HEALERS, PT. 2
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| Landscape Study with River and Children. c. 1910. Watercolor painting by Mary Cassatt. |
The secret to Cassie’s success was that she knew that writing—be it marketing content, web copy, wedding toasts, movie treatments, or ghost-written memoirs—was just a matter of following a formula. That was the purest distillation of her process with each assignment: find the formula of that piece and then follow it. Self-help books were no different. Each had, at most, four distinct parts.
She called the first part IDENTIFICATION: describe the universal problem behavior, the thing the reader is learning to abandon, and explain it in as many ways as is tolerable. What does this problem look like, feel like? Describe the experience from the point or view of some made-up “clients”, people who “came to me one day” with a problem they needed fixing. The second part was DEFINITIONS: don’t offer solutions, but do give new names to the problem thinking, or habit, or process. Without going into details, create a vocabulary for your specific brand of advice, describe it as “a system,” or “a method,” or “a plan.” This makes the analysis seem unique and not the hurried recycling of a dozen or so other articles, themselves recycled too, about the same thing.
The third part finally got into the system/method/plan. Cassie called it RETHINKING: identify the old narrative and replace it with a new one. Cassie usually grabbed the most common advice and repackaged it, using the basic language of CBT therapy. Then she just explained the rethinking over and over through fabricated examples and generic analogies. The fourth part was technically the actual explanation of “the plan” but, as a piece of writing, it was functionally irrelevant. According to all of her metrics and all the industry knowledge she could get, no one ever finished these types of books. The most ambitious would get through part three only, so the fourth section became, for Cassie, a kind of psycho-babble vamping, about 3000 words of writing that used lines of logic that Cassie’s mother would have called “gobbledegook” and Cassie often called “horseshit.” Cassie didn’t even have a name for this part; she just called it “the end.” Most of this writing was content that Cassie herself would have recoiled from if she ever encountered it herself on the wilds of the internet, and yet, there was something enjoyable about this formula. Sometimes, especially in those aimless last chapters, her prose could reach the feathery flight of a haiku. Other times, it was like self-care Madlibs.
Really, all she needed to begin was the right vocabulary. So, while she sat waiting for them to start calling tokens, Cassie started taking notes. Google told her all she needed to know about darshan: the meeting or even seeing of someone who was especially holy, which was, essentially, good luck. However, she couldn’t quite tell what exactly devotee’s expected from this type of meeting. Some blurbs said it was just a sort of enlightenment boost. Others seemed to suggest you could have fortunes revealed to you. And even others said that the darshan was a healing ritual, that just the proximity to the divine restored the body, rid it of illness and infirmity. There was something about the vagueness of purpose that annoyed Cassie. If she’d write about this, she’d have to frame it with a goal.
On her notepad she wrote: “What’s the point?” and underneath she made a list: “-Future? -Enlightenment? -Motivation? -Healing???” Then below that she wrote some buzz words that were peppered throughout the articles: “cosmology, dharma? moksha? contemplation vs. meditation. Unpack: devotion, bearing witness, pilgrimage?” “What are you writing?” Bianca asked after returning for the second time from the coin operated binoculars that looked out onto the wetland behind the building. “Just notes for this project. Just words really.”
“Who’s this one for?” Bianca asked.
“This one’s for me, but I’m not sure what it is yet.” “Huh, what else are you working on?” Cassie shrugged and let out a sigh. “Some website copy for this tutoring company, a summary of a bunch of focus group data. Boring stuff.”
“Bummer,” Bianca said.
Cassie wrote down the words “enlightenment, illumination” on her list. “What would be a good product name for a glow-in-the-dark bong?” she asked Bianca. Bianca thought for a full minute, her brow furrowed. Cassie wrote the words “transcendance, nirvana” and then “dream journal?” “Okay, what about this?” Bianca asked finally. She made her thumb and index finger into a rectangle in front of their faces to simulate an imaginary sign. “Bud Light,” she said. “Get it?” Cassie wrote “Bud Light” on the bottom of her notepad. “That’s actually pretty good,” she said. Bianca nodded her head in agreement, but then pointed to the meeting hall doors. “Gonna start calling tokens,” she said. She was right. As soon as they announced the first token number, a group formed at the double doors into the meeting hall, but they had a tight system for managing the crowd. It was only about ten minutes until Cassie and Bianca were called. Once inside the meeting hall, the yellow-shirts—that was the name Bianca had given the staff—appeared. However, the yellow-shirts inside the hall were older Indian women with more stern and determined faces. They were pointing hurriedly, telling everyone where to go in almost impenetrable accents. First, they pointed to a collection of wire shelves for everyone to deposit their shoes. Then they were moved along to a table piled with objects that could be given as an offering to Jhia. In the middle of this table was a large sign that read, “Kindly, do not give Jhia food or flowers from the outside!” There were small bouquets of real carnation flowers, but also fabric lotus blossoms, small golden statues, and small pieces of wood with symbols Cassie didn’t recognize. Everyone seemed to be taking something from the table, so Cassie grabbed a pink carnation and went to sit down.
