Little Do We Know(37)

“No. Sorry.”

“I said, there’s a cute little chapel right around the corner.” She pointed toward a sterile-looking hallway. “Walk all the way to the end, then take a left and follow the signs. If you pass the courtyard, you’ve gone too far.”

I didn’t move.

“Go, sweetie.” She wrapped her arm around me and squeezed. “It will help.”

Actually, it sounded nice. Familiar. I stood and walked away in a daze, following Mom’s instructions until I saw a sign that read INTERFAITH CHAPEL mounted to a white wooden door. I pulled the handle and stepped inside.

It felt like leaving one world and entering a whole new one. The room was quiet and peaceful, a far cry from the high-pitched noise of screaming babies and the low drone of the newscast I’d left back in the waiting room. The walls were painted in light green, with framed photographs of nature scenes hanging on each one. The carpet was earth-toned, too, and soft under my feet, unlike that stark-white institutional flooring in the hallway. It smelled like lavender and vanilla.

Three rows of dark wooden benches lined each side of a narrow aisle, and I followed the path to the front of the room, where there was a wide wooden ledge lined with tiny white candles.

Between each candle, there were individual religious texts. A Holy Bible. The I Ching. The Quran. The Hebrew Bible. The Book of Mormon. The Tao Te Ching. The Guru Granth Sahib.The Kojiki. The Book of Rites. There was even a book of Zen meditations and another book of quotes from famous people. Each one had been placed on a piece of light blue silk, protecting and showcasing it, as if it were special and important.

One by one, I lifted each book in my hands and took my time admiring it. I ran my fingertip over the covers, enjoying how the raised lettering felt against my skin before I opened it and thumbed through the thin pages. I studied the gold-tipped edges and the mystical-looking scripts, and even though I couldn’t read the words, I thought the writing was beautiful.

The last one I picked up was a book of Zen meditations. It was smaller than all the others, with a simple red cover. I turned the pages, skimming over them like I’d done with all the others. Right at the beginning, I spotted a page with the words The Beginner’s Mind. It described the benefits of daily meditation and included a bulleted list of instructions. Sit comfortably, it began.

I looked around. I was completely alone. I walked to the first bench and sat. I wasn’t necessarily comfortable, but at least I felt safe. I figured if Mom or Dad happened to come in, I could mutter a quick amen and they wouldn’t think anything of it. I tried shifting into a different position, folding my legs underneath me like the illustration showed, but the bench was too narrow.

I glanced around the room again. There was a spot on the floor right next to one of the candles that looked perfect, so I took the meditation book with me and sat with my legs folded. I opened the book in front of me and read.

Notice the breath, it said. Don’t force it. Breathe normally. Notice each inhale. Notice each exhale.

I began breathing, in and out, slowly, evenly.

Thoughts will drift in, the text said. That’s okay. Notice each thought, and then let it go.

My eyes fell shut. I breathed in and out. And I tried to let the thoughts drift in and out of my mind, but they were relentless. The harder I tried to notice them and let them go, the more seemed to come at me, multiplying before my eyes. And then there was one I couldn’t ignore: What if my mom comes in and sees me like this?

I peeled one eye open and checked the door. It was closed, and I was still alone in the room. I skimmed the page, looking for advice.

Get rid of any distractions. Silence your phone. Close your door. Set a timer and be sure nothing comes in between you and these ten minutes.

I grabbed my phone and texted my mom:

Hannah: You were right, this room is nice.

Hannah: I’ll be back in fifteen. Need to be alone.

She replied almost immediately.

Mom: Take your time. We’ll be in the waiting room.

I turned the ringer off and got back into position. Legs folded. Spine straight. Hands resting comfortably on thighs. Chin tucked. Eyes closed. Breathing in. Breathing out. Breathing in. Breathing out. Watching thoughts drift in. Feeling frustrated when I couldn’t get them to drift back out.

I felt a lump in my throat when I thought about Luke, out cold, cheek pressed into his steering wheel. My stomach knotted up when I pictured the panic on my dad’s face the night before. I wanted to cry every time I thought about how Emory told me she didn’t need me and walked away.

I must have been doing something wrong, because my whole body was shaking and my mind was about as quiet as an LAX runway.

But I stayed with it. And after a while, I realized the thoughts were coming a tiny bit slower, and my body wasn’t reacting quite the same way.

“Inhale,” I told myself. “Exhale. Focus on your breath.”

I felt a tiny, relieved smile begin to form on my face. The next breath I took was a little deeper, a little slower. I watched it. I pretended I could see it flow in a circle through my nose and out through my mouth.

Thoughts came and went, and I noticed them. They were still there, but they seemed smaller and less significant now, more like thin clouds than one big interconnected, ominous storm.

And then the timer went off.

I opened my eyes and glanced around the room. I didn’t feel like a changed person or anything, but I did feel a tiny bit calmer. It was nice. I took a picture of those two pages before I returned the book to its spot on the mantel, just in case I wanted to try meditating again.