Hang On St. Christopher (Part 2): The Descent

(01/13/16)

I'll finish the story of my first day. Spoiler Alert: my journey ended the way it started, with me bawling my face off missing everyone and everything.

I'll get to that. First let me describe my descent to Lytton.

Picture a narrow, winding mountain road with a cliff wall on one side and a sheer drop on the other. Now picture a Greyhound bus hurtling down said road at unnerving speed while trucks charge past going the opposite direction like giant, metal jousting competitors. Oh, and the bus is rattling and shaking and the engine is making strange, pained-sounding noises.

Now picture me trying not to soil myself.

Some say the world will end in fire, others in ice. I'm thinking, why not both? while imagining the bus tumbling down the cliffside in a fiery wreck before plunging to the bottom of the icy river below.

I'm also thinking of the St. Christopher's medallion in my backpack that my Dad gave me. I'm wondering if I should be wearing it right now. Or clutching it in a white-knuckled death grip. Maybe I should have swallowed it.

I want to be sure St. Christopher, patron saint of travellers, knows which guy I am.

Eventually the cliff ends. I'm breathing a silent prayer of thanks to St. Christopher and whatever Bodhisattvas watch after wayward Albertan flatlanders when the valley leaps up on either side of the bus like mosasaurus jaws and eats the fucking sun!

All that said, its also very pretty.

Moments later I step off the bus where the monks are waiting for me.

*  *  *

Unlike the larger multi-building Shasta Abbey in California, most of the action at Lion's Gate Buddhist Priory takes place in a tiny cabin ten miles up the mountain from Lytton proper. This first evening, the other lay resident, a twenty-one year old bearded young man I'll call LT is making vegetarian quesadillas,  Reverend V, our lone female monk, is doing work on the computer. And I am petting the monastery dog and trying not to cry.

I'm shocked at my response. In the weeks leading up to my departure, I was worried I wasn't sad enough. Now my chest is so full of Sad, I'm worried it might explode and leave me  with my ribs pointing in funny directions and pieces of my heart all over the walls and rug.

Not the first impression I'm aiming for.

I'm so thankful for this dog. Pieces of me would be falling off without him. Stroking his fur gives direction for the overflowing sadness which--uncontained by the reservoir provided by my loved ones--is threatening to flood its banks and drown me from the inside out. When I look into this dog's eyes, I'm looking into the eyes of everyone I've ever loved.

Later I take a trip to the outhouse. Snow falls though my headlamp beam; the world is soft with white.The quiet is more complete than any I've ever known. It is so quiet, the air is thick with silence.

I think: Once the sad stops, I'm going to like it here.

My bed is a mattress squeezed into a tiny loft under the sloped roof, accessible by ladder. When I turn off the light, I discover that someone has decorated the ceiling with dozens of tiny, glow-in-the-dark stars.