Bianca was still taking off her shoes and the line was becoming a small throng down the center aisle of the meeting space. Cassie tried to turn back to join Bianca, but an angry-looking yellow-shirt stood in her way telling her to “sit, sit, sit.” So Cassie did. The meeting hall was a large open room with high ceilings, the floor covered in many rows of small tan mats. There were three main sections of mats with aisles in between them. The yellow-shirts were in each aisle, sorting the line, pointing to where each person was to sit or kneel. Each section was turned towards an open circle in front of the windowed side of the room. The circle was sectioned off by small pillows and in the middle of it was a low padded bench. The room was jittery with expectant commotion. When Cassie got a mat next to two older Indian women, she looked back to find Bianca. She was in the line smelling her fake lotus flower, and gave Cassie a cheerful wave. She blew Cassie a kiss before she was shown her mat in between a gray-haired Indian man and a middle-aged white woman on the other side of the aisle. Then there was a sudden flurry: people turning on their mats and women letting out wordless syllables of surprise. Jhia had arrived. She was flanked on either side by more yellow-shirts, but these were burly middle-aged Indian men, with serious faces and quick movements. But Jhia walked slowly down the aisle, grinning to those kneeling closest to her, holding out her hand so that those along the aisle could take it in theirs, briefly, which every one of them did. Eventually she entered the circle at the front of the room and sat on the low bench. She was wearing a white sari that Cassie couldn’t quite make sense of. It seemed to have several extra wraps of fabric, making her seem to Cassie a floating, billowy thing. She was a round woman, with a wide and gentle face, big dimpled cheeks, and silvery-black hair that disappeared into the white wrap that folded over the back of her head like a hood. Her skin was dark copper, almost blending into the large red bindi on her forehead. She had large expressive eyes that slowly took in the crowd before her. At her side was a tall thin man in a green kurta that was embroidered in a golden yellow design. He spoke into a microphone while Jhia looked on, grinning widely, seemingly trying to meet everyone’s eyes. He introduced himself as Jhia’s English translator who would be helping to deliver Jhia’s address. Jhia’s own voice was gravely and low, but she spoke with a calm confidence. Although, Cassie wondered, maybe everyone sounded confident when you didn’t know what they were saying. “Welcome everyone,” the translator said for Jhia, “to this celebration of peace.”
Then Jhia spoke again, in deliberate and determined phrases. “Peace is possible,” the translator repeated. “You all demonstrate that by congregating here today. For together is the only method by which anything is ever accomplished.” As Jhia continued, certain heads around the space nodded along in understanding. “We must seek out each other as a means to peace,” the translator continued. “In the olden days we had no way to start a fire on our own. We always went to our neighbors to take from their fire when we were in need. And in that way we found life, sharing a wealth that was never diminished.” Jhia and her translator went on like this for a while, talking about the power of peace and togetherness. At first Cassie wished she could write some of the lines down in her notepad, but she felt so exposed sitting in the middle of all those people. She tried to commit some of Jhia’s language to memory. It was language she recognized from her own writing, language she had regarded as hollow positivity. However, it did sound different in a room full of people, with the husky weight of a foreign tongue behind it, with the rapt stillness of all these bodies, with the morning light streaming in through the windowed wall in front of them just so. “Those who seek beauty will surely find it,” the translator continued. “Those who make the seeking a practice will learn to see it in all things, in all people.” The woman beside Cassie was wiping silent tears from her eyes. Cassie saw that she held a photograph of a child in her hand even though she appeared to be alone. “We begin to find beauty in this moment,” the translator said, “we begin to create peace in this moment, and we begin by recognizing the moment as all that we have.” Two older women in a few rows in front of her were swaying back and forth. “And then,” the translator continued, “we will finally be healed.” After a weighty pause, Jhia said something that everyone appeared to understand except Cassie, as everyone in the room laid their hands in their lap, upturned, and closed their eyes. The room fell silent and still and Cassie looked around her. A new man who was sitting to the side of Jhia had been given the microphone and started to speak, his eyes closed tight as well. “We invite you to sit comfortably, upright but relaxed,” the man said. “Breathe gently and sit with the experience of this moment, the energy of your breath and the energy of the room.” He spoke slowly, almost singing in a way. Cassie watched him, and then Jhia, and then the audience again. She couldn’t remember a time in adulthood where she’d been in a room with everyone’s eyes closed. When she was a