Hot coffee sloshed in a paper cup as I navigated Penn Station in search of the train to Mineola. I was lost. A police officer stood by the men's room. I barely stopped as I shouted,
“Where is track 19?”
He pointed, and I kept moving, juggling the coffee, a Tupperware bowl of potato salad and my backpack.
I reached the platform as the conductor called all aboard, found the first open door and collapsed into a seat.
I may have found the train, but I was still lost.
Back in New York City after ten days at the 1997 Maui Writer’s Conference, Manhattan was no longer my touchstone. The crowded sidewalks and towering architecture were dappled with a dull gray that reflected my insides.
Going back to work had made it even worse.
Selling television airtime to media buyers whose snotty attitudes came with a healthy dose of entitlement was not my dream job. It was a career I’d stumbled into and never really wanted, but it came with plenty of perks.
I lived in Manhattan, ate regularly at Le Bernadin, saw Bebe Neuwirth in Chicago and Michael Flatley in the original Lord of the Dance. There were summer weekends in the Hamptons and glasses of Perrier Jouet at the Rainbow Room. Friday night jazz at MOMA and sunny Sundays at the Cloisters.
But appearances aren’t the whole truth.
I walked a tightrope at work. Three groups of people – my buyers at the ad agencies, the TV stations whose airtime I sold and my boss – all had their own agendas and needed to believe that I had only their best interests at heart.
Whenever they had opposing demands, the tightrope felt like it was strung across the East River in the middle of a nor’easter. Duck. Dodge. Deceive. These were my mantras of survival.
I forced myself out of bed each morning, painted my face and shuffled to the subway along with the herd of corporate zombies trained to give other people what they needed.
My weekends weren't much better.
Repeats of Xena Warrior Princess, a coffee table littered with empty chip bags and cookie boxes, and a Saturday yoga class were the soundtrack of my life.
There may have been weed involved.
I had pinned my dreams of being a New York Times bestselling author on attending the Maui Writer’s Conference and meeting the agent interested in my novel. She talked about book deals and auctions. I was over the moon and the elation lasted the whole flight home.
My first week back at work, I floated on a cloud of hope. Then ever so slowly, with the focus once again on Nielsen ratings and budgets, it all began to fade. The misery had never left, it had just been dormant.
I needed to shake things up. What was a recovering Catholic girl who had conformed her whole life but hated to conform to do?
Inside Chelsea Tattoo, I placed the drawing I wanted inked on my ankle in front of the hefty bald man at the register. It was a sketch inspired by my trip to Hawaii, a combination of two Petroglyphs. I called it the “Little Guy.”
He disappeared down a long hallway while I sat in a chair that had been rescued from a mid-century doctor’s office. On the wall across from me was a bulletin board covered in flyers. In the middle was a plain 8 1/2 by 11 sheet of paper that read:
Traditional Lakota Sweat Lodge Potluck after Call Alvin 516-354-7217.
Alvin?
I scribbled down the number.
“Staci?” The tattoo artist called my name. Tall and thin, he wore a CBGB T-shirt.
I squared my jaw and trailed him to a cramped booth. “First tattoo?” he smiled. I admitted it was as he positioned me like a pretzel, half sitting-half lying in the chair, so my ankle rested on a table next to his stool.
The needle pierced my skin, and I bit my lip while the buzz of the needle filled the tiny space.
Twenty minutes later, I strolled down 23rd Street, my first tattoo weeping under a gauze bandage. The morning vapor, ripe with the remains of Friday night – rotting food, urine, vomit, spilled beer – still hung in the air. I barely noticed.
All weekend, I stared at my new ink and applied Vaseline while debating whether to call Alvin. Sunday night, I worked up the courage and a deep voice answered. He gave me his address, told me to wear loose clothes and to arrive on time. As we hung up, he reminded me to bring a dish for the potluck dinner.
I was about to have the best experience of my life or become a lampshade.
The following Saturday, the train chugged its way through the tunnel below the East River, through Queens and over the bridge to Long Island. I thought about getting off in Flushing and returning to the comfort of my Murray Hill apartment.
“Next stop, Minneola.”
I clutched my handwritten directions and walked past the middle-class houses built in the 70s – clean-cut grass, meticulous yards. The sky was blue, and it was unseasonably warm for October.
The road crested and at the top of a hill, I made a right onto Alvin's Street. I spotted the numbers on the front of his house and froze. The grass in the yard was almost to my knees, the bushes jagged and uneven. Weeds sprouted through cracks in the sidewalk. Sheets hung in the window.
