something that wasn’t filled with sappy lyrics about how the right man’s true love saves the day. As I wandered past a small section called “Christian Inspiration,” a white CD cover with four happy, smiling people on it caught my eye. In a Different Light it was called. On a whim, I grabbed it. On the surface, at least, this chic group of two men and two women looked happy—like they had life figured out. Avalon was the band’s name. Like the Arthurian Legend, I thought. Their shiny world felt so far from where I was, like such an impossible dream, that I bought their CD to see if a tiny bit of what they had might rub off on me.
I listened to that CD over and over and over again, surprised by how good it made me feel. I skipped the weird songs about Jesus and his wonderful death on the Cross, but the others— upbeat tunes about trusting God, how His love could strengthen my heart—began to resuscitate my flattened spirit. I played one song repeatedly. It was written as if God himself was singing, promising, that if His people prayed, if they reached out to Him with broken hearts, He would heal them.
Please let it be true, I prayed.
I COULDN’T LIVE in Connecticut forever, even though I kind of wanted to. It wasn’t a bad place to convalesce—a five-bedroom estate with a Jacuzzi tub, 257 cable channels, and a pool, not to mention a gardener and a maid. I took weekend trips to the ocean. I spent quality time with my dog. Really, it could have been worse.
The thing was, though, none of it was mine. Kristen and her family came on the weekends to reinhabit their lives, and I’d realize—mortified—that I’d eaten her husband’s favorite crackers or drank the last beer. I lived in constant fear of breaking, spilling, denting—I was like one of those uber-conscientious campers, trying to erase all traces of my existence, determined to leave this pristine, antique-filled habitat unsullied by my presence. That Kristen would let me live in her weekend house was a gorgeous act of generosity; that her husband—whose opinion of me hovered somewhere between contempt and utter disdain—allowed me in the house at all was, in fact, a miracle. (I suspect it is recorded in heaven as his one kind gesture toward a registered Democrat.)
And yet I could tell that everyone was watching me, wondering what would happen next. No one asked, or even hinted. But it was clear that I couldn’t go on like this, that I couldn’t spend the rest of my life planning my day around a bath, a long walk, and the latest episode of A Love Story on TLC.
“Why is Trish crying?” Kristen’s five-year-old daughter asked one afternoon.
“She’s sad.” Kristen replied. “Sometimes grown-up life makes you really sad.”
Chapter Nine
My Get-a-Life Coach
Maybe you need professional help?” Celia suggested one day over the phone, after I’d described the grim sum total of my circumstances: the hiding, the fictitious last name, the man with the sledgehammer haunting my attempts at meditation. We both agreed that my life was getting a bit too much like a James Bond movie. She sent me an article from the New York Times describing a new source of help for people who were not, as the author gently put it, where they wanted to be in life. Rather than spending all our money on psychoanalysis and updated editions of What Color Is Your Parachute? under-performers like me could hire a new breed of personal adviser, what the article called a “life coach,” to sort us out and help us find our way. Not quite a therapist, not quite a guru, a life coach was a trained professional whose specialty was helping people reach their personal and professional goals.
I found a listing for one of these life coaches in the yellow pages. I took it as a sign. (It’s remarkable how omnipresent signs are when you’re determined to see them . . .) The woman’s name was Mary-rama Jacobson, and she invited me to her office for a free introductory session. Undaunted by her name—I’d certainly come across more unique ones in my travels—I decided to meet her and see what she had to offer.
When I walked into Mary-rama’s office that first day, I found myself in a cornucopia of spiritual tchotchkes: angels looking down from bookcases, crystals dancing in the summer sun, and a giant welcome mat at the foot o
f the stairs announcing “You are HERE” with a giant X to mark the spot. Harp music plunked cheerfully in the background. Mary-rama greeted me with a warm handshake and an offer of distilled water. She reminded me of Jane Hathaway from The Beverly Hillbillies—efficient, precise, and more than a tad off center. We sat down at her desk, where she ate the last of her eleven almonds (she was experimenting with the precise regulation of her protein intake). Her eyes glowed as she explained the genesis of her unique name: how the universe revealed her true identity one day as she was driving down the road.
