It was excruciating.
Uneven numbers meant I ended up being partnered with the most whiskery of the Lentil Boys and from the way his pupils flared and dilated, he was clearly giving it socks with the LovingKindness thoughts. The only way to cope was to disappear deep inside myself.
Eventually, someone chimed something chime-y – probably a Tibetan prayer bowl, it usually was – and the longest ten minutes in eternity came to an end; this was our cue to break the gaze and start with someone new. I gave a pained smile and twisted away.
Yoga Girl called, ‘Has everyone swapped partners?’
I looked at my new person. A man. His face was as expressive as a poker but there was something going on in his eyes. Almost a smirk. Something to do with the ‘swapping partners’ comment.
Juvenile.
And yet.
I stared at him. He stared at me. I thought, I feel kindly towards you. I feel lovingly towards you.
Holding his unblinking gaze, I decided that he was returning the kind and loving thoughts. Then I actually felt something. Some sort of relief.
No one was more surprised than me.
Even as I gave a wobbly smile, tears started to spill from my eyes. Heavy drops plopped into my cupped hands and there were none of the awkward pats or fumbling for tissues that usually accompany public crying. We simply sat still and held the gaze.
When the bowl chimed, the man tilted his head, asking a silent question: was I okay?
I nodded and smiled, dashed away the surprise tears, then turned to meet my next partner.
Maybe half an hour later, the weekend came to a close and our last instruction was to remain ‘non-verbal’ until we were off the property.
Upstairs, in the dormitory, as I threw my few possessions into my bag, my heart was lighter than it had been in a long time. The peace of meditation still eluded me – it probably always would – but, entirely unexpectedly, I felt absolved. It didn’t make sense but that man, that stranger, had cleared away some of the wreckage of my past.
One of the Lentil Boys returned my electronics then I stepped out into the chilly evening – and saw the man standing there, pretending to fiddle with his phone.
This felt awkward. Something good had taken place in that room and that room was probably where it should stay.
After a quick nod, I made for my car, slightly startled by the long, low, cream-coloured Merc in the space beside mine. It looked as if it had come direct from a seventies’ police show, very at home screeching through narrow streets and doing handbrake turns. It was hard to know if it was beautiful or just flashy.
‘Hey,’ I heard. I turned.
‘I’m Quin.’
Well, he sounded sure of himself. And he’d broken the rules.
Then I decided that it didn’t matter. ‘I’m Rachel.’
He walked up to me. ‘Could I …？’ he asked. ‘Could we …？’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m not looking for, you know, that sort of …’
‘I don’t think I am, either,’ he said. （A lie, as it turned out.） ‘But whatever happened in there, it touched me, and it helped you?’
Even though less than an hour earlier I’d stared into his eyes for ten unbroken minutes, this was the first time I paid attention to the bigger picture. His brown hair was shorn tight and he was taller than me （I was five foot nine, this wasn’t always a given）。 On closer examination, his walking boots, his technical-looking top, the way his skin was pulled tight over his cheekbones were characteristic of those men who did lots of gruelling physical challenges. Men who always had three protein bars on their person and whose physical make-up was 0 per cent body fat, 87 per cent sinew, 13 per cent rage.
He didn’t look like he belonged here. ‘Can I ask something?’ I surprised myself by saying. ‘Why did you do this weekend?’
‘Because … I never feel like I’m done.’
I waited.
‘I want something,’ he said. ‘Then I get it. Then I want a better version of it. Or I don’t want it any more.’
Oh my God, one of those men.
‘My happiness is always over there, just out of reach,’ he said. ‘Mr Upgrade, that’s me.’
I actually laughed. ‘Well, no one can say you didn’t warn me.’
‘So?’ he asked. ‘What brought you here?’
Okay, here we go. ‘I’m in recovery. Meditation is recommended.’
If he responded with a blank stare, this burgeoning friendship would immediately hit the skids.
‘I’m an addict,’ I elaborated.