lie no. 40 | 05.08.20

I replayed that conversation with my mother in my head most of the four-hour drive to Cold Springs, New York, the next morning. That is, when I wasn’t pulling over on the highway to write something out. Super safe. What can I say? I was feeling very Hannah Horvath in HBO’s Girls when she headed to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. 

Hindsight being the little minx that it is, this is now hilarious to me. Why? Well, I overlooked some pretty massive clues about what I was actually getting myself into. For starters, I was headed to a mindfulness center. In an old monastery. The workshop was co-taught by a positivity psychologist, a term I’d never heard, and an author. The workshop was titled, “Writing for Resilience: The Lifesaving Power of Changing Your Story.”  

It’s funny how we see what we want to see. Matt found it hilarious to joke about me checking myself into an institution. (The place is called the Garrison Institute.) Meanwhile, I thought I was headed to writing camp. A weekend away, but still in country, to hone my craft, to start writing my book.

I went up early to explore the area (read: find the local bookstore and an art museum). I’d never been to upstate New York. It was beautiful, even in the Amsterdam-like overcast, cool, damp weather. I sat along the river and read for a bit as the sky slowly spat on my pages. 

Ready to embark on what I’d later call the most foreign experience I’d had to date, I got in my car and drove down the road and through the gates to the Institute. There were no signs telling me where to park so I did what I tend to do: grab the first open spot I see, which more often than not, thanks to the theory of relativity, is also the furthest spot from my destination. 

I’d packed my things for the weekend (mostly books) in Matt’s duffle. It most certainly wouldn’t have met any airline’s weight requirements. I paid my fee by trudging down the driveway taking breaks along the way, all the while wondering what I’d been thinking. I couldn’t read that many books in one weekend even if I did nothing else, including sleep.

Right before I left that morning I mentioned to Matt—who’d probably asked what I was thinking by taking all those books—that I hadn’t heard from the Institute since I signed up weeks earlier and got my receipt. I had no idea what I was getting into. No agenda. No details. No clue. (But obviously still somehow had expectations.)

“What?!” he asked. “Are you sure you’re actually even registered?” Then, more in jest he added, “what are you going to do without an agenda?!”

I like a good plan. I like to know what I’m signing up for, what to expect. Sue me. 

“I know,” I said. “I’m trying really, really hard not to think about it.”

The monastic building came into view just as the parking lot did. I must’ve parked in the staff lot. I tried to open a gate and what I now know to be a side door. Neither worked. Uh. Finally someone walked by and pointed me around to the front, which is actually the back, facing the river. 

When I registered for the workshop I learned I had the option to stay there or on my own in town. It was so cheap, and admittedly weird enough for this weirdo, adventurous enough for this adventure-seeker to stay in a monastery so I went with it. I hobbled my book-filled rucksack up the monastery’s old stairs (like, 18th-century-old) and through the old wooden front doors that looked exactly like I’d expect the entrance to a religious institute to look like.

Inside there was a frenzy of people—of the calm, quiet, peaceful-looking persuasion—floating about the space. I didn’t see anything resembling a front desk or concierge.

I did see a small wooden desk with a clipboard and pen on it. I found my name and signed it as a woman walked by and quietly said, “oh great, looks like you’re all set.”

Uh. I sure didn’t feel all set. 

“Which way to my room?” I asked.

She sent me down the longest hallway in sight, assuring me there was a staircase at the end I couldn’t yet see. From there, I’d go up three flights and find my room on the left-hand side of the hall. Fantastic. I took a deep breath and was on my way. At least she’d handed me an agenda as we parted ways. I couldn’t wait to get my eyeballs on. The light at the end of more trudging, something to look forward to.

It wasn’t until I was standing outside my room I realized she’d never given me a key. Was I just supposed to leave my bag here in the hallway as I went back down? Carrying it down and back again wasn’t an option. Instead, I gave it the ol’ try the door trick. It actually worked. The door opened. It happened in slow motion, as if I was afraid I’d set some alarm off, which was fortuitous as it gave me a chance to notice everything about the door. For instance, the fact that it had no lock.

Wait, what?! Just because a bunch of monks used to live here once upon a time did not mean the hundred-plus strangers I’d be sleeping under the same roof with for the next two nights were holy beings. I was not OK with this. Relax, I told myself. No one wants to steal your damn books. 

I sat down on the bed, which I noticed had no sheets on it. It’s funny how easily a new problem can distract you from the last. Breathe. 

My body started unpacking as my mind started plotting my exit. I thought about that alarm at the hotel in Amsterdam.

“It is safe,” the man’s voice said over the loud speaker. “There is no need to evacuate. We apologize for the inconvenience.” 

It felt applicable here, too. This is simply an inconvenience. It won’t kill me. There’s no need to evacuate. I thought about how I’d been learning to trust myself again over the past year. I knew in my heart I was safe. Maybe this was my test for trusting others. I mean, mindfulness centers aren’t likely hot spots for murderers I’m guessing. This did not stop my mind from keeping me awake both nights but in all honesty, neither did the drills directly across the river at West Point or the trains that ran alongside it 24/7. But I didn’t give into it. I paid it no mind. Which was huge for me.

The room was smaller than a tiny dorm, barely room for a desk, twin bed and nightstand. I’d paid extra to have my own room (praise be!). I found a set of sheets in the closet as I unpacked and I quickly realized, much like a dorm room, there was no bathroom. The communal bathroom was down the hall.

I grabbed the agenda I’d gotten downstairs. I’d nearly forgotten about it as the storm of uncertainty had started to pick up its pace. 

