A Trip to Santa Cruz

Friday after work, the same day I took my chair to Andrew Woodside Carter, I went to pick up a rental car. Then I had to go to the gas station and to Rainbow for groceries, and all of that, which would have taken maybe an hour on my bicycle (and, of course, I could have skipped the trip to the gas station), took three hours, in part because after I left the car rental place, I was nearly in the bay before I could change lanes or turn, traffic was so heavy.

On Saturday, after way too little sleep, I drove to Santa Cruz for a workshop with Carol Munter, who, with Jane Hirschmann, wrote Overcoming Overeating and When Women Stop Hating Their Bodies, and Robyn Posin. It was noticeably smokier down that way. I found the workshop very helpful, and enjoyed meeting the other participants.

One woman, an oil and gas lawyer from Houston, who travels for work to all kinds of exotic places, like Dubai, said her image of herself is fixed in an earlier era, so when she sees her husband, sometimes she thinks, “Oh, my god, there’s an old man.”

Because I don’t own a car, it is rare and a huge treat to drive on the freeway with Metallica rattling the windows. That was lovely.

I stayed Saturday night at Land of Medicine Buddha, a Tibetan Buddhist center you get to by driving for some miles into a redwood forest; the place is at the end of the road. The redwoods were beautiful, and I saw a skunk puttering about by the side of the road, but that kind of road gives me the creeps. It makes me feel like I’m in something.

We had a long break during the day on Saturday, during which I went into Santa Cruz for lunch at a taqueria on Pacific Ave., and to my lodging place to check in, so in the evening I just went straight to my room, which had two beds, a minuscule bathroom and of course no TV. I didn’t see a soul, and when it dawned on me that there was not another human being in earshot, I had a moment of panic. I like to be alone, but with millions of strangers right nearby

I got up and read the emergency procedures on the back of the door, and it said something about walking to the phone booth and calling one of the staff phone numbers. “Aha,” I said to myself. “If there are staff phone numbers, there must be staff.” I studied the map and realized the staff residence was not far from where I was (and also a hospice center).

It occurred to me that maybe somewhere nearby there were 50 people meditating whom I could join, so I went to the central area—I passed the staff building, which showed no sign of life—and found a hall where there were a whole bunch of women learning how to be “soul collage facilitators.”

I went on to the meditation hall, which, typical in Tibetan Buddhism, was beautifully decorated. I visited a Tibetan Buddhist center in Berkeley a couple of times a year or so ago, and its meditation room was absolutely gorgeous. The one at Land of Medicine Buddha had eight Medicine Buddha statues in a row at the front of the room, and other large statues, and photos of the Dalai Lama and other teachers, and hundreds of bowls of sparkling water, and lots of colorful bits of this and that. There wasn’t a soul about, but I went in and meditated for half an hour, and then all was well.

The workshop finished up the next day, and then I drove home again and returned the rental car.