My meditation class at the Mansion today was meaningful and touching, and honest, as they have become.

We talked about two things: the beauty of shyness and about life at the Mansion during the worst of the pandemic. Since I couldn’t be there, I wanted to learn more about a difficult and frightening time for the residents and the staff.

I started the class by meditating and reading a quote from Henri Nouwen in his book Bread For The Journey: “here is something beautiful about shyness,” wrote Nouwen, “even though shyness is not our culture considered a virtue. On the contrary, we are encouraged to be direct, look people straight in the eyes, tell them was is on our minds, and share our stories without a blush.“

I know the class well enough by now to know two of three of the people coming are visibly shy. I asked the class to raise their hands to admit to being shy.

All three did.

They were surprised and intrigued by the idea that being shy was in some ways beautiful; they felt all of their lives that it was a sign of timidity and weakness, as they had been told. Their parents and teachers often told them they had to learn to speak up if they wanted to have a successful life.

“I couldn’t speak up,” said one,” and no one could tell me what a successful like was because women couldn’t do any of the things I thought would make me successful.”

(Zinnia And Jenny)

I told them I loved Nouwen’s idea that assertive people are boring, and shy people can remind us of the mystery of life that cannot be easily explained or expressed.

Shy people, I added, invite us to be quiet, even reverent and respectful friendships and to the idea of wordless beings being together in love.

“Oh my,” said J, “that is so beautiful. I so wish someone had read that to me when I was young. Being shy was always painful to me, and that was the way I thought it had to be.”

We talked for a while about the idea of wordless beings and love.

Then I asked them (we had meditated twice, and they were mellow and reflective, two were asleep) to tell me if they wished, about the scary early day of the pandemic, when no one (including me) could visit for more than a year and when their lives changed radically.

C said it was a lonely time, especially when they were told they couldn’t leave their rooms and meals had to be brought to them individuality. Their families couldn’t visit, and they couldn’t see or talk or eat with their friends in the building. It was frightening, and it was sad.

And isolating, although they understand it may have saved their lives.

I was fascinated to get this account of life inside the Mansion when the staff was fighting night and day – and successfully, as it turned out – to keep Covid-19 out of the Mansion entirely as a time when nursing homes and assisted the pandemic was ravaging care facilities all over the state.

They reminded me of the refugee children who survived genocide and years in refugee camps without bitterness or anger. The residents had no resentments or grievances to share. They said it was a difficult time, and they were glad it was over and grateful to the staff that worked so hard to keep them safe and alive.

I  very much appreciate the meditation classes; as we get to know one another, we trust one another and open up more. The idea of meditating has taken hold. The people in the class – all women at the moment – tell me meditating calms their fears and gives them strength when they are lonely.

We did a timed meditation for five minutes at the end of the class, which lasted about a little more than half an hour.

Zinnia has matured into a model therapy dog. She greets everyone in the class and everyone who comes through the door, and when the course settles, and I read or meditate, she comes right over and goes to sleep at my feet or on them.

She is grabbed in all sorts of ways, her ears and tail pulled at times. She rolls with it.

She is a comfort to them, and also to me.