3-6 p.m.: registration 
6-7 p.m.: dinner
7-9 p.m.: evening program

Hm, descriptive. Saturday and Sunday’s agendas looked the same, but also included breakfast, morning program, lunch and afternoon program. It was downright comical. Nevertheless I stuck it in my bag and headed downstairs with a much lighter load than I’d arrived. I wandered the property’s eery yet stunning grounds. It was weird to see leaf-less trees in mid-April. 

It somehow felt foreign to find myself back in the gloom, when I’d just gotten used to living back in the bloom. If that’s not a metaphor for my life at that time I don’t know what is.

I found my group in the vast dining hall. There were close to 30 of us. I felt like I was the youngest by at least 20 years. To be fair, one or two were close to my age. There were two separate silent retreats also taking place that weekend. As an introvert, it didn’t seem that hard to me but I’m sure it is. It was also an absolute pleasure being formally instructed not to say hello to every passerby in case they were part of one of the silent retreats. Instead, we were invited to smile or simply wave. If that’s not some kind of training for this new mask-wearing reality I don’t know what is.

For some reason, despite months of talking to strangers who speak other languages starting in December, I found myself feeling extra shy. (Hilariously, Instagram reminded me that I spent last March at home. On March 22, 2019, I posted a picture of me riding a bike in Vancouver with the caption “rolling into a record-breaking 4th weekend in a row at home 🏆.” 2020 me got a really good laugh out of that this March.)

Like I said earlier, this experience felt like my most foreign one to date. Most everyone had been coming to retreats like this for years. After dinner we made our way to the “evening program” and kicked things off by going around and introducing ourselves. My turn was toward the end. Very few before me said they were writers. There were sales people, realtors, a nurse and a lot of retirees. 

“I’m Rebecca and I’m a writer,” I said when my turn came.

That’s right. I really went for it.

This website didn’t even exist yet. It was still a twinkle in my eye living in my GoDaddy account alongside all the other unused urls, like a mantle of url urns. I’m sure I mumbled something about research on the backend to establish some semblance of legitimacy. 

I was proud of myself. I was also very suspect of myself and what exactly I’d gotten myself into. Hannah, we are not in Iowa anymore.

“We forget we’re the storyteller, not the story,” is the first thing I wrote in my notebook that weekend. “When you tell the truth, your story changes. When your story changes, your life is transformed.”

Well, yes. I knew that already. It had taken me 8 months along with a bunch of bumps, bruises and baths, but I already knew that to be the truest truth in my heart. 

Fast forward to the last day of group therapy, I mean, writing workshop. We were wrapping up our weekend of opening, of excavating, of sharing.

Moments earlier I’d read aloud something I wrote likening a hurricane to the storm swirling inside me over loss and grief set in an actual hurricane. That piece went on to become Lie No. 22. I almost didn’t read it aloud partly because I’d never read anything of mine aloud, but mostly because everyone else had been sharing truly horrific experiences I couldn’t even imagine. Experiences far worse than cancer, affairs and divorce. But something pushed me up there. 

Jaws dropped. Tears rolled down a few’s faces. Oh god, they hated it. They hated me, the privileged white girl without a real problem or suffering in sight. I stood up to go back to my seat. 

“Wow,” was all the psychologist got out at first.

“That was incredible, lyrical even,” the author said. 

They continued on (including some greatly  appreciated criticism) and others chimed in. Even those who read before me with those unimaginable and tragic tales came up to me after to say they knew exactly how I felt. Some told me it helped them understand a feeling they’d experienced but hadn’t been able to describe. 

I’m sorry, what? I heard your story. My pain is peanuts in comparison to what you’ve been through. On the drive home I remembered pretty quickly that pain is universal. We all experience it differently, and comparing or ranking it gets us no where. Learning to sit in it is ironically what moves us forward. Learning to simply listen to it is what helps others move forward.

One woman came up to me afterward and said, “these things always go so much better when we have an actual writer in the group, so thank you.” 

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I only ever wrote Instagram captions, how it’d been years since I’d seen my name in print.

Oh my god.

It was me.

I’m the one who abandoned me.

I started abandoning myself at an early age and it only picked up its frequency with age. Following the crowd. Wanting to fit into it. Not wanting to be different. Wanting to be successful. Assuming success only came from stature and money. Fearing failure. Fearing my own voice. Not trusting myself. Not believing in myself. 

The night before I left for the workshop my mother confirmed what I already knew. No, I’d never been abandoned or left anywhere that she knew of. But how could she have known? This was an inside job. 

In the end, I didn’t write as much that weekend as I’d expected going in. Instead, I wrote exactly what I needed to write to realize this. It wasn’t the writing workshop I’d had in mind. Instead, it was a helluva convenient time to do a deep dive into the science and psychology of resilience. Which, it turns out, is exactly what I needed.

The week after I got home I was writing about the seemingly contradictory expression “good grief” and a bird flew smack into my window. It’s funny to read it back now because it was like, serious topic, then woah!, the resumption of serious topic followed by an observation. My observation practice really got to stretch its muscles when I got into design thinking. Sitting and observing has been a favorite activity since childhood.

“Oh! I just saw the bird again,” I wrote. “I’m assuming it’s the same bird. I’d really prefer there not to be a dead bird out on the sidewalk. It looks so confused and shaken up. It’s almost like it’s checking on itself. Cocking its head in various directions to make sure all its parts are still there. Wow. I just watched it fly off. Quite the little story of resilience here this morning! The bird made sure she was OK and safe to fly and then off she went. Man, that’s some ability to trust yourself. She had no way of knowing if she could still fly until she leapt off that branch risking it all. Or maybe it’s about trust AND faith. What an apt visual this is. I’ve flown into so many of the same windows over and over again. I’ve stayed on the branch—probably telling others I’m fine when I’m not sure. I almost always seek the safety of the branch versus taking the leap of faith. What would happen if I took the leap?”