“Spirit insisted,” she said as if that explained everything. “My birth name was Mary Ellen; changing it was a vital step in the declaration of my inner truth. Expanding the reach of my name out into the universe connects me to my larger presence,” she exclaimed with glee. My new age training in nonjudgmental acceptance kicked in at this point, and I nodded in what I knew was a positive, spirit-affirming manner. The first thing I learned from Mary-rama was that the key to selling people on a preposterous idea is to present it with absolute confidence.
“My mission is to help clients obtain RESULTS,” she explained. (I’d soon learned that the word “RESULTS” was always, always capitalized in Mary-rama’s world.) She spoke deliberately, using hand gestures to emphasize each point of her coaching paradigm. “As we explore your inner self, you’ll become more self-aware, self-contained, and self-expressive! We can reframe our difficult experiences into delightful opportunities, therefore expanding our experience of well-being!”
I stared at her quizzically, not sure how to respond.
“For example,” she soldiered on undaunted, “last weekend I ate a brownie.”
“You ate a brownie . . .” I repeated. Was this her idea of a difficult experience or a delightful opportunity?
“I ate a brownie,” she confirmed. “I wanted to feel the experience of sugar, so I wrote myself an action step, and then followed through on that step and acted with intention to purchase a brownie. Then,” she continued, eyes sparkling with pleasure, “I affirmed myself for completing these tasks, therefore acknowledging my commitment to full-cycle living. After eating the brownie, I charted my self-experience of this endeavor, monitoring my enjoyment of the brownie on my Well-Being Chart where I chronicle my satisfaction with my life decisions.” She handed me a sheet of graph paper with rows and cells colored in with different shades of highlighter, marking her enjoyment of everything from the last movie she saw to her breakfast cereal. “As you can see, when you make the right choices, your experience of life will increasingly synchronize with your desired RESULTS—last week, I achieved eighty-three percent satisfaction with my self-experiences!”
Is she kidding? I thought skeptically. But then again, who was I to mock? By any standard, my efforts thus far lacked RESULTS. But could it really be as simple as reframing my lemons as lemonade and keeping a chart of how much I liked dessert? Could I stand to spend more time analyzing my “self”? I struggled to see past her mannerisms and focus on her message.
“Life is like a game of tennis,” she continued, flipping to yet another worksheet. “The goal of my work as a coach is to help you figure out what you’re doing when you’re not hitting the ball.”
“When I’m not hitting the ball?” I parroted back to her. What on earth did that mean?
“It’s what happens between the hits that determines how often we get the RESULTS we want,” she explained patiently, clearly delighted with this insight. I wasn’t sure what to do with this information, but it seemed like something I should write down and think about later. Between the hits?!? I scribbled in my notebook.
Then Mary-rama told me to get up. “Stand at the edge of that throw rug over there. Great. Now, if you would, walk back toward me, starting with the third step.” I started to walk, and then paused, not sure what she was talking about. I looked at her, baffled.
“Go ahead . . .” she encouraged, “take that third step!”
“But I can’t . . .” I admitted.
“Exactly!” she crowed, rising from her chair and enveloping me in a hug. “You can’t start with the third step! This is the most important thing you can learn. Until you discover steps one and two, you can’t take the third even if you want to!” She beamed at me, thrilled by our breakthrough. “We,” she assured me, “are going to find your first step!”
Her methodology was silly, but I had to admit she had a point. I had no idea what my first step should be (or how to position myself between the hits for that matter), so I set the time and date for my next appointment. Mary-rama promised that she’d help me establish my life purpose, then set up my “ladder for winning” to take me toward my goals.
Two weeks later, we had our Life Purpose Determination meeting. We played a word game where she asked me a series of questions about my favorite memories.
“Tell me about a time you succeeded at something,” she said, scribbling furiously on her pad as I responded.
