The Retreat
An excerpt from a cultish retreat that I attended two years ago.
“We invite you on the red carpet, a sacred space that will hold you as you will hold each other through this retreat.” Stephan looked solemn as he said those words, looking each of us in the eye.
We were twelve participants, young and old. Some had travelled from different cities to this farmhouse in Delhi for a 72-hour intensive therapy workshop. None of us knew what to expect. Perhaps that was for the best because if we did, our numbers would have dwindled to a single digit.
Stephan was accompanied by four assistants—two practising therapists and two in training. They took their positions, one in each corner of the carpet, facing outward. We were ushered into the center.
“We now begin the invocation,” boomed Stephan. I was waiting for pamphlets to be handed out when the assistants began reciting:
“I invoke the spirit of fire. May it shine bright, lighting the darkest road in our bleakest hour.”
“I invoke the spirit of the earth. May her soil nourish us and ground us when we are led astray.”
“I invoke the spirit of air. May it be gentle and calming as we fight our battles.”
“I invoke the spirit of water. May it quench our thirst and cleanse us of the evils we carry from our past lives.”
“May our ancestors guide us on our journey, help us when we falter and provide us with wisdom and courage to do what needs to be done,” they chanted together.
There should be a drumroll, I thought while staring at a stain on the carpet. The woman next to me shuffled uncomfortably. I shifted to my left, trying to give her some space.
“Please sit in a circle. Let’s begin.”
The sun was beginning to fade, its soft glow replaced by harsh white tube lights in the large room. If we were going to be hypnotized, then it might as well be by candlelight. I smirked at my joke, unable to share it with anyone else. Stephan caught my eye and my smirk faded instantly. This was no place for humour apparently.
“I invite you all to be open and honest. What is said tonight in this circle will remain confidential. This is a safe space,” began Stephan.
“How can we be sure?” asked the woman sitting next to me.
“Be sure of…?”
“Be sure that what we say will remain confidential. And that we won't be judged for saying what we say.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Stephan caught it, again.
“Looks like you are judging her right now Samira.”
Everyone turned to look at me. Fuck! I did not need this attention and didn’t appreciate being called out, especially when I had not uttered a word.
“It’s easier said than done, isn’t it? It is human nature to judge, to evaluate, to sort people into our own little hats. We can be compassionate and empathetic to each other. But to promise not to judge is impossible. And those who do are lying to themselves.”
I held Stephan’s stare, challenging him to counter. He remained silent.
“We will make a pact here and now. For this to work, we need to trust each other.”
I heard grunts of agreement.
I was not very good at trusting people. But what harm could come from telling a bunch of strangers intimate details about myself? Not much, I surmised. Okay, then, I guess I’m all in.
“We would like to begin with a round of sharing. Tell us one thing you have never told anyone before or even admitted to yourself.”
Silence filled the room as we all looked inward. No one wanted to go first, each waiting to see what secrets the other might reveal.
I raised my hand. I would rather embarrass myself and go first than wait for someone else to gather up the courage. Everyone looked at me expectantly. The woman next to me audibly sighed in relief.
“I have a problem with money. I don’t care for it, save it, revere it, or fear it. It is a means to an end—easily dispensable, easily disposable. I buy expensive things without looking at the price. Being well dressed is important for me,” I confessed.
I was greeted with silence, everyone lost in their own thoughts. The woman sitting next to me pulled her t-shirt down, looking uncomfortable.
“Thank you for sharing. That was very brave of you. The circle welcomes your confession with love,” said Stephan. “I am curious, though. Tell me, what happened to you to develop this disdain for money? Where do you think this is coming from?”
“Childhood,” I joked. There was scattered laughter. Stephan did not relent. He held my gaze, waiting for an answer. I sighed. “Do you want the long version or the short one?” I asked.
“Whatever works for you. We are here to listen and hold space for you.”
I cringed internally, wondering what kind of cultish retreat I had got myself into. Fine, I muttered, when in Rome…. right?
“Where should I begin?” There was pin-drop silence as the circle continued to hold space. There was no getting out of this one.
“Should I begin at the point where I saw my parents struggle to make ends meet? Or perhaps at the point where my mother never bought anything for herself so that she could get us what we wanted? She made sure we knew the sacrifices she was making, even though we didn’t ask for it.”
I was angry now. If they wanted the truth, I would give them the whole damn truth!
“I have lived in guilt, knowing that my wants got in the way of my mother’s happiness. But that did not stop me from wanting. All I ever dreamed of was being rich – so that I would not feel this way again.”
The floodgates had opened. I was unable to stop.
“I was shamed for buying clothes from export surplus stores and for looking like a shabby college student. You must always dress well, my father used to say. But to dress well you need money – which I didn’t have. Do you know what it feels like when the rich kids look down on you? Have you felt the shame that comes with being the poor kid in a room full of groomed girls with coiffed hair and manicured nails? I do. And I couldn’t get past it.
Today, I earn enough to afford this weekend retreat. I earn enough to be able to talk to a good therapist every week. I buy expensive clothes and shoes and bags. I am a regular at a fancy salon. I am the girl with coiffed hair. The only thing I refuse to do is get a manicure.
I do not save money. I earn it and I spend it. I live my life on my terms, finally free from my mother's burden and my own shame. But here’s the truth – the one that you all want to hear. No matter how much I earn and how much I spend, I am still that young college girl, unkempt and ungroomed. I cannot escape her. And that’s why I hate money. It prevents you from seeing yourself as you truly are. It makes you into a sham version of yourself. Feel free to judge me. There is nothing you can say to me that hasn’t been said before.”
There. I had said it.
In a single breath.
In monotone.
No emotions.
Just facts.
“Aho Aho,” the circle murmured. A collective sigh.
I looked at Stephan. He smiled and nodded. I realised he had egged me on and made me angry on purpose. I had never admitted this to anyone, and the vehemence with which I had gone about my monologue surprised me. This was going to be an interesting night.
This is an edited essay written originally to a prompt at the
Writing Circle.
I have a history with money too, more on having than spending, since it was the source of unhappiness in my family while growing up (for the lack of it). But later when I started earning my own and having more than enough, I realized it did not bring the happiness nor the answer to everything that I thought it would. So I cut my ties to it and it no longer has any power over me...though writing this I know it sounds like a privilege. As long I can take care of myself and my family, then there is no need to care more about it, which is what I wanted to say.
I am also intrigued to read more about this retreat! :)
Our relationship with money can be complicated, you were self-reflective enough to unravel and understand this! I wrote an essay about this challenging topic, too, but I have yet to share it here, because like you, it's not pretty.
Will there be a continuation of this story?