The rustic cottage at Quail Valley zendo is a single large room containing kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bathroom. Sheltered by two massive oaks, the little house overlooks Coyote Gulch, a ravine carved by a stream that only flows in the immediate aftermath of rain.
Theodore, fifty-six, a gregarious poet and counselor, was the sole occupant of the house for three years prior to the very recent arrival of Elise, fifty-two, a former fashion model and San Francisco socialite. They have known each other for ten years, and though very much in love for all that time, they were not lovers until three weeks ago—their mutual celibacy ending on their first night in bed together, a December tempest raging—longtime soloists suddenly living in close quarters.
Having given up the pampered life of a millionaire’s wife to become the partner of a penniless Buddhist poet, and having dedicated the last three years to the study and practice of Buddhism, Elise is absolutely certain she is precisely where God intends her to be.
Theodore, on the other hand, is by turns elated and desperately uncomfortable to have Elise so undeniably present in his life. Living alone, despite painful bouts of loneliness, was child’s play for Theodore compared to sharing his intimate space—day in and day out—with another person. That is why he has volunteered for an extra shift in the community garden and undertaken a Herculean reorganization of the zendo library.
“Love,” posits Roshi Takayanagi, “has filled our Theo with a passion to serve.”
Yet Theodore knows perfectly well that his seeming passion for service is nothing more than a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable—telling Elise he made a terrible mistake by inviting her to live with him.
For the first time in twenty years, Theodore craves alcohol. When he sits in meditation now, his mind plays vivid movies of him walking into bars and downing shots of whiskey. His daily walk, previously a four-mile jaunt along gently sloping pathways, has become a twelve-mile forced march up and down the steepest trails—all in an effort to exhaust himself so he will be less susceptible to the killing tension in being alone with Elise.
ELISE SITS IN her rocking chair, gazing at the fire. Their cat, Charlie, a big gray tabby, sits on Elise’s lap, delighted by the absentminded caresses of the new human.
Rain clouds have blotted out the moonlight. The room is deliciously warm, lit only by the flickering flames. Elise smiles in anticipation of Theodore’s arrival. He has kitchen duty and so will be another little while before ascending the path from the dining hall to their cottage.
She opens her journal and writes:
I rose at 4:30 this morning and started the fire, then went back to bed and snuggled with Theo until the house was warm. His mind was so far away I might have been holding a big, sweet, brainless body. He’s having a difficult time with my being here, though I think his struggle is less about me than about sharing his space, physical and psychic, with anyone. He stayed in bed watching me while I stretched before I left for the morning sitting. He said he was too tired to get up, but I’m sure he jumped out of bed the minute I walked out the door. He is programmed to live alone.
Pained by thoughts of Theodore’s discomfort, she puts down her pen and rolls her shoulders. She wants to help him, yet she knows the transition from living apart to living together will not always be easy. She sought advice from Roshi Takayanagi about how to assist Theodore in overcoming his resistance to sharing time and space with her.
The wiry old man held out his hands, palms up, and said, “Patience, humor, compassion. Mix and match.”
THEODORE COMES IN from the cold, his arms full of firewood, his cheeks rosy, his hair blown wild by the wind. Elise watches him keenly, loving how easy it is to be silent with him—to commune without words. He stokes the fire and opens the window over their bed an inch to let in fresh air. He takes off his jacket and hangs it in the closet they share. He caresses her shoulder on his way to fill the kettle for tea.
She wants to say something to relieve his anguish, but resists the urge—her thoughts coming and going, none alighting.
Theodore squats by the fire, wondering how best to tell her that he is too old to make the adjustment from being alone for twenty-five years to being with her in such an intense sexual partnership. I will move into the dormitory if you wish to remain in the community. I love you too much. I . . . I love you too much.
He sits in the armchair beside her and picks up a dog-eared copy of Buddha’s Sister by the teacher Ina. He opens the book at random, his eyes drawn to a paragraph that begins, “So this, I realized, was to be an essential element of my practice . . .”
“Read to me,” says Elise, nodding to her beloved.
Theodore clears his throat. “So this, I realized, was to be an essential element of my practice, untangling the knots of old words and phrases that bound me to a self-destructive idea of who and what I am.”
He pauses, considering the phrases I love you too much, I’m too old, This isn’t working, and sees himself trapped in a net of ridiculous ideas.
“Go on,” she urges, knowing the passage by heart.
“I saw that I depended on fear to define myself, that I had developed a mistrust of change. I understood Buddha’s most courageous act was to rid himself of any expectation of outcome—trusting completely in the exquisite resiliency and creativity of the soul. Life can be a marvelous improvisation, whether we play alone, in duet, in trio, quartet, or with ten thousand other singers and thinkers and lovers of this life, this breath, this divine chance to see what happens.”
Theodore looks up from the page, the denseness of his worry lessened by reading these words aloud. Here is Elise, a woman, a person, a concentration of matter illuminated by a vibrant spirit, happy to be with him.
“I’m hanging by a thread,” he murmurs, closing the book.
“Let go,” she whispers. “Let go, Theo.”
“But then I’ll fall.” He frowns at her. “And I may drink again.”
“So fall and drink.” Her eyes meet his. “But first talk to me, and trust me.”
“I trust you,” he says meekly.
“Do you?” She rises to serve their tea. “Maybe you don’t trust anyone because you were so terribly abused by your parents. Maybe that’s why you drank. Maybe that’s why you chose to live alone, because you only trusted yourself.”
He forces a laugh. “Oh, that’s too obvious.”
“Obvious means clear,” she says, handing him a steaming cup. “As long as I was on my way here, your pattern of aloneness was yet to be interrupted. You could fantasize in the safety of being alone. But now I’m here. And what is the only thing that has ever happened to you in relationship?”
“Elise,” he says, shaking his head, “I don’t want to belittle your psychological insight, but I’m sure that’s not it.”
“What is not it?” she asks, wanting to shake him.
“That I’m afraid you’ll abandon me.” He shrugs painfully. “It’s much more likely I’ll run away.”
She nods. “In either case, we’ll break apart.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, his shame mastering him. “I feel horrible about enticing you here.”
“You enticed me?” She laughs her sparkling laugh. “Oh, Theo, your ego is running rampant through the zendo.”
“Stop it,” he says, pouting. “It’s not a matter of ego. I’m talking about the fact that you gave up everything for me and I don’t measure up.”
“You fit me to perfection,” she says, standing behind him and resting her hands on his shoulders. “I never dreamed sex could be so good.”
“You’re impossible.” He smiles despite himself. “I’m trying to tell you how I’m feeling.”
“I know,” she says, cradling his head against her tummy. “But before you say anything more, I want you to know I’m not going anywhere.”
“Ever?” he asks, sounding just like a little boy begging his mother for love.