“Now tell me about a time you felt loved.” We went on to discuss a time I’d connected with someone I cared about, a time I’d been completely happy, and a time I felt like I was exactly in the right place. She wrote down my answers and then pulled out every fourth word (or some such formula), then left me alone for a half an hour with a pile of verbs and adverbs and adjectives from which to craft my purpose. I looked at the sheet of sample purpose statements from Mary-rama’s previous clients:
To successfully engage my dynamic creative being!
To manifest my childlike wonder in a fully conscious context!
To help others attain optimal life-enhancing practices!
I couldn’t imagine how any of these statements could help pay the bills. Never one to blow off a potentially life-changing project, though, I dutifully considered my words. Fifteen minutes later, it was decided: my life purpose was to encourage others that more is possible in life! It sounded good, like something that might be helpful. But still, I couldn’t see how to connect this jaunty statement to, as Mary-Rama would put it, RESULTS.
Chapter Ten
That’s Me in the Corner
Before leaving my marriage, I had RSVP’d to an alumni event at Wheaton. As I’d signed up for the dinners and booked my hotel room, I’d entertained visions of my grand return: driving my luxury car, showing off my gorgeous ring. No one there would know the truth about my marriage; I’d looked forward to a weekend of pretending that things were how they were supposed to be. But now, as the date grew closer, the ring was gone, the marriage was gone, my whole facade was shattered.
As I considered whether or not to go, one thought kept popping up, like a beach ball I couldn’t keep underwater: What if someone there can help me? What if someone there is the key to my new life? If that was true, it would be worth it—worth the embarrassment of showing up at the low point of my life rather than as a conquering heroine; worth the embarrassment of admitting that I needed everything imaginable to start over: a place to live, a job, friends; worth the embarrassment of admitting how far I’d fallen from our collective ideal of what happens to graduates after being magically launched from college. Bolstering my courage, I decided to give it a try.
As befits my long history of dramatic romantic rescues, I met a man my first day back on campus. Mark was also a Wheaton graduate, from a class a few years behind mine. A friend of his knew a friend of mine, and so we spent the day immersed in the same activities, making small talk and drinking lots of beer. At one point he asked, “How come you never say anything about yourself? Are you in hiding or something?” I choked on a chicken wing and admitted that yes, I was in hiding, which was why he didn’t recognize my name or remember much of anything about me.
Mark was interesting to talk to, and not bad to look at. He had caramel eyes and broad shoulders, and his mellow temperament put me at ease in a way I’d forgotten was possible. “I’m applying to grad school,” he told me. “I want to get a degree in disaster relief management.” How perfect, I thought. By all acco
unts, I was a disaster.
“Mark is such a great guy,” one of our fellow alums told me later. “You can count on anything he tells you.”
Two months later, I drove from Connecticut to Cambridge for our first date. Mark took me to a French restaurant and fed me platefuls of hors d’oeuvres and compliments by candlelight.
“I’m never getting married again,” I warned him, later, trying to be forthcoming.
“That’s perfect,” he responded happily. “I don’t believe in marriage.” He took my hand and smiled at me. As reluctant as I was to admit it, it felt a bit like a miracle.
A MONTH OR so later, when one of his roommates moved out, Mark offered me a space in the dilapidated Cambridge apartment he shared with three other guys. Despite my recent vow that I’d never again live with a man, I began the process of relearning who I was by surrounding myself with hairy, testosterone-laden creatures.
It was January, and each morning as the sun streamed through my eastern window, I’d pull on yards of wool to protect me from the winter cold, leash up Kylie, and head out through the piles and drifts of snow to the coffee shop around the corner. As I walked through this neighborhood—my neighborhood!—it seemed as though anything was possible. Everything felt cozy and welcoming and alive, like the whole atmosphere buzzed with some frequency that enhanced my ability to think, to create, to be. (With Harvard’s science labs close by, this buzzing may have been more real than I imagined.) For those first few months in Cambridge, I had an undeniable certainty that something was happening; that perhaps—just maybe—my life might be getting better.