teenager and went to church on holidays, she would always keep her eyes open when everyone else in the mall congregation closed theirs for prayer. She remembered then feeling a thrill in her noncompliance, a power even. She felt sorry for everyone in that long-ago suburban congregation, looking dumb in their uncomfortable clothes, sitting on those uncomfortable pews, closing their eyes like it meant something. However, in the room with Jhia, when Cassie looked around for another wandering eye and found none, she merely felt alone. “If there is agitation, notice the agitation,” the man with the microphone continued. “Treat it with curiosity as it drifts past your mind’s eye and return your focus to the breath.” Cassie turned back to Jhia and tried to join in. She closed her eyes once, but could only last a few seconds before peeking out again, imagining someone standing above her. Again she tried, only to peek again after a few seconds to recheck the floor for bugs. She tried one last time but had to count seconds to distract herself. By the time she counted to forty-two, the meditation was over. Someone announced something that she couldn’t fully make out and then there was a flurry of activity. The yellow-shirts were moving from the front of the room to the back, ushering people out of the rows, down the aisles, so that they could line up for the darshan. It was time to get a hug from Jhia. Cassie got in line as directed but as soon as the procession started to inch forward she felt a panic churn her stomach. Jhia was about fifty feet ahead of her, sitting in the same spot on the makeshift stage. The serious women in yellow shirts were directing people, somewhat aggressively, into Jhia’s embrace and then after a few seconds, out of it. Jhia took each person, one hand delicately placed behind each head, and brought their head just below her left shoulder. She quickly turned her face so that her cheek touched the top of each head. Then she lifted each person up and looked into each set of eyes for a beat. Then everyone was led away. It was a mechanical process. Almost informal in its repetition. So why was Cassie breaking into a queasy sweat? She looked back to Bianca who met her eyes and gave her an excited thumbs up. She considered leaving her place in line to join her friend but sensed that that would not help. Also, the stern yellow-shirts might get mad. She waved back as confidently she could and turned back to Jhia to take one step forward. She took several deep breaths and looked up at the ceiling, trying to focus on something distant and stable. There were hanging light fixtures every ten feet or so that looked like they were installed in the 1980s, although they were probably only ten years old. They were tan but looked like they were faded on one side. Or was that just the way the natural light looked on the painted metal? Cassie took five more deep breaths as she stepped forward with the line, just studying the light fixtures trying to figure out what she was seeing. And then, suddenly, Jhia was in front of her. She was a larger woman than she appeared from the mats. Taller, her face fuller, her shoulders more broad. Perhaps it was just that she was perched so perfectly on that strange bench and surrounded by all that billowy cloth, but Cassie felt like a child walking up to her. Cassie tried to look calm as she stepped forward but she could tell her eyes were darting around too much. One of the yellow-shirts grabbed her and directed her, and not gently, to the space right in front of Jhia. Even though Cassie had watched the woman do the same thing to every other person, she felt like she had been singled out, that the yellow-shirt was angry at Cassie specifically. She felt like apologizing. But before she could, Jhia’s hand came up and clasped the back of Cassie’s head. She brought Cassie’s head down to her chest and firmly held her for what felt like too long. Cassie couldn’t decide what to do with her arms; they were hanging limply around Jhia’s knees except her hands were clenched tight. Then Jhia brought up Cassie’s face, holding her gently in between her hands, her fingers soft and cool. Cassie tried to look into Jhia’s eyes but the intensity of it was overwhelming. Instead she started at the red bindi, then quickly moved around the delicate wrinkles around her eyes, the dark pigment of her eyelids, the tiny downy hairs on her cheeks. When she returned to Jhia’s eyes, her expression had changed. Jhia looked puzzled, her brow slightly furrowed, as if she was looking for something lost in Cassie’s eyes. After a moment, Jhia nodded quietly, almost to herself. She said in a husky whisper, “You’re here.” Then she smiled. It was a tiny sad smile, only in her eyes. Then the yellow-shirt pulled Cassie away and ushered her to another woman who then led her through a separate line down the middle of the space, to the rack of shoes. Most of the people were choosing to kneel again and watch the rest of the darshan—the line still wrapped around both sides of the room—but Cassie grabbed her shoes and left out the back door, escaping back into the lobby. It was much quieter now and, in its emptiness, strangely dark. Some women were sitting in a small circle on the floor holding hands, their heads bowed. She heard some other voices outside the building, but almost everyone was still in the meeting room.