And me, without a good Chianti.
I took a deep breath, marched up the sidewalk and knocked on the door. A slender, white woman with a long braid of dark hair answered.
You must be Staci. I'm Janice.
The living room was carpeted in midnight blue shag and sprinkled with lawn chairs. I followed her into the kitchen where plates of baked goods, bowls of snacks and a basket of fruit were scattered across the countertop. She took my bowl of potato salad and pointed to the back door.
I step onto an old wood deck.
The backyard is small. A teepee sits off the left side of the deck. To the right is a picnic table where five others sit. They appear normal. There are cordial hellos as I slide into an empty space.
They work on some sort of craft project. Small colorful squares of material sit on top of the table, along with pieces of twine and a mound of what looks like tobacco. Janice appears and picks up one of the squares. She places a pinch of tobacco in the center, gathers it into a pouch and ties it off with a piece of twine.
We are making prayer ties. Each square represents an intention of something you want to release or something you want to attract.
A man with a long beard holds his up – a rainbow of pouches dangle from a foot-and-a-half of twine.
We will hang our prayer ties outside the teepee. The Chief takes his sweat when we are done and will pray for our intentions to be heard by Great Spirit. When he is through, he’ll cut them down and bring them to Sacred Lakota burial ground to burn them. The smoke will be carried on the wings of Tate to Wankan Tanka, who will hear our prayers.
Janice disappears into the brush on the other side of the teepee.
My intentions come quickly. A new life. A book contract. A relationship would be nice.
As I finish my prayer tie, Janice reappears.
The sweat is ready. Remove your shoes and follow me.
Alvin stands at the edge of the teepee. His silken black hair falls onto his shoulders and a smile lights up his square brown face.
Welcome.
Janice holds open the door flap. I crouch, enter, and take my place in the circle on the floor. Rocks glow in the pit in the center of the dirt. It’s close. Alvin places a bucket of water inside and unties the flap. A thud. Then blackness.
As my eyes adjust, I hear a loud hiss and the most delightful scent seeps through the wall of heat that has forced me to shut my eyes. Janice speaks.
The eucalyptus and sweet grass bring calm and purification.
She begins to sing, chant really. I understand none of it, yet it transports me. My body rocks back and forth as she lulls us with her melodic prayers. The temperature and the humidity draw sweat from my body.
We come together in the sacred ritual of the Inipi, ceremony of the Lakota Oyate people.
We gather to join in healing.
Janice dips the ladle into the bucket again and pours more water on the rocks. Hissss.
Each of us is called to share why we are here.
The others speak of failed marriages, unhappy careers, family issues. It’s my turn.
Water pours out of my eyes and body. The words struggle to break free from my mind.
“I want to be a writer.” This is the first time I’ve said it out loud. Sweat trickles down my back and arms. My right foot is numb.
The flap moves, and a shovel reaches in. Hot rocks tumble into the pit. Janice ladles on more water. Hisss.
Now we are called to share regrets and resentments.
I hear each one speak but don’t register what is said. There is no understanding of time. Have I been here 20 minutes? An hour? Two? I feel Janice staring at me. It is my turn again.
I can’t breathe.
The anger I feel toward myself boils over. Anger for tolerating the misery. For drowning it in booze and weed and food. For not believing in myself. My body shakes with rage. I try to explain but the words dissolve into sobs.
Janice’s hand touches my knee.
Let us pray.
She chants in Lakota, and we repeat it in small phrases. She finishes, and the silence is deafening. The air is thick with debris from our souls.
Soaked to the bone, I feel cleansed. Depleted but invigorated.
Alvin's hand reaches in and pulls open the flap. I turn away from the light like a mole.
On rubbery legs, I crawl outside. I rip off my t-shirt, not caring that my breasts are barely covered by a jog bra. I grab a bottle of water from my backpack and guzzle it before I fall to the ground. The cool grass helps my body recalibrate.
I’m empty inside. The anger has been consumed. Hope has melted. All that remains is space.
By the time the sun sets, we have eaten, and Alvin has left on his mission to burn our prayer ties. I am ready to go home.
I thank Janice and say goodbye to everyone, then make my way to the Long Island Railroad station.
A year later, I walked away from everything that is familiar. The security of a paycheck. My fabulous apartment near Gramercy Park. The only career I’ve ever known. And I embarked on a journey that is well into its third decade.
Who knew that Maui would lead to Chelsea, which would take me to Mineola, and eventually, here – in Braddock, Pennsylvania? Sharing a story of how the search for a cure to my misery taught me that there is never an answer, only the next step.
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