Journal Entry 2

We are, in the end, drops of water from on ocean that awaits our return. Until then, we seek.

July 18

I had not expected to spend a sleepless night. Ghost stories told around a fire, which is what this at first appeared to be, are the stuff of childhoods and the easily frightened. We were adults—three women and four men, one of whom had done his best to scare us all with a preposterous tale.

I didn’t know any of them. The retreat had been arranged for seekers, such as we were, not for a group who knew each other. And while I place myself firmly in the agnostic category, I will admit now that I belong more in the believer column, though it’s not a belief that comforts. It’s a belief in the malevolence of things we don’t understand and are better off not examining. The whole experience has confirmed my conclusion that the human species is not the pinnacle of evolution, but it’s most tragic mistake.

So how, one wonders, did I find this event? It started with an item on a website for believers in the occult—which I wasn’t before this began. Contrary to popular imagination, ‘occult’ does not mean witchcraft. From the Latin occultus: hidden, secret, the past participle of occulere—to cover or conceal. Something ‘occult’ in this sense is simply not visible or not readily apparent. You can still find this usage in medical language, as in ‘occult blood’ –blood that’s not visible to the naked eye. In this regard I am an unashamed occultist. I seek what is hidden, but not what can be dismissed as spiritual gobbledygook. I neither believe in God nor the Devil—at least I didn’t.

Among the group were me, of course, and the man Phillip. There was Remy, a gentleman of foreign ancestry whose ethnicity I could not determine. Harlan, a rather stuffy old man who feared any moment that something would go bump in the night. Finishing off the men’s contingent was Larry, the youngest of us who I guessed to be in his mid-thirties. The women were Claire, the middle-aged sort you see walking everywhere with a yoga mat slung over her shoulder. Benita, plump and cheerful and grating. And Eileen, everyone’s grandmother if everyone’s grandmother were a fictional character—perfect in every way, including her opinion of herself.

We’d arrived staggered, although I didn’t know if that was intentional. The organizer had remained nameless, known only to us as ‘Your Guide.’ The online item had instructed people to fill out a form detailing the basic information about us, and include a few paragraphs about why we wanted to attend. That, too, was sent to ‘Your Guide,’ and each of us had been chosen for what was promised to be a very special event—the Guide’s words, not mine.

It seemed I had been the last to arrive.  The men were in one cabin, and the women in another. Apparently the Guide believed in the separation of the sexes.  At least we weren’t expected to sleep in bunk beds.

A note was left on each of our pillows. After sliding my suitcase under my bed—I would put away the few things I’d brought in my assigned drawer later—I opened the envelope and pulled out a simple white card that said:

“Thank you for coming. For the next three days you’ll be free—free from stress, free from obligation, free from the illusions we create for ourselves. We are, in the end, drops of water from an ocean that awaits our return. Until then, we seek. We ask. We ponder. We share. You will be sharing until the time arrives to leave. Enjoy your dinner in the lodge, prepared in advance. Relax for the evening. You’ll be given a description of tomorrow’s events tomorrow, which some people believe never truly arrives. It’s all the same day. Enjoy it. Yours in peace, Your Guide.”

That is how my first day at the retreat began. Phillip’s outlandish story is how it ended—although that, too, was just a beginning.

–Anonymous.