Cassie drew in a sharp inhale, finally noticing that she had been holding her breath. It had happened so quickly, the darshan. It happened exactly as she thought it would but it was also nothing like she expected. She felt a hot wave of something come over her, a tremble she couldn’t quite name. It was a strong pang of something like anger, or maybe embarrassment. Something about the whole thing seemed wrong. She looked around the lobby, trying to find someone’s gaze to meet. Someone who she could approach and ask, “what was that?” But, again, there were no eyes to meet hers. Afraid she might be sick, she went into the women’s bathroom and entered the farthest stall. Sitting on top of the closed toilet seat, she felt her breath slowly return. It wasn’t that she had wasted her brief time with Jhia. It was that she didn’t know how to not waste it. It was almost painful to look into someone’s eyes like that. Was it possible she had never done that, looked directly into someone’s face for more than an instant? Certainly not. However, when Cassie really thought about it, she could not bring to mind one instance. It was only now, with that feeling of Jhia’s touch and gaze gone, that Cassie really felt its brevity, and then, its terrible absence. Her tears came so suddenly that they almost shocked her. They rose with a stinging heat to her face and then rolled over her in dry waves, each wave a breathless spasm. Her body folded into the waves, her face and chest tight, until she was frozen, eyes shut, mouth open, her head on her knees. The sobs were silent, but gripped her completely, coming out as painful choked exhalations. And then, after a minute, they passed. And when they did, she sat there for a long while, taking slow even breaths, turning her face from side to side to wipe tears away with her knees. Outside of the bathroom she could hear music, a drum and a flute. The sound of it seemed to spin in improvised circles that she could tell were light and joyful in the meeting hall. But, as they traveled through the empty lobby and seeped through the heavy bathroom door, the tones became muddled and haunting. Eventually, she sat up. When she reached for the toilet paper she saw the pink carnation, crushed into a sweaty wad, in the center of her palm. She stood, threw the flower in the toilet, blew her nose twice, and left the stall. She checked herself in the bathroom mirror. Her face looked only a bit puffy and flushed, her eyes just a little bit more glossy than usual. She shook her head, vigorously, as if to reset herself, and went outside to find Bianca and get out of there. Cassie remembered exactly the feeling that followed her losing her job. Or rather, she remembered the mixture of feelings. There was anger and resentment, of course, but also a feeling of freedom, even a quiet gratitude. It was a strange time for everyone, perhaps because there was a chance for renewal amidst all the uncertainty and fear. Cassie had imagined a new life for herself during those quiet months at home, a new vocation, something straightforward and simple, something she could hold in her hand. But something had gone wrong. Bianca had volunteered to drive them home when she found Cassie quietly sitting on a picnic bench outside. She could see that Cassie was not feeling well, but not enough to not talk about how moved she was by the event. “Oh my God,” Bianca said as she merged back onto the expressway, “she was just such a peaceful presence, right? Like, you can really feel the energy of, like, a real spiritual person. It’s just in the air, you know?” The sun was at its midday peak, giving the open road a bleary brightness that was giving Cassie a headache. “I mean talk about vibes,” she continued. “I wonder if she has any of her talks posted anywhere because I could listen to those any time. I could fall asleep to her, really.” After a long silence, Cassie asked, “What did she say to you?” “What do you mean? When she hugged me?” “Yeah.” “Nothing. She didn’t say anything. It was real quick” Bianca said. “Wait, did she say something to you?” Bianca gasped. “Oh my God, what did she say? You have to tell me!” Cassie shook her head. “I don’t really remember.” “You don’t remember?” Bianca asked, with just a hint of incredulity . “It was something…generic, you know?” “Huh,” was all Bianca said. If she was suspicious, she didn't press Cassie about it. “Well, do you have something that you can write about for your project? Hell, I could write a book about that.” Cassie shook her head. “I’m not sure,” she said with a shrug, “I don’t think it was what I was looking for.” “Huh,” Bianca said again. “But I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Cassie said. She smiled weakly at her friend, but then turned to face the passenger window. Along the expressway was a wide ditch and then a smattering of trees. She closed her left eye so that it all turned into a bright green blur. In a few miles the trees would break into factories and railyards, and then homes, and then city blocks. She felt eager to get back home, to get back to work. She would accept the offer from the dirt-bike team. She might need another week to finish the assignment but she would at least email them today. The money was good.
She couldn't afford to say no.
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Cassatt, Mary. "Landscape Study with River and Children." c. 1910. Watercolor on paper. Mutual Art. https://www.mutualart.com/Artwork/Landscape-Study-with-River-and-Children-/D7FD338A5F4F1B33DE6BE0B1736AB52. Accessed 7 July 2024